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The photographer darted in and adjusted a peppermint-swirl candy by an infinitesimal degree. “Now we’re good. Clear set!”
Mia rolled her eyes at Cress as she backed away. She bumped into one of the spectators, who put his hand on her butt and said, “Careful, sweet cheeks.”
Gross. Pretending to be startled, Mia whirled around and let go with a spurt of the cherry-flavored paint. It sprayed across the starched shirtfront and loosened tie of a tall, dark-haired man, barely missing another of the onlookers when he lunged out of the way.
“Hey!” the lunger said. He brushed at the sleeve of an expensive suit. “Watch what you’re doing. You might have stained my Hugo Boss.”
Although she’d been on the verge of a smart retort, Mia snapped her mouth shut. She recognized the voice of the man she’d missed as the one who’d made the “sweet cheeks” comment and had assumed he was also the ass-patter. Wrong.
She aimed an apologetic shrug at the man she’d sprayed and was startled to recognize him. He was the guy who’d arrived late and stared so intently that he’d broken her concentration. Quite an achievement. Typically, she lost herself in the artwork and had to be snapped out of her trance by Cress or an extremely fatigued model.
“Uh,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“Me, too,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to grab your butt. I was just trying to stop you from backing into me.”
She felt less sorry, but he was smiling at her, and his smile was pretty damn charming, so she wasn’t mad, either. His voice was nicer than the other guy’s, too. Deep, rich and smooth, like buttered rum. There was something familiar about his face. Maybe she’d run into him at another shoot?
Even so, he was only a suit. Albeit a cherry-flavored suit.
“I’ve wrecked your shirt.” Mia reached for his arm. “Come over here, we’ll get you cleaned up.”
“Shouldn’t I lick myself clean, like a cat?” the man said, letting her lead him to her table. He lifted the end of his tie to his mouth and took an experimental taste. His mouth puckered. “Uh, maybe not. I thought the paint’s supposed to be edible.”
“Technically it is,” Mia said. “But I wouldn’t want to eat it with a spoon.” She squeezed out one of the soapy sponges they kept on hand. “We’re more concerned with looks and application than the actual taste.”
“So it’s not a good idea if I set the Sugar High execs loose on—” the man nodded toward Angelika “—our holiday treat?”
Mia glanced sharply at him while she dabbed at his tie. “That would be in bad taste all the way around.”
“I was kidding.”
“Of course you were.” She tossed the tails of the tie over his shoulder, trying not to notice how wide and square it was. She normally wasn’t attracted to the men who huddled in conference at photo shoots, even when they were distractingly gorgeous. But this one had more than a thoroughbred body and a handsome face. He possessed black-licorice eyes struck with starbursts of good humor and the male version of a Mona Lisa smile. He was self-aware, not merely self-involved like the usual suit.
Then he ruined it by saying, “I’m Julian Silk,” as if she should be impressed.
Julian Silk? Uh-oh. She’d spray-attacked the man who’d be signing her current paycheck.
Never mind, she told herself, remembering that she wasn’t impressed with either power or money. She’d decided that nine years ago when she’d chosen art school instead of the Ivy League, despite her parents’ protests. She’d been on her own ever since.
“Hey, wow,” she said. “Congratulations.”
Mr. Silk gave a surprised half laugh. “Congratulations for what?”
“The stork must have loved you.” Mia tilted her head. “Being born into the Silk family is a little like winning the lottery, don’t you think? If I’m impressed, it’s only by your luck.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
She plucked at his shirtfront to hold it away from his body while she scrubbed at the stain. Mr. Silk stood quite still, but not tense, nor embarrassed. Perfectly casual and unconcerned, as if he were used to being attended to. Which, of course, he was. The man was so sharp and well put together that there had to be a team of tailors, barbers, workout gurus and maybe even plastic surgeons at his behest.
He made a motion, lifting his hand to his lips and then flinging it away.
She squinted an eye at him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking the silver spoon out of my mouth so you’ll talk to me.”
Behind her, Mia heard Cress smother a laugh. “It would be extremely idiotic of me to be rude to the man who can have me hired and fired,” she said.
“Then you know who I am.”
She sighed. “Now I do.”
“After I told you.” He ruminated on that, lifting one corner of lips so handsomely carved they belonged in the Louvre. “Dumb move. I was enjoying the anonymity.”
“Uh-huh.” But he’d just had to pull the I’m-rich-and-in-charge card. She suppressed another eye roll and redirected her attention to getting the stains off his shirt. They’d faded to pink.
Unfortunately, when his mouth was distracting her, she’d dabbed with too much force and had dampened the fabric to the point where it was almost see-through. The wet cotton clung to his abdomen. She had to scrape the material off with her fingers, pressing them into a slab of corrugated muscle that made her temperature rise beyond acceptable core-activity levels.
“What does ‘uh-huh’ mean?” Mr. Smooth-as-Silk asked, still completely oblivious to the potentially intimate situation. He probably thought of her like the tailor who measured his inseam and asked if he dressed to the right or left.
But he had cupped her ass.
“It means that you’re one of those types,” she said. Scrub, scrub. Her knuckles rubbed his abs. “The ones who are just so, you know, sick of being catered to, kowtowed to and sucked up to. You want to be one of the guys. A regular Joe.” But not really. “And as for women—”
She stopped, reminding herself to breathe, then forgetting to as soon as Julian Silk looked down at her. His black-as-sin eyes gleamed. “Please continue. What about the women? They want me only for my money?”
“Hardly.” Mia gave one final swipe of the sponge. “They want you for your money, your social standing and your looks. Which means that, as the proverbial total package, you can’t pin down your dissatisfaction so easily. But you’re bored with high-maintenance socialites and ambitious starlets. You’re restless. You need more. Suddenly, you’re thinking it’s time to taste the earthy flavors of a working-class girl.”
Mia patted his abdominals regretfully. They were lovely.
He drew in a noticeable breath. “Hmm. Interesting analysis. Are you offering?”
“Not me. But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding willing prospects, Mr. Silk. Perhaps even in this room.” Mia turned away from his intent stare, more flustered than she wanted him to see. Cress was stirring a cup of the chocolate paint, watching her with more than idle curiosity.
Oh damn. She’d been a smart-ass. When would she learn to keep her head down and her mouth shut?
“Call me Julian.” He slipped his tie off his shoulder, sliding his hand along the silk length in a way that made her wonder what he’d be like in bed, running his hands over her thighs.
“Sure.”
“Or maybe not.” His tone was dry. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m too egalitarian.”
She shrugged, feeling the warm pink in her cheeks.
Julian gave her a long look, then turned and took several steps before stopping to glance back at her. He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. You’re fired.”
2
THE ROUND-BOTTOMED pixie’s mouth dropped open. Twin sparks appeared in her vivid peacock-blue eyes. Julian almost smiled. He’d shocked her, as intended.
“Unless you tell me your name,” he added. His palm went automatically to his wet shirtfront, as if that would quell the interesting sensations she’d set off inside him with her diligent scrubbing.
“Or I could just call you the laundry maid,” he said to provoke her further. There was a bit of the devil in him today—and she’d put it there. Before her, he’d been coasting on boredom, having everything in his empire but his crazy sisters under control.
With her tart tongue, quick mind and ripe figure, Mia Some Body was an intriguing prospect. Soon to be a satisfying conquest, when she’d received a full blast of his charm-her-pants-off charisma. He supposed that was conceited, but false modesty was a waste of time when the truth was that he hadn’t met a woman yet who could resist, as Mia had said, the full Julian Silk package.
Ahem. He’d better get his mind off full packages before his own became blatantly apparent.
“I’m no servant,” Mia said. She looked as if she might be grinding her teeth.
“Naturally. But I can hire and fire your delectable ass. You said so yourself.”
She blinked hard, widening her eyes to half-dollar size. “I don’t recall discussing delectable asses.”
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “An oversight on my part.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Do you see me laughing?”
Mia glanced at her cohort, the lithe young man she’d called Cress. He’d slid the sunglasses off his nose and was watching them with astonishment, the earpieces dangling down so the glasses hung under his chin like a chrome beard.
Mia motioned to the man. “Start packing up. Looks like the shoot is almost over.”
Julian cleared his throat.
“Right,” she said, in a way that meant “Oh yeah. You.” She tossed her head, regarding him with a smile gone smug. “Lucky for me, this job is over. I don’t have to take your orders, Mr. Silk.”
The little minx. “So you won’t tell me your name?”
She stepped behind the table and made herself busy, gathering a fistful of gloppy paintbrushes. He could tell the sudden activity was so she didn’t have to look at him, and that gave him some satisfaction. Not much, granted, but she was proving to be more of an elusive target than he’d expected.
“I’d be happy to,” she said. “If you ask nicely.”
“I was only teasing you about the firing thing. You’re not fired. In fact, I’m actually tremendously impressed by your work, Miss…” He gave her his warmest look, the one he used on orphans, harried secretaries and his sister Nikki when she broke up with another boyfriend.
“Kerrigan. Mia Kerrigan.”
“And please call me Julian.”
Her head tilted. “Not Mr. Silk?”
“No. Mr. Silk was my dad.”
“Was?” A frown flitted across her face.
“He died six years ago. A sudden heart attack. It was in the all the papers. I’ve been in charge of Silk Publications ever since.” Now why had he said all that? Mia had been right on the mark about Julian being sick of his reputation preceding him—even before Celebrity Gossip had made his exploits famous.
Was he trying to impress her? If so, bad try. She’d made it obvious that she wasn’t the kind of girl who’d be impressed by an inherited position and wealth, even if the family company had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy when he’d taken over and he’d saved his mother and sisters from having to downgrade to coach class.
“I don’t follow the society and financial sections,” Mia said. “But I am sorry for your loss.”
Her voice had softened. There was only sincerity behind it. Not a hint of the inner calculation over how much he was worth and whether she could snag him—reactions he’d come to recognize at fifty paces.
Julian gave his rolled-up sleeves a brisk shove. “Thanks.”
Mia’s eyes met his, and for a moment a warm current flowed between them, sweet and pure, unadulterated by her flip remarks and the surface charm of his initial attempts at seduction, which suddenly seemed rather puerile.
Petra clacked toward them. “Julian, you must join us. The shoot’s breaking up, and Victor and I are taking the Sugar High team out for drinks.”
“Not this time, Petra.” He didn’t want to take his eyes off Mia. Certainly not to schmooze a bunch of ad guys.
“Julian…” Petra’s dark red lips pooched out. She moved herself into his line of sight, cutting off Mia. “I know it’s a bore. But they have bought a six-page spread in the December issue, and Victor’s minions are working on a long-term contract for future ad campaigns…”
Yammer, yammer, yammer. Julian let Petra rattle on, but he wasn’t listening. He was watching Mia, who’d moved onto the set to lean over the model’s dais and begin removing the hard candies. The overalls pulled snugly across her derriere. Even in baggy denim, Mia Kerrigan was all T&A, as ready for plucking as a ripe plum. But she was no easy fruit who’d fall into his open arms after one shake. She was a lofty reward he’d really have to work for, tantalizingly out of reach until a final, supreme effort delivered her to his arms….
Making the first taste of her juicy flesh all the sweeter.
The model rose off her perch, full breasts swinging as she shimmied into the robe Cress held out for her. Julian barely registered the outstanding multicolored body that made the other spectators gape. There was a smattering of appreciative applause as she stepped off the set like a queen, Cress holding her hand aloft.
The pair disappeared behind a door in the darkened part of the vast studio. A murmur of satisfaction came from the suits, while the photographer and production team carried on without comment. For them, a gorgeous nude woman, even one tricked out like a gingerbread house, was business as usual.
For Mia Kerrigan, too.
Another good reason for Julian to explore her world. Thoroughly.
“Julian?” Petra faked a light laugh. “You’re not usually so distracted. I suppose I don’t have to ask why.”
He nodded. Let her think that. “This cover should fly off the stands.”
“It’s not exactly a new concept.” Petra’s sniping tone betrayed tendrils of jealousy, even though she was usually good at giving off the modern woman’s anything-goes, live-for-the-moment, no-commitment vibe. “Demi Moore did it on the cover of Vanity Fair ages ago.”
“We’re doing it better.” He paused. “Thanks to Mia Kerrigan. Where did you find her?”
“The artist? Oh, I don’t know. She was in someone’s Rolodex, I suppose. I think she’d done body painting for the ad campaign of a makeup company. Living Color.” Petra shrugged. “Her fee was outrageous.”
“She’s worth it.”
Petra’s eyes narrowed as she followed Julian’s gaze and realized that perhaps it wasn’t the model he was slavering over. “Oh really?”
“As art director, I’m surprised you don’t agree.”
“But I do. The cover will be…spectacular. I was only saying it’s not a new idea.”
“Hard Candy should do a body-painting feature. A fashion spread, all in paint. I can speak to the managing editor about it, if you’re not keen on the idea.”
Petra smiled. “No, no, I’d love to make the proposal. It’s a spectacular idea.”
“Spectacular,” Julian echoed, watching Mia walk to the back of the studio with her arms wrapped around a half dozen containers of edible paint.
