Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  She jumps to her feet. “Yes. Yes, I’m coming.”

  That’s right, she’ll be coming.

  Very soon.

  New York is looking brighter and brighter, and the reason is rushing behind me with shock still written all over her sunshine face.

  Fuck me.

  STRIKE A POSE

  The German-born, New York-based photographer stayed. Of course he did. I mean, who would pass up the chance to work on the maiden edition of Bombshell?

  Not me.

  Then again, you already know that.

  After taking a test shot, Marc Fisher turns to me. “I always research my subjects beforehand and try to get a sense of what they are like in order to make the photo come to life.”

  Craning my head, I glance down into his viewfinder except I see nothing but white space. He specializes in whimsical portraits that I’m told manage to put a fresh spin on everything he snaps. “Oh, really, and what struck you about Mr. Montgomery?”

  He turns a dial on the top of his Nikon. “Mr. Montgomery,” he says, glancing toward me with a strange twinkle in his eyes, “is lighthearted and more playful than is typical for a man in the fashion industry. And I want to capture that quality about him.”

  Playful?

  Is he serious?

  Max Montgomery is anything but playful. Sensual. Alluring. Dashing. Arrogant. Cocky. All perfectly good words to describe him.

  Playful, not so much.

  However, since I am the newest one at the magazine and just kissed the man at the helm, I keep my mouth shut and go with it. “Tell me, how do you plan to do that?” I ask, stretching.

  We are all waiting for the boss man to emerge from hair and makeup, which he refused at first. Then after a little prodding from the editor, Julia Helmsley, he begrudgingly agreed to at least allow someone to style his mussed-up ginger locks, which were windblown from the rain.

  Julia is a woman in her late fifties, sophisticated with high apple cheekbones, dark hair, a stern disposition, and a very intimidating personality. Scarlett reports to her, well reported, I guess. Now I do.

  If you ask me, his hair looked sexy that way. Julia, on the other hand, didn’t agree—she wants more GQ, less rogue.

  Rogue equals yummy in my book. Anyway, it isn’t my call. On this shoot, everything has already been pre-selected from top to bottom. Today, I’m just here to watch and learn and do the running for whatever is needed.

  Not that it matters—because I’m the new Creative Director.

  I still can’t get over that.

  Marc fidgets with the lens of his camera and smiles. “Now that I’ve met him, I want to do something more spontaneous than I’d planned.”

  My brows kiss my forehead. “Really? For the cover?”

  He nods. “Yes, I want to get away from the traditional setup Scarlett had arranged, but still make it appropriate for a style magazine of this caliber.”

  “I think that could be intriguing.”

  “I’m going for inviting,” he tells me. “I don’t want Mr. Montgomery to appear stiff like most men in his position do.”

  Yes, well-dressed, wealthy bosses are typically stiffs, that’s for sure. I might have already mentioned that. Declaring them as boring egomaniacs with cocky attitudes might be stereotypical but mostly always true.

  The jury is out on this man, though.

  I can’t seem to get a handle on him.

  Flirtatious yet stern.

  Cocky but amusing.

  And hot as hell, especially in his boxers.

  Recalling my embarrassment from that earlier incident, I manage a, “Hmm…spontaneous,” then glance around the sterile environment. The studio seems anything but a place to be off cuff. At least it’s much calmer in here than it was earlier. Perhaps it’s the absence of Scarlett and Kendra.

  Oh, I didn’t say that.

  “Yes,” he responds. “The idea for the cover photo just hasn’t come to me quite yet but it will.”

  Cover design rules are pretty straight forward. It has to be designed to be attractive since it is the first contact the reader will have with Bombshell.

  Every fashion magazine cover contains a background picture—the portrait of a fashion icon, a model, or a celebrity. In our case, it’s the owner of the publication.

  Mr. Max Montgomery.

  I really wish I would have Googled him before leaving this morning. It would have helped me. That’s certain.

  Anyway, his picture must accompany important information, which has to appear on the cover in the masthead, where it is the most visible.

  Him though, he might outshine the text that appears on the cover, but still, his picture will be catchy. Very catchy.

  Hot.

  A man in a hot suit.

  A hot man.

  “I want to play with different photography techniques. Something that will make the audience curious and interested in more,” Marc says.

  Curious.

  Interested.

  Yes, great traits for a cover.

  The mess that is still on the refreshments table gives me an idea. “What if we throw a pretend party?” I suggest.

  His head cocks to the side and his brows furrow. “A party?”

  “Yes, something like a bon voyage but on land. You know, a non-traditional party to celebrate the launch issue. Traditional things like balloons, confetti, with style items like shoes, ties, and scarfs,” I suggest.

  A finger goes over his lips in thought. “Go on. I love where you’re going with this.”

  “We’ll surround the boss with style and he’ll be style.”

  “You’re brilliant, Gigi,” Marc compliments. “It’s perfect. I’ll order some balloons and confetti, while you collect the editorial items.”

  Making my way to the sample closet, I find all the items designers have sent for us to possibly, well actually, hopefully, include in this month’s edition. Most of the colors are orange and yellow, and that worries me. Mr. Montgomery’s ginger locks will blend way too much with that palette.

  Taking my time, I browse the items and select a few pieces I think we can work with.

  Then getting right to it, I lug them into the studio and make a mess of them all. Tossing scarfs and hats and necklaces and ties and boxers in a haphazard mess near the window, I take my time coming up with a plan. Once derived, I drop to the ground to place the pieces in a more organized fashion.

  That calm I spoke of earlier ceases to exist the minute the boss walks in the room. Everyone looks at him and I swear sparks fly around him like little blinking hearts.

  All the women are drooling.

  Then again, he is drool-worthy. The smooth lines of his tailored suit fit his body to perfection. Tall, at least two, if not three inches over six feet, he’s broad-shouldered and visibly fit.

  He is definitely cover model material.

  I glance around and then look back over toward my new boss. To his strong profile, his sharp cheekbones, his perfect nose, his icy eyes, which are assessing me on my hands and knees.

  I can practically see the dirty thoughts going through his mind.

  With slow, controlled steps, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s peering down at me. “What exactly are you doing?” His slight accent is so damn sexy it makes my heartbeat quicken, and my lips have to part to accommodate my faster breaths.

  Getting up on my knees, I start to tell him about the plan, but notice the position I’m in and the view of his manhood I have, his rather large manhood, and I stutter a bit. “I’m…I’m…setting up for the shoot.”

  He holds out his hand to me, exposing sapphire cufflinks and a large white-gold Mariner Rolex watch. With a shaky intake of breath, I place my fingers in his large palm and allow him to pull me to my feet.

  His touch is electric, sending a tingle up my arm that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Like the most romantic meet-cute in a movie, my palms land on his muscular chest and his are still holding my hands.
Our bodies accidentally press together from the force of his strong grip. Like this, neither of us steps back for one, two, three seconds.

  My pulse leaps at his closeness because he is all male. Square lean jaw, eyebrows that are two ginger slashes above thick-lashed eyes, the color of Jupiter or maybe Mars.

  No, Venus.

  Stepping back, he points to a silky maroon-colored negligée and its matching thong on the ground with an arched brow. “Is that yours?” His voice is both rough and smooth, with a rasp of amusement that makes my stomach flutter.

  Keeping my voice even is a challenge. “No, it’s part of the start-of-fall editorial, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “I don’t recall seeing that in the layout,” he informs me.

  “No, it wasn’t. I hope you don’t mind but I thought we needed a little more color. I saw it in the pile of items received but not selected and thought the color was perfect for the season.”

  “I agree. Good eye. And Max is fine.” He smiles, confident, cocky, all large and in charge. “And after the shoot, you should keep it. The color suits you.”

  Yes, I’m sure it suits the blush creeping up my neck. While he’s all Mr. Cool, I’m all small and flustered when I speak. “Max,” I manage.

  His sensual mouth forms a thin line. “But why are the pieces on the floor like paper doll components?”

  “Oh, Marc wants to capture your free spirit, so we’re using this month’s features like pieces of confetti.”

  Those sexy brows rise. “My what?”

  Just then Marc comes through the door with a handful of oddly shaped balloons with little helium. They are long and oblong, more like the type used to make toy animals.

  “I’m back,” he says, approaching us and handing one of the balloons to Max. “Are we finally ready to start?”

  The expression on Max’s face could sell sex. “We are. But what do you want me to do with this? Stick it between my legs?”

  Marc seems to be considering this. “Hmmm…Not a bad idea.”

  Max is shaking his head. “I was joking. Seriously, where do you want me? Let’s get this over with.”

  “Over with? Art doesn’t work that way.”

  “I have no idea why I agreed to this, so yes, let’s get started and finished as quickly as possible.”

  “Okay, then, how about you stand near the window in front of the layout Gigi has placed on the floor.”

  Layout.

  Okay.

  Yes, I suppose that’s precisely what it is.

  “Here, Gig, take these and stand just to the right of the window. I must work my magic quickly.” After handing me a box of colorful confetti and shoving the limp balloons at me, Marc rushes to his camera.

  Holding the party goods, I do as instructed. Like this I feel like a little kid waiting to go to a party.

  Despite the bad weather, there’s a bit of sunlight peeking through the clouds and streaming in the window. It reflects the golden strands in his hair as he stands with one hand in his pocket impatiently waiting.

  “It’s party time,” Marc tells me.

  One by one, I let the balloons go and toss the confetti in the air at the same time. See, I can do two things at once.

  The studio is quiet. Everyone is watching. Waiting. Wondering how our first cover is going to come to life with the owner of the magazine.

  Marc snaps. Stops. Sighs. Looks around. “It’s not right.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, letting the last balloon go.

  “It’s too, vanilla. We need to sex it up. Sex is what sells fashion.”

  “You said whimsical,” I remind him.

  He twists his mouth. “Yes, and now we need to sex it up.”

  Max rolls his eyes.

  Then I recall Max’s shirt from earlier and know just what to do. “Hang on,” I tell them both, rushing for the kit near the makeup table and grabbing a dark red tube of lipstick. Opening it, I wince at how dark it is. Almost maroon, which I guess is good. It will match the negligée and compliment the fall theme.

  Running the stick around my mouth as I walk, I approach Max just as I’m puckering my lips. Our gazes lock and my pulse is racing. For a moment I forget everything and stay lost in his beautiful eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he breathes, his gaze flickering to my dark lips.

  And the sound of his husky voice has me quickly recalling why I’m so close and what I’m supposed to be doing—kissing him.

  Yes, I’m going to kiss him right here in front of everyone. “Stand still,” I tell him, getting on my toes and leaning forward.

  He smirks. “This really isn’t the time.”

  Close.

  Closer still.

  Suddenly I’m overwhelmingly, deliciously surrounded by him. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The fact that I’m a flustered panicked mess doesn’t mean I’m not a professional.

  “Just keep quiet.” I stare up at him, feeling my palms turn clammy as my heart rate increases, and like a hot mess, I just go for it. I kiss him—on the collar—and then pull back to admire my work.

  A bright maroon lip mark on his collar.

  A perfect kiss.

  Max dips his head, his blue eyes liquid with a heat I feel between my legs. “You missed the target.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Good, that’s very good,” Marc calls out. “Now, move away Gigi.”

  Reluctantly, I step back, back, and further back. The whole time my eyes are on Max, watching, my cheeks burning under the heat of his gaze. I shiver as his eyes rake over me, wanton, lustful, dark and dirty.

  When I’m out of picture-taking range, I turn around and stand near Marc’s camera and laptop. The lighting crew is all set up and waiting, and I’m still shaking from a kiss that wasn’t even a real kiss.

  “Cue his music selection,” Marc orders, and then, all of a sudden, the Cure’s “Lovesong” starts to play overhead.

  The Cure.

  Interesting choice.

  Does he want to be alone with someone? I can’t help but wonder where home is for him. But I can’t dwell on the question because Marc takes over. “Look at me,” he commands.

  His voice is surprisingly strong and stern as he directs Max. Telling him to spread his legs, take a stance, put his hands in his pockets, give him a brooding look, move a little to the left, loosen his tie.

  The brooding part, Max has down.

  The rest only seems to annoy him.

  The song changes to U2’s, “Beautiful Day,” and Bono’s voice speaks of blue eyes.

  His eyes.

  Another really good music choice.

  The shoot is well underway. I watch the pictures fly across the computer screen. Pictures of Max, my boss. My hot-blooded boss moving to Marc’s direction. Turning his head and moving that incredible body of his, this way and that. Smiling, smirking, brooding, anyway he looks, he’s smoking hot. Creating what is certain to be the best fashion magazine cover of all time.

  I might be a bit biased.

  “Congratulations on the promotion.” Julia is standing beside me with one hand propped under her chin and the other around her waist with a rather large vanilla folder in it. She’s watching the model with the same fascination I am.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “I think you’re going to do wonderfully, and I for one, am happy a change was made early on. Things just weren’t working.”

  A blush crawls up my cheeks. “Again, thank you,” I tell her.

  She indicates to Max with her chin. “He’s really good at this.”

  “He is,” I concur.

  “I definitely haven’t seen a smile like that on his face before. I think it could be because of you,” she comments, offering me that folder in her hand.

  Uncertain if she means in an official working capacity, and well aware of the rules, I downplay the remark as I accept the folder. “Personally, I think he’s just happy to almost be done.”

  We look at eac
h other, laughter we can’t quite hold down bubbling up between us. “And there’s that,” she admits, and then points to the folder she handed me moments ago. “But having the cover artwork is only the beginning. We have a lot of work ahead of us to prepare for the first few issues, and don’t forget Fashion Week in Paris is not that far off, so time is even shorter.”

  Fashion Week.

  In Paris.

  I’ve died and gone straight to heaven.

  Like seriously, I’m fainting right now.

  Gripping the folder tight, I’ve never felt happier in my life to be buried with work. Not only will it keep me busy, it will also keep my mind off my boss and all his naughty parts.

  When my gaze wanders to said boss and I catch him practically making love to the camera, I inwardly sigh.

  He is temptation.

  Trouble.

  Sin.

  And so against the rules. His rules.

  Seriously, he’s too good looking for his own good and I can’t take my eyes off him.

  Despite the weather outside…it really is a beautiful day.

  IT’S ONLY RAIN

  While riding the elevator alongside a number of other Bombshell employees, all anxious to get home and start their Saturday night, I start to compose a mental checklist of what I need to do Monday morning.

  Since my Saturday night plans consist of canceling my credit cards, scrounging up enough loose change to order dinner in, a glass of wine, and then maybe a bubble bath if I thaw out first, I might as well also work. Mentally, anyway.

  Let’s see, with the cover shoot complete, the fashion feature items need to be selected, so they can be photographed and written about. That right there is where the real work begins. First, I need to review recent trends through Internet research and then rummage through the hundreds of new collections on file to prepare options for Julia that are on trend, while also remembering to use the pieces already incorporated into today’s shoot.

  It sounds like fun, but I know I have my work cut out for me.

  Back in the lobby of Hearst Tower, I take the time to admire the waterfalls and sheer vastness of the place that I didn’t have time for when I first arrived.

  Meandering toward the door, I notice the rain has kicked back up, which is not good because it looks like without my wallet or metro card, I’ll be walking more than fifty blocks home, and in these shoes. My poor feet.