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“The crowds grow restless.” Petra touched his shoulder. “We really should go.”
“You should. I don’t have to.” Once more, Julian counted himself lucky to be the boss. Sometimes, the burden was worth it. “Though I will step over to make my apologies.”
As they walked toward the ad group, he touched Petra lightly on the arm, accustomed as he was to escorting the women of his family. Her face took on a glow that he could no longer attribute to the strobe lights. Those were being shut down one by one.
Apparently, Petra still carried a torch for him. Damn. So that’s why his father had always said not to dip his pen into company ink. Once again, the old man’s advice proved to be true.
Julian grimaced. A couple of years ago, after the Hard Candy launch party, he’d found himself alone in a chauffeured company car with Petra after they’d dropped off other members of the staff. She’d come on to him as if he’d been catnip, finishing up with an invitation to her place. He’d gone.
An obligatory dinner date had followed, then another night of Catwoman sex, then comments at the office about the scratches on his neck. Julian had realized the affair was getting complicated. Petra had surprised him by ending it before he did, parading a new model—an impossibly handsome twentysomething print model, in fact—past his office door.
Julian had been relieved to be replaced. Much later, he’d learned that he was supposed to have been jealous. Behind her mask of cool, Petra hadn’t forgiven him for that mistake.
“THE DOMINATRIX has her claws in him,” Cress said over the sound of rushing water.
“Quit looking.” Regretfully, Mia dumped liquid chocolate into the deep sink instead of sticking her face into the bucket like a horse at a trough. She was trying Atkins for the sixth time in an effort to take off her stubborn excess poundage. The water thinned the rich concoction and swirled it down the drain. “I don’t care what they’re doing.”
Cress ignored her. “Ouch. He tried to get away and she grabbed him by the buttons. Or maybe the nipples. Her hands are all over him—pretending she cares about his stained shirt. Aha. Now she’s pressing up against him, ‘helping’ with his suit coat—”
“Cress. I do not care.”
“She’s buttoning him up. Smoothing the coat over his shoulders. Clinging to his arm, doing the boob-press thing. Ooh, that bitch.”
“I’m not gonna look,” Mia said.
“They’re leaving.”
Mia counted to ten, then spun around. The studio had emptied—except for Julian. He was coming toward her.
“See ya,” Cress said. He scooped up his supply kit and stuffed a handful of the remaining candies into his jeans pocket. “I’m taking Angelika to lunch. She has a sweet tooth, and I have just the lollipop for her.”
Mia gave a vague wave. “Later.”
Doors opened and closed in other areas of the studio. The photographer and his black-clad assistants had retreated to the office area, somewhere behind the large, hanging screens of backdrop material. Mia heard them arguing over whose turn it was to order in Chinese. She got busy, packing up the remainder of her gear in the big industrial toolbox she used as an art caddy.
Julian stole a candy and unwrapped it with a crinkling sound. He popped it into his mouth. “Got plans for lunch?”
“I’m meeting Cress in ten minutes.”
“The bald guy?”
“He’s a photo stylist.”
“Whatever you say. He just left with the model.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re meeting up,” Mia insisted, even though he’d caught her in a lie. “In ten minutes.” She snatched up a small plastic cup of purple paint that had been overlooked. The crew at the photographer’s next shoot could graze on the remaining boxes of Sugar High candy.
She felt Julian’s eyes on her. It was hard to ignore the magnetic pull they seemed to generate.
He cleared his throat. “Would you cancel if I asked you to come with me instead?”
“No. I don’t do that to my friends.”
“You don’t like me,” he said with the supreme confidence of the adored.
“Oh gosh. What gave you that idea?” Mia angled her head to look up at him, intending to be skeptical.
Not easy. He stood at least a head—maybe a head and a neck—above her five-two. Health and vigor radiated off him. The conservative business suit couldn’t hide that his body was as lean and toned as an Olympic swimmer’s. She’d know that even if she hadn’t touched him through his shirt, or seen the shift of muscles when he’d tossed his jacket over his shoulder. She’d know even if she was locked in a sensory deprivation tank. His masculine aura was that strong.
Worse, he had the chiseled face of a Greek god…if Greek gods had been given hot-towel shaves and herbal facial wraps. Then there was the wealth, privilege and charm, not to mention the caustic humor that cut his arrogance to an acceptable level of confidence.
As far as she could see, the man didn’t have a flaw. Not one single flaw.
Very irritating.
Mia was both repelled and fascinated by the perfection. Julian was at the other end of the spectrum from her usual boho crowd of artists, writers and other creative types, most of whom struggled to make rent as they stayed true to their muses.
However, she despised superficial judgments. It seemed only fair that she give Julian a chance to prove that he was more than the sum of his glossy parts and lady-killer reputation.
Oh sure. That’s what Miss Hood had said before the Big Bad Wolf got his jaws around her.
Mia knew what she had to do. Put him back in his place and then keep away.
Julian shrugged. “What gave me that idea? Oh, I don’t know. Read any gossip columns lately?”
“Nope. I tear Page Six into strips for papier-mâché.”
“What a relief. It’s all true, but now we can skip the usual explanations and apologies.”
“All true?” Mia blurted.
Julian grinned. “I thought you weren’t familiar with my exploits. Most of them greatly exaggerated, if I may add.”
Ha! She could just imagine what didn’t make it into the papers. “I overhear things. You’re a player.”
“Assume what you will, little girl.”
Little girl? Was that a shot at her height? Maybe the cutesy features that she’d given up agonizing over? She might have been ticked if she wasn’t positive his eyes had twinkled when he’d said it. He was deliberately provoking her!
Into doing what?
Mia glanced down into the cup of grape paint. Her grip tightened when Julian leaned even closer. If he tried to kiss her, she’d throw the congealing contents in his face.
He dipped a finger into the cup. Tasted it. “Very sweet.”
“We thickened grape juice.” Or, actually, added dollops of juice and food coloring to a concoction of sugar and cornstarch. It probably didn’t taste very good at all.
Julian dipped again. “Have you tried it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His glistening finger touched her lips, drawing slowly across them. First the bottom, then the upper, leaving them coated with the sugary paint. A hundred sensations rushed through Mia’s body, surging upward to gather at her mouth. Her tingling lips swelled with anticipation.
Instinctively, her tongue darted out to lick away the thick grape coating. She made herself stop, her tongue curled against her upper lip before she reluctantly drew it back in. Sugar melted into her taste buds, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other flavors to come: the taste of hot, hard lips, warm male skin, pungent, salty, sweet…deliciously sexy.
“I want to taste,” Julian said.
Her voice whispered, barely audible. “You—you already did.”
His face was so close to hers she could have counted his nonexistent pores. His breath was warm and sweetened with the tang of peppermint. She knew that he would taste good, but not because of the candy.
Their noses bumped. “I want to taste you.”
She swallowed. “What makes you think I’ll taste any different than your thousand other conquests?”
“Every woman is unique.”
“But this one doesn’t want to be just another note in the Julian Silk hit parade.” And yet she didn’t pull away when his cheek grazed hers. His fingertips touched under her chin, tilting it up; instead of shaking him off, she felt her lips pout and her lids drift shut.
“No worry. You, Mia Kerrigan, are an entire song.”
Big whoop, she thought in some dim, lazy part of her brain, where there was still a sliver of rationality that wasn’t dying for his kiss. It was as if he were a spider who’d wrapped her in silken, sticky strands. She could not move. She was at his mercy. But lucky for her…
Julian kissed her.
Mercy.
The man really knew how to kiss. Of course he did. Practice makes perfect.
She couldn’t rouse much disgust for that, not when his lips were covering hers with a sure, steady pressure that was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and easy, and deep, sending urgent signals to her fuzzy brain about wrapping her arms around him and pushing her breasts into his chest.
She held the cup of paint to the side and slid her free hand around to his back. He’d gripped her by the waist and was bending her under the force of his kiss. She arched—terribly, wonderfully conscious of the ache in her breasts as they rubbed against the rough denim of her overalls…the melting sensation between her thighs…
The prodding of a growing hard-on.
Whoa. The man was a quick draw. With a hefty six-shooter, by the feel of it.
“Umm,” Mia said.
Julian took the opportunity to slip his velvet tongue into her mouth. Grape and peppermint. Sugar and spice. Seduction and delusion.
“That’s enough.”
He lifted his head and said, “You’re wrong.” His lips were stained purple from hers. “It’s not enough.” With a wicked quirk of one black eyebrow, he reached for her again.
She plastered a hand to his chest and pushed. “Listen to me. I said no.”
He took his hands off her, straightening up. His eyes were dark and questioning, his hair ruffled, his tie a little askew. Impossibly attractive.
She quivered with frustration. Every inch of her skin was at war with her brain, the nerve endings screaming for appeasement. While she was attuned to her sexuality and usually listened to her body’s needs when a walking advertisement for sex appeal strolled into her life, this was one time where she intended to lead with her head to protect her heart. Given his reputation, Julian Silk was a pleasure she’d have to deny herself.
And she needed to do so in a way that his overblown ego really understood, so that there’d be no teasing, chasing or seducing in their future.
None? A pang of longing ran through Mia like a strummed guitar.
“You didn’t like the kiss?” Julian said, still cocky.
“The kiss was okay.”
“Just okay?”
She shrugged. “If I had to rate it…” That gave her an idea. Oh, she was mean. But it was a perfect pinprick of an idea, sure to let the air out of his balloon.
She thrust a couple of fingers into the cup of paint and swirled them through the purple goo. He smiled when she reached toward his face, as if he expected a reenactment of his smooth move and silken lines. He didn’t even seem to notice when purple drips splattered his tie.
She bypassed his mouth and started finger painting his forehead.
“Hey!” He pulled back. Her fingertips skidded.
“Hold still.”
He gripped her wrist. “What are you doing?”
She continued to stroke the paint over his skin, finishing quickly. “Settling your score.”
“What does that mean?” He let go of her and put a hand up to his brow.
“No, don’t smear it. Go and look in the mirror.”
Frowning quizzically, Julian brushed aside the backdrop screens and went to stand before a wall-hung mirror. He put his hands at his belt and stared at the numbers she’d painted on his brow. “Seventeen?” His eyes glinted. “That’s on a scale of one to ten, I take it?”
“Not exactly.” She pursed her lips, trying to keep from laughing. “You don’t recognize your own number?”
“I wore number twenty when I played soccer in school.”
“Your bachelor number,” she said.
He grew more quiet and less cocky. “Ah.”
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped off her fingers, the stickiness shredding the fine paper. “See, it’s like this. Maybe if you were number one, or at least in the top five…but seventeen? A girl’s got to set her standards higher than Bachelor Seventeen. I’m sure you understand.”
When he didn’t respond, she wadded the tissue in a tight fist. Maybe she’d been a little hard on him.
Julian turned to look at her with a bemused expression. “What did you do, memorize CG’s entire list of bachelors?”
Mia hesitated. Great. Now he’d think she was a gold digger. “I told you, I hear things.”
That was true, sort of. One of the art models she often hired for body-painting experiments had come in a while back with the bachelor issue of Celebrity Gossip, joking that her accounts were overdrawn and she needed to snare a rich husband. While Mia had painted the model’s skin, they’d flipped through the pages and laughed at the poses of the self-consciously sexy bachelors. There had been several pro athletes displaying their rippling muscles, an indistinguishable clump of Wall Street millionaires, one blue-collar guy for show, a couple of artists and a slew of actors—one of whom the model swore was as fruity as his Hanes briefs.
And then there was Julian. Number Seventeen. CEO of Silk Publications Ltd. and the brilliant mind behind the swift rise of Hard Candy, the glossy lifestyle magazine with a guy-power attitude. Since its inception, Hard Candy had stormed both the newsstands and pop culture trends with its cheeky articles about sex, sports, careers and entertainment, and even cheekier layouts of barely dressed pretty young Miss Thangs.
