Maximum Exposure (7 page)

And the way they’d ended things Tuesday evening, she doubted he ever would.

Accepting a flute of champagne from a passing server and smiling as she ducked around a couple admiring one of the Noir Purrfection pieces, she decided she was wasting time worrying about what Finn McLain thought of her.

His opinion wasn’t any more a part of their arrangement than his insight into who she was and why she did what she did. He had to know her only well enough to be comfortable taking the photos Dustin wanted.

Dear Dustin. He’d never questioned her exhibitionist tendencies, and though he knew more of her history than she’d shared with Finn, he didn’t know everything. And though he didn’t, she could understand Dustin sitting in judgment of her actions. Not Finn.

So why did it bother her that he did?

And was
judgment
the right word? Was he judging her? Or was it more a case of trying to figure her out and using his own moral compass to do so? She’d been thinking about it for two days and was no closer to understanding her feelings now than she had been on Tuesday. She couldn’t think about it any longer. Besides, tonight was about Dustin and about, well, naked women and their cats.

Literally. Cats.

She brought her drink to her mouth, smiling as she touched the rim of the flute to her lower lip. The exhibit tickled her. Probably tickled the subjects of the photographs, too, she thought, with a bit of irreverence.

The photographs were reminiscent of early pictures of Clara Bow, with a very “It girl” look and feel, the models wearing appropriate scarves and jewelry, as well as stockings and shoes from the same era, but nothing more.

Each was dramatically posed, with her legs spread and a full-grown cat sitting between, or draped strategically over her thighs. The arrangements were very well done, the looks on the subjects’ faces broadcasting their indifference to their sexuality while being completely magnetic.

Livia moved behind a couple studying a photograph of a woman lounging on a chaise, her orange tabby matching the cloud of strawberry blond curls on her head. The next photo showed a full-frontal view of its female subject leaning back, her elbows propped on a Grecian column, which Livia thought resembled a plant stand, her bare breasts thrust pertly upward. A second column, thigh high and positioned in the foreground, held her sitting cat, an exotic Siamese, with its own pert nose in the air.

Livia was busy comparing the tilt of the woman’s nipples with that of the feline’s nose when a voice at her ear said, “Kinda makes you want to say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ doesn’t it?”

She knew the voice, didn’t have to turn and see that it was Finn, and so she didn’t. She continued to face the photograph and grip her champagne flute, willing her fingers to relax before the glass shattered and the drink ruined her dress.

She wouldn’t forgive herself if she let that happen, and not because of the dress. No, she wouldn’t forgive herself, because reacting so strongly to a man was not in her nature. She refused to allow it to be. Refused to admit the chill settling at the base of her spine had anything at all to do with Finn McLain.

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.”

“For the obvious reason,” he said from her shoulder.

She waited, not looking at him yet, enjoying the tension between them, which was in no way one-sided, and enjoying that, too. “Which would be?”

“Me man. You woman.”

Well, that was a rather caveman attitude. “Because I’m a woman, I can’t enjoy looking at others, is that it? Do you think the artists who’ve painted the female form through the ages have done so only for men to appreciate?”

“I think it was a lot of work to get those cats to sit still.”

Able to evade with the best of them, was he? “Which one’s your favorite?” she asked, turning, her shoulder brushing his chest, her elbow grazing his ribs.

She stayed there, touching him softly, their body contact absolutely innocent, she told herself, bringing her drink to her mouth, disappointed to find the bubbles gone when she sipped. Finn signaled a passing server, replacing her flute and taking one for himself as if sensing her dilemma.

She kept her face averted from his, kept her focus on the artfully lighted photographs. Or at least gave the appearance of doing so. Her focus, no matter how successfully she’d convinced everyone otherwise, was on the man whose body had created a cradle for hers.

She could stand here the rest of the night, happily unmoving, breathing in the light scents of his soap and shampoo. It was a strange sense of intimacy enveloping them, but then she had taken off her clothes at his command. And she had to admit surprise at finding herself so topsy-turvy, her stomach tumbling with a giddy joy she barely recognized.

“I’m kinda fond of the big Maine coon,” he said finally, angling his chin to draw Livia’s gaze to the right. She’d almost forgotten asking him which cat, ahem, he liked.

The portrait he indicated featured a woman straddling a piano bench, one hand on the instrument’s keyboard, one at the curve of her waist. A massive feline sprawled on the seat, between her legs, hiding not only her sex but half of her belly as well. She was a larger woman than the others Livia had seen, her breasts voluptuous, her hips full and shapely.

It made Livia curious. “Why that one?”

“I like her tits,” he said, and Livia nearly sputtered her drink.

“Well, that’s being honest.”

“I always am. You get the truth, or you get nothing at all.”

She couldn’t let that go without a test. “Why her tits and not those of the woman with the tabby? Her nipples look like little strawberry gumdrops.”

“I’m more a brown sugar, caramel, gold chain, and not-so-little kinda guy.”

“I see,” was all Livia could say, her voice choked off by the tightness in her throat.

They hadn’t talked much about his telling her to strip. Not at any length, or in any depth. The night they’d had drinks at Cigar Paolo, they’d touched only briefly on the events of the morning before, and even then their discussion had remained primarily impersonal.

What he’d just said to her about caramel and brown sugar and gold chains? Definitely personal. Definitely inappropriate. And definitely making her glad she’d chosen to wear this dress—except to get him to properly appreciate it, she was going to have to move away.

She gestured toward the next lighted recess and the photograph there on display. “What are you doing here, anyway? This showing was by invitation only.”

“I have one.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “You know Dustin?”

He nodded—she saw the movement in her peripheral vision—but remained otherwise noncommittal.

Then she had the strangest thought and finally turned to face him. “You aren’t the photographer, are you? Who did this series?”

He shook his head, a shock of his shaggy dark hair falling onto his forehead. “Me. Not a photographer. An investigator. Remember?”

An investigator who had been hired out of Key Largo, was staying in his client’s beach condo, and who knew Dustin…Why would Dustin have hired a PI? And why would that PI have been parked in front of Splash & Flambé?

Crossing her arms while still holding her flute of champagne, she stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the Maine coon and the tits he liked. “Are you working for Dustin?”

He pressed his lips together tightly in answer.

“I’m not asking for details, just whether or not he’s the one who hired you.”

“Investigator-client privilege.”

“It’s obvious that he did. You’re here. You’re staying in your client’s condo.”

“I’m pretty sure there are more people than Parks who own one.”

“Yes, but you’re just a guy working on your beach house, remember? Not a guy who circulates in Dustin’s world.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and you still haven’t told me why.”

“I was invited. Isn’t that reason enough?”

She shook her head. “You’re not Dustin’s type.”

Finn tossed his head back and laughed. “What type am I then?”

Originally, she might have been talking about Dustin’s sexual orientation and the fact that Finn was too…messy to appeal to the other man. But Finn’s question prompted a response that required answers of its own. “You’re the type to come here only for a specific reason, and if Dustin invited you personally, then you’re here to do something for him.”

He stared at her while she finished her second flute of champagne, his eyes dark when she’d expected them to light with the same irreverent mischief she’d seen in them that first morning in front of her store. Instead, what she saw had her holding her breath, waiting for the words the intensity in his gaze promised would send more than a chill down her spine.

It was a promise that held true when he said, “I’m here because of you.”

And if his buyers then demanded more product—seeing as how they’d be given a choice between doing that and life without parole—then another few weeks, months maybe, would put the DEA one step closer to the top of the chain and the motherfucker supplying the shit.

Tonight Roman had come to the gallery alone. Sure, he was meeting Jodi, but doing that here was a lot more convenient than picking her up and hauling her back to her place at the end of the night.

Not to mention a lot safer than having her and her legs and all that blond hair in his car. Having her sunshine scent linger to tease him every time he climbed behind the wheel was more mind game than he wanted to play.

His head was already FUBAR because of her. Yeah, he knew who he was, knew his place, his role, and his goal. Work was not a problem, and he wasn’t going to let her make it one. That didn’t mean his personal deal with her wasn’t giving him the devil’s sort of hell.

“There you are,” said his object of X-rated lust, her voice at his shoulder, her fingers closing around his biceps and squeezing, her breasts pressed to his back. “What do you think about the show?”

He searched for the right response, hoping for a high note to bring his mind out of the gutter. “I think the photographer has a lot of explaining to do.”

Jodi’s laugh rocked through him like a gunshot. He felt it where she held his arm, where she held herself to his back. He felt it against his ear, where she pulled in a breath and exhaled, a feathery breeze.

He ground his jaw, flexed his fingers when he wanted more than anything to fist his hands and knock the shit outta himself. He had no business being here. No business being with her, even if his being with her was only a farce.

“It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, it’s not my cuppa, either,” she admitted. “But I can see the artistic appeal, the use of color and lighting, the juxtaposition of the felines with the females.”

Talk about a bunch of bullshit.
“Can you see the challenge the photographer had to get the cats to sit still? How they’re begging for the treats they’ve been promised?”

“There is that, I suppose,” she said, slipping forward several steps to stand next to him. “I had no idea about your soft spot for animals.”

He saw strands of her blond hair flutter in the breeze from the overhead fans, but he saw that in his periphery, because he refused to look her way. Right now, he feared he’d give himself away if he did.

That’s how soft he was feeling. “How does your boss feel about you less than wholeheartedly embracing his gallery’s exhibit?”

She waited for a moment, as if counting out beats, then lowered her voice and dropped a bomb. “I think the more important question is, how do you feel about my boss?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Roman had made sure that Roland never spoke a word about his love life, so if that was what Jodi was digging to find…

“He’s got it bad for you. Almost as bad as I have it.”

He did not want to have this conversation. “The two of you should see a doctor about that.”

“It’s true,” she said, then let the clink of glasses and the low buzz of chatter fill the silence between them.

He didn’t know what to say, whether to leave things alone and let them die without further acknowledgment, or be the friend he’d agreed to be and talk. He went with the first, the one that wouldn’t trip him up and get him in trouble. The one that was the easiest and required no commitment that he’d regret.

“He told me earlier this week,” she said, taking his silence as an invitation rather than a lack of interest. “I stayed late one night, finishing some things I hadn’t had time for with all the prep for the show. I mentioned that you were escorting me tonight. He admitted that he’d like you to escort him, and then the floodgates opened.”

She paused as a server approached.

“Would either of you care for champagne?”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for two drinks, handing one to Jodi, finally catching her eyes as they sipped.

He tried to look away, to not get pulled into what he was seeing, but he had been using her in his head for so long, getting off to her when he needed relief, that all he could think about was doing her with her eyes wide open and focused on his.

It wasn’t a safe fantasy to play with. The atmosphere in the room pulsed with a grinding vibe. If he grabbed Jodi up against him and pulled her hem to her waist, he imagined the small gathering around them would scatter, but no one would be surprised.

She lowered her flute, rubbed the rim against her bottom lip, then moved the glass away. “Well?”

“Well what?” he asked, shrugging as he belted back half of his drink.

“Do you return Dustin’s…affection?”

“My private life is private, Jodi. I’m not going to discuss my affections.” If he did, she might not find this conversation to her liking.

“Did you know how he felt? Before now?”

“I still don’t know how he feels. He hasn’t told me.”

“Would you like him to? I can go get—”

“No,” Roman said, the low-spoken word gruff and gritty as he grabbed the wrist of the hand she’d used to gesture.

She made no effort to pull away. Instead, she arched one brow and glanced down to where he held her.

“No,” he repeated, more softly this time, taking too long to release her. Goddamn but her bones felt so fragile, her skin like paper he could easily tear. “Let it go. I’d just as soon not see anyone. I’m not in the mood for polite chatter.”

“I’m wondering if you’re in the mood for polite anything,” she said, then finished off her champagne.

Christ. What the fuck.
He rubbed at his forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I’ve had a bad couple of days, and tomorrow’s going to be the same.”

“I’m sure Dustin wouldn’t mind helping you feel better.”

“That’s not even close to funny.”

“Would you rather I help you feel better?”

“I’d rather the weekend get here.” It wouldn’t be the same relief as the end of this job, but right now? He’d take it.

Jodi moved close, fingered his jacket’s lapel. “I really can help, you know. That’s what friends are for.”

He was not this much of a sucker. Really, he wasn’t. “What can you do?”

“Actually, several things come to mind. A good massage for one,” she said as he grabbed for another drink. “Would you like that? If I were to knead your muscles? Help work out the kinks?”

His balls twitched. His cock followed, thickening. He’d started this. He deserved whatever torture she delivered. “Thanks, but I can work out the kinks at the gym.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, giving him a studious once-over and walking a circle around him. “Maybe
kinks
wasn’t the right word. I’m thinking knots? Or tightness? The type that has you aching to stretch? Surely you get tight with all the stress your under.” She was in front of him again, facing him. “Tight and swollen? I know I could help with that.”

“That so,” he said, surprised he was able to push even that much out through his constricted throat. She was wearing a man’s jacket, when she’d told him she’d bought a dress especially for the occasion, and all he could think about was yanking it open and sending the buttons rolling across the floor.

“Oh yes. It’s all about using my hands.” She held out her free one, wiggled and flexed her fingers, which were slender but so clearly strong. “I can rub and stroke, help ease that tension. It’s not good, you know, to let it build up. You need a way to relieve it.”

If she only knew how many times he’d let it go into her mouth while he showered. “You don’t say.”

She widened her eyes as if some grand solution had just come to her. “We could go to my office if you’d like. I’ve got a visitor’s chair with no arms. You could straddle it in reverse and let me start with the muscles in your shoulders and neck.”

Or she could straddle his lap and start with the part of his body that was the tightest of all. “Your boss won’t miss you if you cut out for awhile?”

“Me, no. He might miss you,” she added, with a sound that could’ve been a snort or a chuckle. “But we won’t be gone long. Not unless you’re wound up enough to need a lot of time.”

He was such a fool. Such a fool. He swallowed the rest of his champagne, then, before he could stop himself, said, “I’d say that I am.”

Her eyes glittered with excitement and, for a moment, with what looked like tears. “Should I give Dustin our regrets? Tell him you’re not feeling well and I’m going to see you home?”

He shook his head. It was too late for that. “I can’t wait that long.”

She didn’t say anything else. All she did was hook two of her fingers around two of his and lead him to his doom.