Maximum Exposure (5 page)

“Excuse me,” she said, stumbling between two of the men and backing into the table, the slant of the triangular scarf giving the closest members of her audience a bird’s-eye view of the curving swells of her breasts.

She leaned forward to ostensibly check the heel of her shoe, her top falling away and fully exposing her bare chest to the group. She twisted her hips one way, canted her waist another, then, when the table had gone silent, straightened and gave the crowd of five a winsome smile.

“I think I snagged a pit in the floor with my heel. I’m not usually so clumsy. Please forgive the interruption,” she said. And then leaving them with a smile, she made her way to the ladies’ room, where she washed her hands before returning to take her seat across the table from Finn.

He sat sprawled in his chair as if watching a sports event. She half expected him to applaud. “So your trip to the ladies’ room was a ruse with ulterior motives?”

“It was,” she said, shifting to sit at an angle, cocking her elbow on the back of her seat.

He sat shaking his head. “I figured you’d end up with a round of wolf whistles and catcalls for your trouble.”

“It was an educated gamble.”

“How so?”

“The ambience of the place. They’re players. Too self-important to want to be seen stooping to such a common denominator.” She gestured to take in the whole of the lounge, then reached for her glass and sipped her
mojito,
the cool nip of mint soothing her throat.

She went on. “Also, they don’t know whether to call attention to what they’ve seen. They don’t know if I’m aware of what I’ve done, or what I might be expecting from them, In this case, they gave me exactly what I wanted.”

“Silence.”

She tilted her head as if listening. “So far, so good.”

“Some people might say you’re a prick tease.”

Some had. Some had taken it personally, tried to prove it, to give her what they said she was asking for. “Those some would be wrong. It’s not about sex.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said, leaning forward again, toying again with the tray of votives.

She pressed her lips together, watched the movement of his fingers along the blown glass. “If I sat on the lap of the closest man, wrapped my arms around his neck, and rubbed up against him, that would be about sex.”

He bobbed his head as if weighing her reply. “You’re only looking at what it means to you, not what it means to the group on the receiving end of your…gift.”

“What it means to them isn’t within my control,” she told him sharply. “And they’re not always guys.”

He didn’t say anything more after that, not for several long moments, opting instead to give surreptitious regard to the table of men, who were no longer rowdy, but intent on their drinks and cigars.

As shrewd as he was, he was still a man. She didn’t expect him to share her viewpoint. Men, as a rule, stuck together, had each other’s backs, had a team mentality, a gang mind-set, rather than standing their own ground. It was why she was able to manipulate them so easily. She’d learned them well, knew that where one went, the others would follow.

His gaze came up, held hers. “What do the men you date think about the burlesque show?”

Her drink, which had been cooling, now began to burn. “Is that what it looked like to you? A show?”

“A show for a particular and private audience, sure. Not a general-admission performance. But letting people look would make it a show, yeah.” He paused, his eyes darkening, demanding. “So your guys. Do they know? Do they care? Do they play along, knowing you’ll be going home with them?”

She was beginning to wonder if this was all a big mistake. Wondering what he thought of her, why she cared. Because it was obvious from the unsettled state of her stomach that she cared about his opinion too damn much.

“It’s a moot point since I don’t date. Now, do you want to talk business or not?”

Christ.

If something didn’t break soon on Operation Bebé Bust, Roman didn’t know how he’d ever assimilate back into the hetero world. He wouldn’t be able to pick up a chick to save his life. Even now, standing beneath the stinging spray of the shower, enveloped in heat and steam and thinking about all the ladies he’d loved, he barely felt a twinge when he stroked.

Thinking about the ladies
Roland
serviced at the store didn’t help, either. No reason it should, since
Roland
’s servicing meant complimenting Splash’s customers on their tans, which cost a fortune; their hair, which cost even more; their bodies, which they’d paid through the nose for plastic surgeons and personal trainers to sculpt.

And then he thought of Jodi Fontaine.

Jodi with the tits and ass and long, long legs he could have with a snap of his fingers. Ah yes. That was better, he mused as his thighs tightened, his balls twitched, his cock thickened in his fist.

He closed his eyes, imagined her on her knees in front of him, water running down her back and turning her hair into a thick, wet rope. Her mouth was open, her lips wrapped around his cock, her hand, too, holding him there while she sucked him like a pro.

He groaned, braced a hand against the tile wall, pumped harder and faster, watching in his mind as Jodi got to her feet and took him in her hand, spreading the lips of her cunt with the other.

She put him there, the head of his cock, rubbing his big black bulb all over her juicy pink flesh, rubbing her tongue around her parted lips like she wanted him in both holes at the same time. And then she let him go, turned, and bent over, inviting him to fuck her in the third.

He lubed himself up and did, stretching her and pushing inside, driving in and out once he had her filled, faster and faster, and goddamn she was tight, and he couldn’t get enough of her, and he listened to her beg him for more and more and more and, “Fuck!”

He shot his load, spurting against the wall of the tub instead of into Jodi’s ass or mouth or cunt. And then he showered, growing hard as he thought of her again, knowing the odds of this fantasy coming true were about the same as going blind from stroking.

The chime of his doorbell cut his shower short.

He was in the mood for visitors about as much as he was in the mood to spend the rest of his life as Roland Green. But since he wasn’t expecting anyone, and no one had reason to come calling, he quickly toweled off and tugged on his boxers and sweats.

He was halfway to the door and pulling his T-shirt over his head when the knock sounded again. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on. I’m coming.”

He double-checked that his piece was loaded, the safety off, and eased it from its holster where both were stored in the desk next to the door. He left the drawer cracked the width of his finger, then put his eye to the peephole.

Shit. Christ.
He had settled in for the night as Roman, and now…

He opened the door, waved Tomás Bebé quickly inside, checking the long hallway for anyone who might have seen him come in. “What are you doing here? Are you crazy? You can’t come here. I don’t want you here. We don’t have any reason to be seen together away from work.”

“Chill,
vato
. No one knows I’m here, so no one is going to see us.” Tomás walked farther into the room. “I don’t plan to stay longer than it takes, anyway…. What the fuck, Green? You live in a dump.”

“Than what takes?”
Roland
asked, with a nervous flutter of one hand, while Roman ran through explanations for his alter ego’s living conditions.

Carmen must’ve gotten the address from Penny somehow, or else Bebé’s rats had followed him home. He’d never told anyone where he lived. Not that the apartment would give anything away, but no. It had never been part of his cover.

Tomás shook off whatever he was thinking and turned. The light from the desk lamp reflected off the lightning-bolt scar bisecting his jugular. His black eyes gleamed. “It’s happening Friday.”

Friday. Christ.
Today was Tuesday. Roman swallowed, his mind racing. He had to get to his team. They were good to go. They’d been waiting for this. But the more advance notice, the better.

“What do you mean, Friday? I can’t be ready Friday.”
Roland
started to pace. “We’ve got a new collection going on display. I’ll be swamped getting set up for the arrival. You should have told me before today. It just can’t be done on such short notice—”

Tomás stepped into Roman’s space, wrapped a hand around his windpipe, and squeezed. “What can’t be done is you getting away with running your cocksucking mouth, you got it?”

Roman nodded, his
Roland
eyes wide with fear, his
Roland
grip weak on the other man’s wrist.

“Good.” Tomás shoved him away. “Now, the collection you’ll be waiting on will be carefully secured to avoid any damage in transit. And I know how you feel about damage in transit, so you’re going to check each and every package with a fine-tooth comb, got it?”

Another nod while Roman did the mental math. Livia had mentioned the designer’s living-room studio in his home in Little Havana. Carmen had asked Penny to schedule the delivery. He’d heard them talking on his way to the boss’s office on Monday.

He’d go in early tomorrow, get the address. Tonight he’d arrange for one of his team to drop in and shop as soon as the boutique opened. He’d hand it off then.

“What am I supposed to do with the boxes after we unpack the collection? It’ll be obvious the pieces aren’t all that’s inside. And getting the items out on display is our highest priority.”

“Fuck your fucking collection.” This time Tomás used a switchblade for emphasis, nicking the tip of Roman’s chin. “The contents you need to worry about will look like foam packing bricks. You make sure to stack them nice and neat to be used again,
comprende
?”

Roman
comprended
all right, calculating the size of the shipping boxes the boutique was expecting and how much heroin could be safely squirreled away inside. “When will the…bricks be picked up?”

“Don’t worry your fuzzy little head about that,” Tomás said, taking another look around and shaking his head before making his way to the door.

“You’re not leaving them there. Not for anyone to find.”

Tomás stopped, cocked his head, and glanced back but didn’t turn. “Are you telling me what I’m doing again? Why you telling me what I’m doing again, Green? Didn’t we have this conversation already? Do you want I take off more of your chin?”

Roman kept silent, his alter ego too cowed to argue and he himself too busy ticking off all the things he needed to do.

“I’m going now, Green. Don’t fuck up on Friday, or it’ll be the last fucking of any kind you do.” No one might have witnessed his arrival, but the entire complex heard Tomás slam the door and leave.

Holding his T-shirt to his chin, Roman secured the locks, secured his gun, dropped into his industrial task chair, rolled up to his functional desk, and booted up the state-of-the-art computer.

“What?” he barked when his cell phone rang.

“That sort of greeting is not going to win you many friends or go far in making sure you keep the ones you have.”

“Jodi.” He collapsed against the back of the chair. “I don’t have time to talk. Can’t this wait?”

“I don’t think so, no. It’s about Thursday.”

“What about Thursday?” He dropped the shirt, held the phone between his ear and shoulder, launched the innocuous-looking software program that would connect him with his team, and typed his user name and password.

“The private showing at the gallery. You said you’d come as my date.”

Christ.
He didn’t have time for this now. “I may not be able to make it.”

“You’d better have a damn good reason. I already bought a dress for the night.”

“Something’s come up—”

“Is that something your cock?”

What the hell?
“How many times do we have to go through this, Jodi? It gets tiring.”

“It gets tiring for me, too.”

“Then let’s not do it anymore.”

“Actually, that’s why I was calling.”

Five minutes. He’d give her five minutes and no more. Then again, better to deal with her now, be done with the distraction, without raising her suspicions by brushing her off.

He closed his eyes, rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. “Why were you calling?”

“I’ve decided to leave you alone.”

His eyes flew open. He sat up straight.

“That’s good news,” he said, hoping his words sounded more convincing on the phone than in person. He didn’t believe a thing he said.

“I thought you might think so,” she said, though something in her voice—irony? sarcasm?—made him wonder what had motivated this truce. “Though I’m not sure being friends makes much sense, considering we’re not, not really.”

“Finally, the girl sees things my way.”

Her change of heart, if real, would make his professional life a whole lot easier. On the personal front, he’d be hurting. He enjoyed having her throw herself at him. He’d be a fool to want her to stop.

She laughed, a deep throaty sound of sex and old scotch, and it was all he could do not to give her his address, take down his pants, and wait.

“I’ll let you think that for now,” she said.

The only thing he could say was, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Unfortunately, he was still thinking about her kneeling between his spread legs and opening her mouth, so what should’ve been a querulous tone came out as a hungry growl.

This time when she laughed, the sound was triumphant, and if there’d been any doubt remaining as to how badly he’d been boned, her laugh made it more than clear.

“I’ll see you Thursday. Eight o’clock at the gallery. I’ll make sure you know what it means then.”