Maximum Exposure

by Alison Kent

  “The show would be one thing,” Finn said, shaking his head. “I’m not so sure about selling them.”

  Because he wasn’t a professional photographer? Or because he didn’t want to share? “You’re the artist. That would be up to you.”

  She didn’t say anything else, but waited for him to digest her suggestion. It had seemed so perfectly logical when it had come to her this morning. No, it wouldn’t be a precise interpretation of Dustin’s vision. There would be less of an emotional range with her doing her thing solely for Finn. But unless he had an alternative solution…

  “Why don’t we go back to the beginning? Tell me everything you and Dustin have ever talked about, what he wants exactly, ideas you’ve already tossed around and discarded.”

  She could do that. And for the next hour she did, even though there wasn’t a lot that he didn’t already know. She and Dustin had played with the idea more than they’d ever gotten down to the nitty-gritty of how to make it happen. Probably because neither one of them had thought they could find someone to help them pull it off.

  What Dustin wanted was for an audience beyond her intended victims, as he called them, to see her in action, but not her exhibitionism itself as much her emotions and those of her audience—not an easy aspect of any subject to capture. And certainly one that wasn’t easy to explain.

  “Let me give you a call on Monday,” Finn said, sitting forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. “I need to get home, air out the place, do some paperwork, and return a hell of a lot of calls.”

  That didn’t seem unreasonable. It left her a little bit nervous, and she couldn’t even begin to explain why. “As long as you don’t get so caught up in the beach house that you forget to come back.”

  “If I don’t come back, there won’t be a beach house,” he said, with a snort. “But now that I’m finished with Dustin’s case, I’ll either have to find another place here to stay or make the commute each day. It’s no biggie. A little over an hour each way.”

  “Well, if you don’t think familiarity will breed contempt, I might have a solution.”

  He shook his head before she could say another word. “I’m not going to bunk with you.”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest that you do,” she told him truthfully. She had more sense than to lead herself into that sort of temptation. “But there is a room down the hall from my office above Splash & Flambé. It has a futon and a television and a desk, as well as a microwave and small fridge. The second-floor bathroom also has a shower stall, but the facilities are ones we all use during the day. You’d have to clean up after hours.”

  “I wouldn’t be in the way?”

  Oh, he would be in the way. She’d know he was sleeping there when she left the store for the night. She’d know when he’d showered by the scents he would leave behind. But he wouldn’t be underfoot or keeping her employees from their work.

  And so she shook her head and said, “No. Not at all. And since you and I would be away from the store for the shoot, I can’t see anyone having an issue with you being there.”

  “Anyone like your managers.”

  “Or the floor clerks.”

  “That part would probably work, then.”

  “But you’re still not sure about the rest.” She didn’t know what there was left to say. If he wasn’t certain he wanted the job, she was equally uncertain there was anything else she could offer to convince him.

  “Performing for me. Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of this thing you do? Because what you and I might have going on is not what you have with the usual suspects, right?”

  He was right. But if she’d had any question, she needed only to look back to the day they’d met—and to her performance that had been strictly for him. “And you think that will make a difference?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who knows the reaction you’re hoping to get.”

  “But it’s not about what I’m hoping to get. It’s about what these usual suspects, as you put it, see when they look at me.”

  “My point exactly. Our chemistry? That stuff you and Dustin are so keen on us having? That’s going to skew your results.”

  This time, she wasn’t so quick to admit he had a point—even though he did. If a photographer had captured her during a previous outing, the emotion in her expression would most likely have been the joy of triumph, the heady rush of a winner’s success.

  But performing for Finn? Those emotions wouldn’t come close to what she’d be feeling. And so she finally said, “I guess the only thing we can do is give it a go and see how it comes out in the wash.”

  Eighteen

  Going back to Downtown Blue on Monday morning, after a weekend off, had never been a problem for Jodi. She liked working with Dustin. She loved the ambience of the gallery’s back offices. She couldn’t imagine being as happy in any other career, especially since the improvement in her sex life had helped kick her funk of last week.

  This morning, however, all she’d wanted to do was stay in bed. And even though she’d spent the last two nights alone, after Thursday evening at the private showing of Noir Purrfection and Saturday afternoon in the pool at her complex, she would have liked to have stayed there with Roland.

  No. Not Roland. Roman.

  She swore her office still smelled like sex.

  She tossed her Coach satchel onto the credenza at an L to her desk and opened the blinds on the window that looked out over the walkway between the back offices, lounge, and kitchen. She could see the light shining from Dustin’s doorway. Many mornings they shared a cup of coffee and discussed the day’s schedule. Today, she wasn’t in the mood. She didn’t know how she was going to face him after what she had done.

  Even if she’d wanted to confess, she couldn’t. She’d given Roman her word that what had happened between them would go no further—a promise that seemed rather worthless considering half the residents in her apartment complex had seen them in the pool, but one she intended to keep.

  Just like she intended to find out who Roman really was, and what she’d gotten into by falling for a man who wasn’t who or what she’d thought. Unfortunately, an hour spent Googling “Roman +Roland +Green +Miami +Splash & Flambé” plus his phone number had given her nothing.

  She propped her elbows on either side of her keyboard and, groaning, buried her face in her hands. She was going to need a Starbucks run before she could even think of what search terms or search engines might give her more to go on.

  What she needed was his Social Security number, but she didn’t see Penny Garza giving that up. His home address was another matter. Or better yet, the plates on his truck. She could start there, and she didn’t need Penny. That information she could find for herself.

  And if one thing led to another, his plates to his home address to maybe a lease agreement with his Social, she might not need Penny at all, depending on how much of what she was looking for was public record.

  She knew she couldn’t make a Starbucks run without first checking with Dustin, the receptionist, Steph, and Kassia, the marketing guru. She took the girls’ orders first, then gathered up her courage, her wits, and the best of her smiles, and knocked on Dustin’s open door.

  “I’m going to run to Starbucks. You want your usual?”

  Slumped in his chair and swiveling from side to side, he waved her in without looking up from staring at his office wall. “What I want doesn’t matter. My life as I’ve loved it has come to an end.”

  “Are you kidding?” She leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, not too far in, not too far out. “I just saw the guest book from Friday and Saturday, and Kassia said all but four of the photographs have already sold. How could life as you’ve loved it be anything but beginning?”

  She knew it wasn’t work that had him down, but it was a subject of conversation near and dear to his heart, as well as one that was safe. It was also one that made sense to broach first thing Monday mornin
g.

  “Yes, yes.” He heaved a sigh. “Downtown Blue is gaining a smashing reputation, and we’re going to make Schmidt Crutcher a mint. I just find it hard to care in the face of the blistering bad news that came to me last night.”

  She had to tread carefully or find herself up to her eyeballs in shit she was not ready to deal with. Honestly, she wasn’t wanting to deal with much at all—Dustin’s petulance being at the top of the list—not in her current condition. Her knees were still carpet burned, her pussy rubbed raw, her nipples achingly tender from the edges of Roman’s teeth.

  Starbucks. Think Starbucks. “A smashing reputation is a huge, huge thing. I’ve lost count of the artists who’ve come to you because of the name you’ve made for Downtown Blue. Artists you’ve had to turn down because you’re are in a position to be exclusive.”

  “Exclusive is an interesting word, don’t you think? It implies a certain…loyalty.” He swiveled his chair to face her, his head lolling to the side. “Or don’t you agree?”

  Well, shit. Now what? She pretended to give his question consideration, while panic crept uncomfortably close. “If you agree to show an artist’s work and do so to great success, should he give you his patronage in the future? Is that what you’re asking?”

  He reached for a pencil, studied it as he twirled the ends between his fingers and thumbs. “What about in relationships? Romantic relationships?”

  He couldn’t possibly be so deluded as to think he and Roland, grr, Roman were exclusive. But this baiting…What else could he mean? “If a couple is dating exclusively, yes, I believe that implies loyalty. And honesty. And devotion. Otherwise, what’s the point of such an arrangement?”

  He seemed to accept her answer as reasonable, now rolling the pencil between his nose and upper lip. She wasn’t going to wait for another round and find herself scrabbling for purchase again, so she pushed off the doorjamb and took one step into the corridor. “Starbucks?”

  His response was not what she’d hoped to hear. “How loyal do you think employees should be to their employers?”

  “If they’re under contract or bound by a no-compete clause, their loyalty might be a matter of law.” Fortunately, she had never signed either. “Otherwise, I guess it would depend on how ethical the employee is and how well he is treated by his employer.”

  “Her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How ethical she is. How well she is treated by her employer.”

  Enough with the dance, the games, the bullshit. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

  He shrugged, went back to swiveling his chair, tossed the pencil into the trash can on the far side of his desk. “I’ll take my usual, and a cranberry muffin if they have one.”

  “Okay then. I’ll be back in twenty,” she told him, casually slapping his wall on the way out when it took everything she had not to punch a hole in the Sheetrock.

  Passive-aggressive at its finest. He was such a punk! Argh! See if she didn’t accidentally trip on her way back and dump his Caramel Macchiato on the sidewalk . Oops, and there goes his muffin, too. Her heels stabbed into the pavement with every step. She was surprised they didn’t puncture straight through to China. She was that furious.

  How dare he question her loyalty because he was jilted? Jilted, hell. He was left high and dry and hard for a man who wasn’t even gay. How much of a loser did a man have to be to be taken for that kind of ride by another? And somehow she was to blame?

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  She flipped her head around, ready to snap at the man leaning out of the driver’s side window of a delivery van. “What?”

  He waved a paper toward her. “Can you tell me where to find this address? I’m not familiar with this area.”

  Then what the hell are you doing here? she wanted to bark back but instead edged toward the curb, where he’d pulled over to idle. When she reached for the scrap with the illegible scrawl, he reached for her wrist and yanked her close.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she growled.

  “I’m giving you a message to deliver to Roland Green.”

  She sobered instantly. How did this man—Latino; sunglasses; medium-length, wavy hair; goatee; a nasty scar across his jugular—know she was acquainted with Roland? “You have something to say to him, tell him yourself.”

  “You’re going to tell him, because you need to hear this, too.”

  “Hear what?” she demanded, not feeling half as confident as her gruff challenge sounded.

  “Hija de puta. You tell him he fucks up with the storage, I’ll pack you up and deliver you in the same way.” He squeezed her wrist, shook it. “Comprende?”

  When she nodded, he pushed her away and pulled into the morning traffic. She scrambled to memorize his plate numbers, muttering them under her breath while digging in her purse for a pen. And then she stopped, a chill silencing her.

  He’d been at the gallery. Or even more frightening, at her apartment. The numbers she was reciting belonged to the tags on her car.

  Nineteen

  It was Wednesday morning when Finn showed up at Splash & Flambé. He’d made his decision to come back even before leaving Miami. But he did have things at home to see to, and plans to consider for the photo shoots, so getting all of that ironed out first seemed the smart thing to do.

  Then there was the fact that he didn’t want to seem so anxious that Olivia realized she had him eating out of her hand. It was bad enough that he’d talked to her six times since driving away from Dustin’s condo.

  Yeah, those phone calls didn’t signal that this had moved way beyond a working relationship into…well, he wasn’t ready to say.

  Saying would mean analyzing when and where and how the chemistry between them had taken on a life of its own. He supposed that was what chemistry did, all those molecules getting stirred and shaken and ending up with a big bang.

  Really, he didn’t need to be thinking about banging and Olivia Hammond at the same time. Not if he was going to keep this job all about work.

  Whether he could do that had been weighing on his mind now for days. He liked her. He liked her a lot. And he couldn’t deny there was some major lust fueling that like. Her body was amazing, and he was looking forward to seeing it again, seeing more of it, and seeing it often.

  That was how lust worked. That much, he got.

  It was the rest that wasn’t sitting with the same familiarity. The rest was telling him that she didn’t have any business showing off her body to anyone, no matter the justification she gave herself to explain her exhibitionist tendencies. He didn’t buy it for a minute.

  There was a huge disconnect between what she did and her reasons—one he was still grappling with, one he didn’t think she was being honest about. Not with him. Not with herself. But until she got the second part right, the first was up to him to deal with.

  He wasn’t so sure that staying in the room she’d offered was the best way to deal. But here he was, anyway, hauling his duffel and electronic equipment from his Jeep to the back door of her store, and hoping he didn’t run into anyone before Olivia had a chance to explain why he was here. Or at least that he was here with her permission.

  He gave her cell a quick ring. She’d told him to call when he was at the door, and she’d give him a key later. He didn’t have to wait but fifteen seconds before he heard locks click and thump from inside, and the door opened. “Sorry to drag you in so early.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she asked and smiled for him. “Sloth does not a successful entrepreneur make.”

  Sloth was his favorite pastime. Sloth was done best from a deck looking out over the beach, or from the shoreline, with a rod and reel in hand. He and sloth got along just fine.

  But he knew what she meant. “Are you talking about your entrepreneurship or mine?”

  She toyed with the bauble dangling from the delicate chain at her throat, a chain that brought to mind her others. “I thought you were just a guy renova
ting a beach house.”

  He walked through the door, which she still held open, caught a whiff of her spicy, rich scent. “And that’s why I’m here. I’m still short on the lumber I need for the roof. It’s back to being an entrepreneur.”

  She laughed, let the door shut, and stood there looking at him as if he was a delivery from Tiffany or Publishers Clearing House or one of those places that brought the best in good news. He didn’t think he’d ever had anyone so glad to see him, and the fact that she was, well, he’d look at it more closely later.

  Right now he needed to unload his gear. “You want to show me where you’re stashing me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me carry your duffel and save a second trip.” She slung it over her shoulder as if she was wearing indestructible chambray instead of a tissue-thin fabric in greens, blues, and golds. “The staircase is just off the hallway.”

  He nodded for her to lead the way and followed, her heels clacking on the hall’s hardwood once they left the storeroom floor’s sealed concrete surface. The staircase rose five steps to a landing, turned, and climbed fifteen steps to the next landing, before the final switchback and the last few steps emptied them onto the second floor.

  Olivia gestured for him to accompany her toward the back of the building. She pointed out Penny’s office, a second that Roland and Carmen shared, and the spare room on the back wall, which he’d be using, opening the door and walking inside.

  She stopped in the center of his home away from home and dropped his duffel there. “My office is at the front of the building, at the other end of the hall, as are the facilities. We have a wireless network, and Penny can explain the Internet log-in. She’ll also give you the key and the alarm pass code so you can come and go as you need. Other than that, you should be set.”

  Yeah, he mused. This would work. The futon had a thick mattress and plenty of pillows. A couple of blankets were folded and stacked in the lower cube of a boxlike end table.