by Alison Kent
The desk held the TV and sat against the opposite wall, next to the mini-fridge and the microwave. Another two cubes hung above on the wall and held Styrofoam plates and cups, paper napkins, and plastic utensils.
A near-perfect bachelor’s pad with a fantasy woman just down the hall. He left his equipment cases by the door, crossed to the long back wall, and peered through the blinds at the delivery access below.
“Well?” Olivia asked. “Will this do?”
He was surprised by the hesitation he heard in her voice. He was only camping out for a few days, not moving in. A little roughing it never hurt anyone. “It’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“After Dustin’s place, this has got to be a letdown. I can’t imagine why I suggested it.” Her hands at her hips, she glanced around the sparsely furnished room, with a frown. “You know, the pillows at the Hyatt are fluffier, and they don’t require that you bring your own soap. Plus, there’s room service.”
She wasn’t getting rid of him that easily. Neither did she know him very well. “There’s also this thing called convenience. You’re here. I’m here. None of this coordinating schedules from half a city apart.”
She looked at him askance. She wasn’t buying it. “Coordinating schedules is hardly difficult. You’re just placating me.”
He moved away from the windows; came closer to where she stood, indignant; wrapped his fingers around one of her wrists; and gave her what assurance he could. “You’re worried that I’m not going to be comfortable. I’m telling you I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m moving in permanently. Besides, I’m living in a house with only half a roof. A few days on a futon won’t even register on my discomfort scale.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He heard the first-floor door buzz until the alarm code was punched. “You’ve told your people I’m here, right?”
“I haven’t yet.” She pulled free of his hand, rubbed at her forehead. “I’ll do that now. I’m sure that was Roland. He’s always in before Carmen or Penny.”
Roland. The object of Dustin’s affection who wasn’t gay, after all. Who for some reason had convinced Olivia that he was…for the job? Finn didn’t get it.
Yeah, Flambé’s fashions were more flaming than not, but he couldn’t see anyone—not even a hetero clotheshorse—pretending to play for the other team to get an employee discount.
“Finn?”
He shook off thoughts of Roland. “I’m fine. I’m going to get situated. Then I’ve got an appointment to look at a place where I thought we might do the first shoot. If I like the looks of it, could you get away tomorrow afternoon?”
She nodded. “Sure. I don’t have anything scheduled.”
“Cool. I’ll let you know later, and I guess I’ll get the key when I get back.”
“That’s fine. We open at ten, so you’ll only need it before then and after hours.” When all he did was nod, she backed a step away, then turned for the door. “If I’m not on the sales floor, I’ll be in my office. I keep the door open. We’re not much on formalities around here.”
And then she smiled, and he wondered if she was remembering that she’d closed it once just for him.
Twenty
Livia double-checked the address Finn had given her. He’d told her the studio he’d booked for the afternoon was in a warehouse that didn’t look like much of anything. If this was the place—and she knew it was; she’d seen his Jeep—what it looked like was a dump or storage used by gunrunners.
And, yes, she was judging this book based on its ratty and worn cover, when Finn had assured her the contents would be worth her time.
She’d had more trouble than usual deciding what to wear. Usually, she dressed for the occasion and the outcome she was seeking. Today she was dressing for Finn. He’d told her he wanted bold colors. Something that wouldn’t wash out in bright lights. That wasn’t a problem.
Anyone who knew her, who knew Splash & Flambé, was well aware of her love of loud. And it wasn’t just patterns and fabrics that captured her heart, but cuts of cloth that begged for attention, and the pairing of spatters with brushstrokes with fine art.
Something that wouldn’t wash out in bright lights? That she could do. It was just that the pieces best suited to revealing her body were subtle sheers, delicate gauze or mesh, ones with no substance or made of little fabric, requiring only a soft breeze to stir them.
What she ended up wearing was an outfit she’d fallen in love with, but had never yet found an appropriate cause to wear. It was made primarily of fringe, which explained the appropriateness factor. Fringe, as an article of clothing, didn’t go over so well in public.
The fringe hung from the top edge of a bandeau to the bottom of her ribs, and like the sheer Lycra beneath cupping her breasts, it was a mixture of crimson and garnet, the deep blood reds both erotic and rich.
The hip-hugging skirt was designed similarly, the underskirt only covering her bottom, the longer fringe tickling her where it dangled to mid-thigh.
She had on a thong but no bra, and her legs were bare, her feet showing off an amazing pair of Manolos. She’d decided against any earrings but had worn the ring in her belly.
She’d also worn those piercing her nipples and the one at the top of her clit, forgoing the gold chains she usually looped between them.
It was an outfit perfect for Carnival or Mardi Gras, and she hadn’t given herself a break from work to attend either festival in years. Since Finn had told her to think bone-rattling music and wildly uninhibited fun, she’d hardly been able to wait to pull the outfit from her closet.
Now, she could only hope it worked for Finn, and that he and his big lens also appreciated all the time she’d spent on her hair and makeup, since both were as vital to the success of her look as the sexy party clothes’ fit.
Of course, she would never know if it worked for him or not if she didn’t get out of her car. This was so silly, sitting here, with the engine still running, her fingers molded to the steering wheel, anxiety causing such an upheaval in her stomach that she was afraid she was going to throw up.
Livia Hammond did not suffer from nerves when it came to men. She rarely suffered from nerves at all. She’d always had the confidence to go after what she wanted, to do what it took to get her way. Being the youngest of three siblings, she’d basked in the attention lavished on the baby of the family.
And she’d continued to bask, blossoming beneath the attention and encouragement of her family, her tutors, her coaches; going on to stretch the boundaries of her behavior in order to prove herself invulnerable, to prove that she was loved unconditionally, as everyone said, that she wasn’t a tease, that she hadn’t invited that thing that had happened, that it wasn’t her fault….
Dear, God, she thought, her palms sweating. Why was she going there now? Revisiting that moment from her past? She could see her fourteen-year-old self so clearly from this distance, but she couldn’t see what any of what had transpired had to do with her feelings for Finn.
Except she was doing what he wanted, putting him in control and stripping away her own, which was as vital to her as breathing.
On the seat beside her, her cell phone rang. She jumped, then took a deep breath and answered. “Yes?”
“Are you on your way?” Finn asked.
Now or never. Do or die. “Actually, I just pulled up.”
“Cool. There’s a table just inside the door. You can leave your purse and phone and whatever else there.”
“And then I do what?”
“Walk through the curtain. There’ll be a spotlight. I’ll see you there.” He hung up, leaving her frowning at the phone.
She grabbed her tote, her phone, her keys; tightened the belt of the summer-weight trench coat she wore, and headed for the door. Once inside, she slipped out of her coat, draped it over the table, and set all of her things on top. Then she smoothed the fringe and her hair, and stepped through the curtain, where her wizard and her spotlight were
waiting.
At least she assumed Finn was waiting. He’d called her, after all. She just couldn’t see him. There wasn’t much she could see, for that matter. The spotlight aside, the room was pitch-black. And, she had to admit, a bit intimidating.
She made her way across the floor, to the small pool of light, her heels clicking, the echo hinting at the vastness of the space into which she was walking. Alone. Exposed. Vulnerable. In control of nothing but her own footsteps.
The curtain through which she’d entered the room had seemed to be black, a velvet or a satin, a stage curtain, she supposed. Had this space been used by a production company? Or had Finn arranged for the dark backdrop and the lights?
She’d ask him as soon as she saw him. She didn’t want him investing a lot of money in a project they weren’t certain would bring any of them a return. Right now, however, all she could do was follow his directions and stop gouging her fingernails into the skin of her palms.
The moment she stepped into the circle of light, it vanished, the loud, metallic whoosh as it shut down sucking the air from the room. She startled, but she stayed silent, waiting for Finn.
This was obviously part of his wildly uninhibited fun concept. Next photo shoot, she’d be in on the plan from the start. And speaking of start…
Her bones began to rattle as he pumped up the volume on a sound track with a decidedly hip-hop beat.
Then…Flash!
“I like the outfit,” he yelled at her, though he couldn’t be more than ten feet away.
If not for the music, she would have heard him, his shoes, his breathing, the adjustments he made to his camera. She hadn’t heard a thing. Not even the click of the remote he had to be using to work the lighting and the sound.
“Thanks for blinding me,” she raised her voice to grumble back, blinking to adjust to the darkness again. She wasn’t sure she liked this, though she was curious about his goal.
A click and another whoosh and the spotlight came back. This time he joined her in the circle of light. His eyes sparkled with life. His jaw was dark with the stubble of his beard, his hair a shaggy mess, held away from his forehead by a ball cap worn in reverse. His T-shirt was wrinkled; his blue jeans were worn thin.
And he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in her life.
“Are you going to explain to me what we’re doing here?” she said after he’d lowered the volume.
“You’re going to dance.”
“Dance?”
“You’re at a party. At a club. The Fifth, wherever. You’re surrounded by music and booze and bodies glistening with sweat.”
“I’m in a warehouse, alone, with nothing to drink.” She figured she’d be sweating soon enough.
“I’ve got plenty of water. Just say the word.” He nudged up the volume. “There’s your music, and I’ve got the lights.”
“Your camera’s flash?”
He nodded, his expression growing coy. “This was your idea, remember? Performing for me instead of for your usual suspects.”
He had her there. It was put up or shut up time, though she wasn’t going to do either without a groan. Why the hell had performing for him seemed like such a good idea when she’d come up with it last week?
Maybe because she hadn’t thought through what it would be like to let him look when she wanted him as fiercely as she did? God, this was going to be a disaster. “Okay then. If you think it will work.”
“I know it will work,” he said, his grin taking over his face. “The music will be loud enough that you won’t hear me, so the shots won’t look staged.”
“No, they’ll just show how much fun you had scaring the shit out of me.”
He laughed, the sound seeming so deeply and honestly felt that she laughed with him and breathed so much easier because she did. “I’m not trying to scare you. Just think of the flashes the way you would a strobe light or light thrown from a mirror ball. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so,” she said, shaking her arms and legs as if preparing for a sprint. He gave her a wink in response, then stepped out of the light and into the room’s shadows, maxing out the music’s volume once he was completely out of her sight.
She liked the music he’d chosen, and she loved to dance. This really shouldn’t be that hard, but all she could think about was Finn pulling her strings, Finn telling her how to dress, how to move, what to imagine while she danced. They were never going to get anywhere if she didn’t stop.
And so she did. She stopped thinking and let the music take her, let the feel of her body in motion drive her from one beat to the next. The first flash of Finn’s camera caught her by surprise, but others followed in quick succession, and she forgot he was there.
At least she forgot he was holding the camera. She didn’t forget about him; how could she? She was dancing for him, performing for him, letting him look because she wanted him to see her body, her emotions, everything.
She wanted him to want her, and what she wanted, she always got. Winning was her comfort zone. Being noticed her forte. She’d made her way through life as the center of attention, celebrated, cheered, desired….
The longer she danced, the more heated, the more aroused, and the more short of breath she grew, and the more she wanted him. Her nipples were tight when she reached up to unhook the bandeau and strip it away from the fringe.
She cupped her breasts, tugged on the rings, clenched the muscles of her sex at the surge of desire that rocked her. She reached down, slipped a hand beneath the tube of her skirt, found the hoop piercing her clit, and tugged.
She cried out. She didn’t mean to. She couldn’t help it. She was wet and she was wired, her body aching and ready, and oh, she hadn’t felt like this in years. This was Finn, because of Finn, the dampness seeping from her sex down her thighs.
And then she realized the room had gone silent. There was no music. No sound of the camera’s flash. No flash at all. She stumbled in the darkness, and Finn was there.
Twenty-one
Roman looked at the display of vests and scarves he’d arranged last Friday and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking. True, it had been Livia’s idea to run them up mini flagpoles, as if they were waving in the wind, but still.
The store looked like Six Flags Over Splash & Flambé, and even his alter ego wasn’t that gay.
This gay thing was getting to him. It didn’t matter that another few weeks was all he was looking at before Operation Bebé Bust came to an end. He wanted out of the closet and into Jodi Fontaine’s bed now. Not later. Now. Her office. Her pool. It wasn’t enough. He’d been a fool to think having a taste of her would hold him.
She’d called him on Monday. Several times. Even after promising him that what contact they’d had thus far would be the end of it. Her messages had said it was urgent that they talk ASAP. Yeah, right.
He hadn’t called her back. He hadn’t even dialed her number and hung up before being connected. He’d picked up the phone every day, sure, but he’d stuck to his end of their bargain. And he’d tried his goddamnedest not to think about seeing Tomás Bebé at her complex.
Bebé’s following him wasn’t worth wasting time thinking about. But Bebé getting to him through Jodi…Roman glanced at his watch. He had time to call before Tomás arrived with Friday’s scheduled delivery. If Jodi picked up, he’d know that his ignoring her hadn’t put her in more danger than she was already in from his fucking her.
He signaled to Carmen to watch the floor and headed upstairs. Livia was out with the photographer, taking the pictures Jodi had told him about. He nodded to Penny as he walked past her office, then picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Jodi’s private line at Downtown Blue.
When he got her voice mail the first time, he hung up and dialed again. The third time he got the receptionist. “Ms. Fontaine isn’t in today. May someone else help you?”
“Do you know where she is?” he asked more brusquely than he’d intended.
&nb
sp; “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t divulge personal information. Would you like Ms. Fontaine’s voice mail?”
“No, I’ll try her at home.”
“Thank you, sir. Good—”
“Wait, please.” What was the receptionist’s name? He’d met her last Thursday. “Uh, Stephanie?”
“Yes?”
“This is Roland Green. We met last week. I was with Jodi at Noir Purrfection?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, warming to the point of cooing. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” he assured her. “But before I bother Jodi at home, do you know if she’s there? If she’s sick and might be sleeping, I don’t want to disturb her. I guess she’s turned off her cell.”
“She’s home, yes, but she should be taking calls.”
“Is she all right?” he pressed.
“She will be. She walked to Starbucks Monday morning and fell, twisting her back. I guess she caught her heel or something. The doctor ordered her off her feet for the rest of the week.”
Was that all that had happened? That was what she called urgent? “She called several times Monday afternoon, but I’m just now getting back to her. I’ll give her house phone a call.”
“I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear from you. She was pretty shook up after the fall. It didn’t seem to hit her until later in the day how badly she’d been hurt.”
That was curious. “How so?”
“Well,” Stephanie began, sounding as if she was settling in for a long story. “I didn’t notice her limping or anything when she got back, or even when she went out to check something about her car. But when she told Dustin she was going to the doctor, she could hardly walk.”
“Poor thing,” he said, his gut twitching.
“And there were huge scrapes on both of her knees. I was on the phone when she brought in our breakfast, which must be why I didn’t see all the blood before.”
