by Carla Angela
Finally, Lake shook her head, wiping her hands on her black jeans absentmindedly. ‘All good. I just have one more to hang up, and then I’m done. I’ll be out of your hair!’
‘Not a problem at all. Anyway, you know where to find me if you do wind up needing a hand! And, of course, good luck with the exhibition tomorrow. Or perhaps “break a leg”?’
‘Gosh, I hope not,’ Lake said, mock-grimacing. ‘Ha. But yes, thank you. Fingers crossed it all goes well.’
The young man disappeared again, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the aluminum spiral staircase. Being such a perfectionist, Lake was quite happy to do her own picture hanging, but she was grateful for the help offered nonetheless. And she realized she’d been too lost in her own world to even be slightly embarrassed by all the photos of her nude in front of the young man. Tomorrow night would be more of a test, though. She was hopeful people would see through any titillation to the art itself, to the photography she was proud of.
She turned back in the direction of the little raised stage area where there were draped silky, midnight-blue curtains and a dark wooden double lectern, where the pièce de résistance would hang above, suspended from a picture rail—a massive shot of her sitting cross-legged, her nipples standing to attention, and a bouquet of dark roses in her hands, strategically covering her nether region. The faceless figure looked vulnerable. Open. Ready to love again. Lake only hoped the gallery visitors would get it.
She reached for the metal ladder and tucked it under her arm, carrying it to the tiny stage area. Then she grabbed for the massive framed photo—the pièce de résistance—resting against the bottom of the wall to her right, biting her lip as she viewed it one more time before hoisting it up the ladder with her under her arm.
Resting the picture on top of the ladder, she slid its silver molding hooks over the picture rail so that it hung against the silky curtain backdrop.Then she took a few tentative steps down the ladder to view it from another angle. Adjusting the way the picture hung a few more times, she made her way down the ladder again for the last time and stood back, her hands clasped in front of her. She was done. Finally. Well, until that night.
Suddenly, as though all the naked images were crowding in on her, a tingling sensation swept through her, like an electrical current, crackling from the russet hair on her head to the groomed triangle down south. An image had just flashed through her mind from out of nowhere. A filthy one. Involving Hunter, of course.
She’d imagined their stark-naked bodies, slick with sweat, entwined behind the dark wooden double lectern so that their feet were just poking out. She imagined the roundness of her lily-white breasts pressed against his hard, tanned chest and his tongue sweeping over her face, licking her cheeks and trailing down to the perfumed nape of her neck, as though she were scrumptious enough to eat.
All the while he was driving into her with his solid shaft, with a firm self-assuredness, driving her to the brink of insanity, to delicious, mind-blowing exhilaration, as though it was all in the world he needed to do.
Lake could feel herself growing clammy under her arms and her breath coming out in short, ragged puffs again, just like when she was running, and in the bath. She felt like she had an endless pit of sexual heat ever since Hunter had strolled into her life all hobo-like. She’d never felt like that before, not even with Chase.
A door slammed down below, on the lower level, and it jolted Lake back to the present. The cold, lonely reality. She shook herself.
She had to stop. She had to get a grip. Hunter was about to enter the online dating world with vigour—if he hadn’t already updated his cyber profile, which she hadn’t dared check—and would no doubt soon have a bevy of beauties to choose from.
He was just a client of hers. Nothing more, nothing less. A good, quick-paying one who she would likely never see again. She had to drop it and just concentrate on her work. It was for the best. Relationships—sexual dalliances—weren’t her bag. Especially with clients.
Lake let the thought temper the flush in her cheeks as she swiped at her tan handbag, threw it over one shoulder, and made for the door, flicking out the lights—on the gallery space as well as any wild, wanton fantasies she might be having. They were pointless, after all.
Chapter Six
His eyes raked the street from behind the picture-framing shop’s one-way mirror. People with unfamiliar faces wandered past, shuffling to and from their appointments.
He felt like a pyromaniac, drawn back to the scene of a self-lit fire. In this case though, there was just one spark he was waiting for. One with russet-red hair, a lithe body, and a hungry passion in her eyes.
He rustled with paperwork distractedly from his seat, attempting to look busy as his staff worked away behind him. When he glanced up again, the smell of glue and the blend of drilling, sanding and chatter immediately faded away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw it. A flash of ginger hair and pale skin. Her. As expected.
Hunter felt a throbbing in his left ribcage area—and the front of his trousers—drunk at the very sight of her. It took all of his willpower not to leap out of his chair, pelt across the road, scoop up her petite frame in his arms and kiss those cherry-sweet lips.
He had to play it cool. A woman like her needed time. To trust again. To love again. And he’d be there, ready and waiting, when she was.
* * * *
‘So, all sorted?’ Fenella asked, an arched eyebrow, intended for Lake, disappearing under her chunky blonde fringe. Fenella held out a caramel-coloured macaron on a white china plate in Lake’s direction.
Lake snatched at the sweet treat eagerly. Late afternoon was always quieter in the café, so the pair was freer to chat. There was a group of mums with toddlers at one corner table and a businessman on his laptop at another, but that was it.
Lake crunched into the macaron, tasting peanut butter. Mmmm. ‘Yes, all of the photos have been hung up, and I’m happy with how it all looks. So now it’s just, you know, sit and wait until tonight, which you know I’m terrible at doing. I mean, what if the critics say my vision is terrible?’
‘Oh, they will not,’ Fenella scoffed, helping herself to a pale-pink macaron from the glass counter display. ‘You’re a beautiful photographer. And you have such a creative eye. They’ll be lined up for a piece of your work, you’ll see. I bet you’ll be such a success you’ll even have to quit this place. Sob!’
Lake rolled her eyes at Fenella. ‘I highly doubt it. I don’t think you’ll be needing to advertise my job anytime soon—not at all.’
‘At any rate, you’ll be handing out plenty of business cards. Oh, how do the new ones look, by the way?’
Lake clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Shoot! Oh, my God. I totally forgot to pick them up. I just knew there’d be something I’d forget. Darn it!’
Abandoning her half-eaten macaron, Lake suddenly thrust a handbag strap over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to have to love you and leave you. The graphic design studio will be shut soon, and I walked here this morning, so I’m going to have to race home to get my car!’
Fenella shooed her away. ‘Go, go! I’ll see you tonight. No problems. I can look after this place.’
Turning sharply, Lake suddenly ran square into something hard, muscular—and searing hot. Lake looked up and into liquid blue eyes, feeling as though she was drowning in their very depths.
She hadn’t even noticed the bell above the shop door jangle.
‘Hunter,’ she barely breathed. ‘What are you doing here?’ She had never seen him at the café before, though he’d obviously dropped by at least once, because he’d spied her sign about professional photos for internet dating.
A slow smile stretched across his tanned face. ‘I was just in the area. Saw the café sign and thought I’d drop in for something sweet.’ Sweet. Why did he look at her as though the word was actually intended for her? Lake shook herself. It was her delirium. She was imagining things. ‘I didn’t expect you to actuall
y be here. I thought you’d be getting ready for your exhibition.’ Hunter’s eyes crinkled at the corners teasingly.
‘Well, everything’s pretty much done now…’ Lake turned back, remembering her best friend. ‘Ah, Hunter, this is Fenella. We run the photography café together. You spoke to her on the phone yesterday.’
Hunter gazed over at Fenella and in one lengthy stride was in front of her, stretching out his hand in her direction. Her tiny hand seemed to be swallowed up by his big paw.
‘Pleased to meet you. You look kind of familiar actually,’ Fenella said. She nodded between him and Lake, her eyes gleaming mischievously. ‘How do you two know each other?’
‘I’m a client of Lake’s. She did some photos for me this week.’
‘Uh-huh, right,’ Fenella said, nodding, her eyes still twinkling.
Lake mentally rolled her eyes. Typical Fenella, putting two and two together and coming up with one. She was the real Cupid around here, not Lake with her online venture. Lake turned back to Hunter, ignoring Fenella’s sudden enthusiasm. ‘Well, anyway, I highly recommend the chocolate fudge. In fact, have some on the house! But I actually have to run. I’ve got to pick up some business cards, which I totally forgot about, and I’m kind of running out of time.’
‘Oh…need a lift?’ Hunter said it with a casualness, as easily as a shirt on a clothesline lifting in the breeze. But it sent Lake off kilter, like someone had kicked her hard in the back of her knees. Just the thought of sitting next to him in a moving vehicle, being mere inches from him, alone, turned her insides to soup. ‘I’ve got a bit of spare time up my sleeve now.’
‘Oh, that’s okay, I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to put you out—’ Lake began.
But Fenella jumped in, sly as a fox. ‘Don’t be silly. Take the lift! You’ll never make it there and back in time if you have to grab your car in between. And you’d be a sweaty mess anyway, if you did.’
Lake didn’t need a little pavement pounding to turn her into a sweaty mess. That much was already accomplished. But Fenella was right. Riding with Hunter was the sensible thing to do. Riding with him…good grief!
Fenella quickly packaged up a generous-size slice of fudge in a white paper bag for Hunter ‘for the road.’ Then he assessed Lake again with those gorgeous eyes, saying smoothly, ‘Let’s go. Follow me.’
Hunter didn’t need to ask again. Lake immediately trotted behind his hulking frame like he was the Pied Piper with a magic pipe. Or at least something pipe-like. Her body was powerless to do anything else, her eyes glued to the movement of his muscles under the back of his navy tee and the sway of his tight buns in those faded denim jeans.
Once outside, a gust of fresh air cooled Lake’s face—thankfully. Several feet away, Hunter paused near a car parked on the side of the road.
A rust bucket. A red-orange coating, matching the colour of Lake’s hair, decorated its trim. The sagging tyres looked like they’d only last a few more blocks.
Hunter turned back, his cheeks colouring slightly. ‘Ah, sorry about my ride. I wasn’t actually expecting to have a passenger.’
Lake was quick to hide her shock. ‘Oh, it’s fine. It’s got wheels, hasn’t it? I reckon it’s got real character, yes.’ Then she reached out to touch the rust bucket’s door handle. At the movement, the handle suddenly fell, swinging against the metal, attached by just one bolt now. Lake gasped. ‘Shoot! I’m so sorry.’
Instead of frowning, though, Hunter’s face immediately lit up. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. That delicious, throaty sound. ‘You thought… you thought…’ Hunter, bent at the waist, could barely get the words out.
Lake put her hands on her hips defensively. ‘What’s so funny?’
Composing himself, Hunter straightened up, rearranging his features. ‘Ah, that isn’t my car.’ Biting his lip, he walked a few steps forward. ‘Um, this is actually mine.’
Lake followed after him, peering behind the bulky rust bucket to where a gleaming red sports car was parked innocently behind it on the roadside—a Ferrari, no less.
Hunter rested a hand on its polished bonnet. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of show pony is all.’ He shrugged. ‘But, you know, to me, this is art. The sleek lines, the design. Not your kind of art, granted, but still art.’
Feeling a tad humiliated at her mistake, Lake muttered, ‘Like I said, so long as it’s got wheels.’ Then she ran over to the other side of the shiny car, grabbed at the door handle—pleased this time it didn’t fall sideways at her touch—and plucked it open. She then slid into its tan seat, breathing in the heady scent of leather mingling with Hunter’s own lingering woody aroma.
Hunter jumped in beside her, the engine soon roaring to life like a lion of the jungle awakening. Lake told him the intended address and then sat back as Hunter zipped the sportscar through the traffic. Lake felt pinned to her seat in the vehicle, as though she were hurtling along a race track, even though they were actually doing the speed limit. There was an insistent throbbing between her legs, which wasn’t altogether to do with the vibration coming from the motor.
They continued to wind through the streets, with Lake clinging to the sides of her seat—more to do with stopping herself from throwing herself at Hunter than any real fear. Then the car slid to a stop at a red light.
Wanting to break the silence now that the engine had quietened, Lake turned to look at Hunter. ‘So tell me, where did your love of art—painting—come from?’
Hunter’s gaze slid in her direction, his piercing blue eyes seeming to have a magnetic pull on her own. She was unable to break his gaze. He licked his lips. That tongue. Wet, pink, thick… Hunter turned to look back at the road again, allowing Lake to shake herself dazedly—and get a grip. ‘My dad really. He got me interested in it.’
‘Oh?’
The traffic light changed to emerald again, and Hunter revved the engine, the Ferrari roaring back to life.
Hunter spoke over the engine, his eyes still on the road. ‘Yeah, he was a painter. A brilliant painter, actually. Not that the art world discovered that until after his death.’ Hunter’s free hand suddenly banged hard on the steering wheel, his face twisting as though he’d just tasted something bitter. ‘He died a poor artist while some art dealers have since made millions from his work.’
‘Gosh, that’s terrible,’ Lake commiserated. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that that’d be her luck too. Unlucky in love—and career. Someone else eventually profiting from her photo art. Just like some other woman would be the one to gain from her more professional marketing of Hunter…
Hunter continued, ‘Dad was always trying to get me interested in art, you know, but I wouldn’t have a bar of it. It wasn’t until after he died that I really appreciated his talent. His passion.’ Hunter glanced over at Lake, his pupils opaque. ‘Whenever I see that kind of fire in someone else, it reminds me of my dad. And I’m really getting involved in the art stuff, too. Even if I’m not so good at it, I can appreciate others’ talent. I can give back, you know?’
Lake nodded, breathless.
The car jolted to a stop, throwing Lake forward.
Hunter nodded his head at an office building to their right. ‘Your stop.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lake said, fumbling with her seatbelt. It had certainly been an exhilarating ride. And she had totally forgotten her reason for coming.
Unfortunately, the rest of the trip went by in a whir, from picking up the business cards to heading back home in Hunter’s sleek, bloodred sports car.
Parked outside her front gate, the pair both sat in the car silently for a moment before Lake moved to go. It was so quiet Lake could hear her own heart beating. Like a drum.
Then Hunter suddenly looked at Lake with those aquamarine eyes, leaning toward her, inching ever closer. She drank in the blended aroma of chocolate fudge and cologne, like it was vital oxygen. Every part of her throbbed, her lips puckered.
She imagined him plunging his lips onto hers and t
hen freeing her from her seatbelt and sliding her onto his lap, so that her chest jutted onto his, his hardness sliding into her wet heat, their bodies moving up and down, up and down…
Just as quickly though, Hunter’s hand came into view, flicking her lock free. Oh, that was it. Darn it.
‘Good luck with the exhibition launch,’ he said, looking deeply into her eyes. A little too deeply so that Lake felt pinned under his gaze like an insect on display.
‘Ah, thanks,’ Lake said, feeling intoxicated. Then, snapping to attention, she suddenly unbuckled her seatbelt, slid from the leather seat, and tugged the door open, falling out onto the sidewalk and into the cool air.
Hunter gave her one final penetrating glance before revving the Ferrari and roaring down the street, the car turning into a red dot on the horizon, leaving Lake trembling and alone.
Chapter Seven
Lake assessed her reflection critically in her bedroom mirror, her ginger cat brushing past her legs.
‘How do I look, Cupcakes?’ she asked, turning to hold out the knee-length, chiffon skirt part of her frock. The top section had fabric roses that trailed down from the thin straps, crisscrossing over her chest and down over her bare back. It was vastly different to the type of clothing she wore to the photography café or in the darkroom. Fenella had helped her pick it out. She said she needed to play up her role of the star of the night—the star artiste.
It was definitely a much more feminine look than she was used to—pretty even—and decidedly less comfortable. Lake poked her feet out from under her frock, clad in red, satin heels, wondering how she was going to last the night in them. She’d even painted her toe nails fire-engine red, though she usually preferred to keep her nails bare. Finally, she looked back at Cupcakes.
The long-haired cat appeared to give her the once-over and then wandered over to a corner of the room and took a seat, closing his eyes. Perhaps he was just mad he wasn’t going to be accompanying her on her night of nights. That or he was just a sucker for the heater at the far end of the room.