It was a price tag. It was the value he’d placed on their friendship. It was the cost both of them would end up paying before this day was through.
She frowned. Actually, this was only the fourth item on the list. The payments were just beginning.
“It’s not nice to frown at a man getting permanently inked,” Ben said. “It makes me think she slipped or something.”
“I don’t slip,” Dee said, glancing up. “This here is a masterpiece.”
“Is that true, Livvie? Am I a work of art?”
He was a piece of work, that was for sure. “I doubt they’re going to open a museum exhibit in your honor, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I think we both know that’s not what I’m asking.”
She almost yanked her hand away in haste, unable to stand the way his voice dropped to an intimate rumble. Despite all his promises that they could go back to normal after this, that their friendship could someday resume its normal pattern, she recognized those promises as the impossibility they were. Because she did know what he was asking.
That was the problem with becoming romantically entangled with someone you understood from the inside out, who meant more to you than yourself. It was why she stuck to relationships with men built on temporary desire and nothing more. She could ignore the low-toned compliments of a virtual stranger, put a one-night stand in his place by refusing to see him again. But she couldn’t just close her eyes and pretend not to notice when Ben’s eyes darkened or his hand lingered too long against hers.
She could never not notice those things again. Not if they were directed at her, and not when they were directed at the woman who would eventually replace her.
And there would be women after her—she knew that without a doubt. When this day was done, when Ben realized Livvie had no intention of falling under his spell, he’d go back to being the same man he was before. Cocky and playful, a walking advertisement for sex and all its attractions. It was she who would never be the same. Ben would stop being her rock, become instead just another in a long line of masculine faces who cared only about finding a way between her legs.
“It’s actually a lot cuter than I thought,” she said, forcing a bright note in her voice. She couldn’t let him see how close she was to losing it. Knowing him, he’d just use her lack of balance to push her over the edge. “It’s all dainty and sweet and feminine—you’re like a walking, talking tampon ad now.”
“Excellent. I could get used to the idea of women associating my body with their reproductive cycles. We might be onto something here.”
Livvie choked on a gurgle of outrage. That was not what she meant.
“Since this one refuses to say something nice unless there are death threats involved, what do you say?” Ben twisted his head enough to glance back at the tattoo artist. “Can my natural virility support such a frivolous decoration?”
“I could slap a rose garden on this back and it wouldn’t matter one bit,” Dee promised. “You have the nicest canvas I’ve ever worked on.”
Livvie couldn’t help but share the artist’s admiration of the skin and muscle laid out on display in front of them. Ben’s broad shoulders flexed with each touch of the needle against his skin, sending ripples of movement down to the golden taper of his waist and the rounded lift of an ass only hinted at in his rolled-back slacks. He was perfectly formed, chiseled of stone, strong enough to topple any civilization of his choosing.
Why did he have to be so goddamned attractive on top of everything else?
“I like where this is heading,” Ben murmured. “What do you think, love? Is it the best canvas you’ve ever seen?”
“I’m not going to ply you with compliments, so don’t even start.”
“Why not? Surely I deserve a few after all this.”
“What you deserve is for me to leave you here to be covered in butterflies while I go back to my life. A life, I might add, that was going pretty smoothly until last night.”
He grew silent. She thought maybe she’d finally broken through, that he was beginning to understand her sincerity, but he grimaced as the buzzing of the tattoo gun continued in earnest. That was when she noticed the chalky pallor creeping down his forehead, the damp of his palm still pressed against hers. Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’d pass out before he’d admit that getting a tattoo was no small matter—that this pursuit of her might actually be a mistake.
Stupid, stubborn man.
Ignoring every impulse to flee, Livvie sat down instead and gave Ben her other hand to squeeze to a pulp.
“Do you want to know the first thing that struck me about you?” She would play into this desperate need of his for compliments in order to distract him, but that was all. It didn’t mean he’d won. It didn’t mean she cared. “I should warn you that it wasn’t at the Beck concert where you apparently creeped on me all night long but at the dinner where we actually met.”
He glanced up, his eyes sharp. “I didn’t creep.”
“You remember the fabric my pants were made of. You creeped.”
A grin moved slowly across his face, bringing some of his color back with it. “Then you probably won’t like it when I confess to remembering every outfit I’ve ever seen you wear.”
Impossible. They’d known each other for five years—and she had literally hundreds of free sample-size clothes in her closet. The short black skirt and metallic top she had on right now was just one of several outfits she’d probably end up wearing before the day was through. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t possibly remember all of them.”
“I have a photographic memory. Test me.”
She shared a glance with the tattoo artist, who raised a perfectly arched brow. Why not? that arch seemed to suggest. What is there to lose?
Dee obviously had no idea just how high the stakes were.
Still, Livvie cast her sartorial memory back as far as it could go. Ben might not believe himself to be fallible in any way, but she sure as hell did. He wouldn’t be so smug once she proved him wrong.
“Okay. How about this? Two years ago, we shared a flight to Melbourne. I had that gig at a fashion show, and you were looking into a block of apartments going up for sale. What was I wearing then?”
He closed his eyes, an almost serene expression taking the place of his grimace of pain. She wanted to run her free hand over his forehead, sweeping his hair aside to rest her palm on the perfect planes of his face, but she didn’t. Although the gesture had maternal undertones, her feelings at the moment were anything but.
“You dressed up. You knew I was going to be sitting next to you on the plane the whole time, so you slipped into this naughty-librarian thing. Knee-length skirt, a floral-print blouse buttoned up to the top, those stockings with the line you can see all the way up the back. You even had your hair in a bun.” He opened one eye. “That was mean. I remember thinking how much you deserved to be tossed over my shoulder and hauled to the bathroom for that. I almost did it, too.”
Her mouth fell open as he got every tiny detail right. She had been a rather sexy librarian that day, but not because she was trying to taunt Ben. She just liked to dress up when she traveled. Lots of the other girls had grown jaded over the years, more harassed by the thought of twelve hours of air time than excited by the prospect of touching down somewhere new, but not Livvie. She looked forward to each new country as if it would be her last—open runways and open doors, opportunities to experience places most people didn’t even know how to pronounce.
Not too shabby for a woman whose primary value to society was her ability to look attractive in designer clothes. People could say what they wanted about the career path she’d carved for herself—at least her life was never boring.
“How can you possibly remember all that?”
“I remember everything, Livvie. Each word. Each gestu
re. Each expression.” He winced as Dee moved the tattoo gun over his spine. “I wish there was some way I could make you believe me.”
He showed every indication of falling into pained silence again, sending Livvie into a panic. She knew it was a mistake, these memories and these thoughts, this dangerous place he was leading her, but she didn’t know what else to do. Her default option—to run as fast and as far as her legs would take her—wasn’t applicable here. There was nowhere far enough that Ben wouldn’t be able to get under her skin.
She took a deep breath and forged on. “The first thing about you that struck me wasn’t that you were too attractive for your own good.”
He paused just long enough to process the change of subject. “That’s because I’m just the right amount of attractive for my own good.”
“It also wasn’t that you’re too used to having everything your way.”
“If I had everything my way, you’d be underneath me instead of this stupid table.”
She ignored him, even though she felt a jolt of desire work up and down her spine. She would not be jealous of a table. “Nor was it that your conceit is the only thing bigger than your bank account.”
“That’s not the only thing bigger than my bank account,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.
No laughter. No giving in. “What I really liked that first night were your hands.”
“Oh, really?” His fingers slid out of hers, and she thought for one amused moment he was going to admire his own limbs, but he merely transferred his grip to her wrist. Her pulse leaped under the press of his thumb on the softest part of her skin, and she cursed her body’s inability to fall in line with her thoughts. She was supposed to have better control over herself than this. “Do continue. I like where this is headed.”
“Are you sure about that?” She closed her eyes as his fingers traced higher up her forearm, almost as if he were following the path of her veins. From palm to heart, physical to emotional, he wouldn’t stop until he pushed all the way in.
“I’m sure.”
“I like how still and quiet they are,” she said. “You aren’t a hand talker—which is rare for a man like you. Most annoyingly overconfident men aren’t happy until they’ve invaded everyone else’s personal space. But you keep your hands so careful and contained, and you know how powerful you can be even when you aren’t moving.”
“Your favorite thing about me is that I don’t move?” He made it all the way up to her elbow, and he lingered in the sensitive and oft-neglected crook of her arm, cherishing that spot as he might the more interesting hollows a woman’s body had to offer.
“No,” she said, the word coming from low in her throat. “I liked that your hands were so indicative of the rest of you. Hard and controlled and talented.”
“They are quite talented, though you have yet to discover why. Don’t worry. I plan to show you later.”
“Not that kind of talent, you jerk. The first night we met, you made me origami birds out of napkins. A crane and a swallow.”
“Oh, sure. The napkin list means nothing to you, but paper birds you remember.”
She didn’t tell him she still had them tucked away inside her jewelry box. They were probably just as crumpled with age as the list. “You aren’t the only one with a photographic memory.”
He let go just long enough for her to retrieve her arm and get to her feet, inserting a necessary distance to stop the path her heart was taking all the way up to her throat. The separation brought her other senses rushing back, too, and she realized with a start that the buzzing of the tattoo gun had stopped.
The butterfly was done. He’d made it. The fourth item on the list was complete.
Which meant they were on to number five.
“I mostly liked how your hands stayed on their side of the table where they belonged, if you want to know the truth,” she said, unable to stop herself. Five. Six. Seven. Only three left.
She wanted to add something to ease the sting of her words—to confess that the first thing that really struck her was his sense of humor, so carefree and easy, a gift he offered to the whole world without strings attached—but Dee spoke up.
“So, um, I hate to interrupt and all, but you two sound like you could use a moment.” She handed Livvie a patch of gauze and a small white tube. “Why don’t you go ahead and put this on for me?”
“What?” Livvie held the ointment between her forefinger and thumb, letting it dangle. “I’m not qualified to provide medical care. I don’t even take out my own splinters.”
Dee just shrugged. “It’s not hard. Wash your hands first, and blow on it if it stings. I’ll be outside, if you need me.”
Livvie almost lunged in a desperate grab to keep the tattoo artist in the room with them, but Dee was fast for such a tiny woman. The door clicked shut, leaving Livvie alone with Ben. A half-dressed Ben, prone on the table, one step closer to accomplishing his goal.
The white walls, which were covered in drawings of pinup girls and anchors, closed in on her before swelling out again, making her feel as if she were trapped in a child’s bouncy castle.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how much it stings?” Ben asked.
She gritted her teeth and approached his side. Even now, even after she lashed out with everything she had, he was still smiling. There was no stopping this man.
Of course, that didn’t mean she planned to give up.
“Not nearly as bad as it’s going to by the time I’m done with you,” she said.
* * *
Ben didn’t move as Livvie washed her hands in the sink on the opposite end of the room, muttering obscenities he was sure he was supposed to overhear.
It seemed a tad unfair for her to be breaking out in curse words when he’d kept his own at bay for what had to be the most excruciating hour of his life, but he let her have this moment. She was scared, and it was beginning to show. Unlike other women, who might break down in the face of adversity, Livvie dug in her claws and held fast. It was the strength of her, the fight, the resolve to let no man through.
“Okay. Lay it on me.” He kept his tone casual, determined to remain on her side for this. Livvie might think it was him she was fighting against right now, but he knew better. He was nothing more than an ally, a partner, a witness. The real battle was with herself. “On a scale of one to sorority girl, how does it look?”
Her curse turned into a reluctant laugh. “A pair of Uggs and some leggings, and you’ll have the entire football team after you. Brace yourself. This is probably going to be cold.”
He held himself still as she squeezed whatever gelatinous goo was in the tube onto his lower back. It was cold, and the raw scrape of his skin ached, but he would have withstood ten thousand times the pain to have Livvie’s fingers moving in swirls like that forever. Despite her lack of medical training and her irritation with him, her touch was light, and she took care not to hurt him any more than necessary.
He wanted to say something flippant to put her even more at ease, but he was rapidly losing his concentration. He was an exposed back and nerve endings. He was constricted lungs and rising blood. He was a man who wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
“Does it really sting?” she asked, her voice so low he almost thought he imagined it.
“Nah. Nothing I can’t stand.”
Her fingers lifted, and he thought for a moment that she was done, but he felt the shift in the air as she leaned closer. His senses were always heightened whenever they shared breathing space—his heartbeat automatically tuned to hers so that it leaped and stilled in a torturous cadence—and there was no way he could mistake her intentions.
She blew.
“Oh, fuck, Olivia.” He groaned. He felt no pain, could have been speared straight through and still had enough blood left over for his
cock to grow hard. Lying on his stomach didn’t help matters any, and when Livvie dropped a hand on his leg to draw closer, he lost any chance he had of maintaining his dignity.
It was cruel of her to keep going, her breath a cool whisper across his back, but he didn’t stop her. It felt too good to have her mouth almost touching his skin, to know that the open part of her lips was mere inches from his body.
It could be like this, always, if only she’d let it. If only she’d let him in.
He groaned again, this time driven by the madness—not of physical desire but of a longing embedded all the way to his soul.
“There,” she said brightly, every sensation but that of yearning lost as she pulled away. “All better. Do you want to see it before I put on the gauze? It’s shiny from the goop, and the surrounding skin is all red, but it seems a shame to cover it up before you’ve had a chance to admire Dee’s artwork.”
“Sure.”
“Sure? That’s it? No witty double entendre?”
“Sure.” Any other syllables—yes, no, I love you more than you will ever know—were beyond him. He got to his feet slowly, more concerned with his erection than the site of the tattoo, but he refused to let the physical win out over the emotional. If he gave in to every impulse he’d ever had to cover Livvie’s body with his own, theirs would be a different kind of story.
A short one, probably. Livvie never respected the men who fucked her—in fact, she rarely even liked them. He’d seen enough of her flings over the years to know that. In her mind, hate and sex were much more closely linked than love and sex.
It was that knowledge keeping him silent all these years, that knowledge preventing him from being eaten up by jealousy every time he saw her on someone else’s arm. Other men got to touch her, yes, but Ben was the one she had breakfast with the next morning.
Was it really so much to ask that they take a chance and combine the two? Sex and friendship? Love in all its forms?
“Here.” She angled the full-length mirror next to the sink, allowing him to catch sight of his lower back. He twisted and stopped. All of him stopped—air, blood, water, bone. “What is it, Ben? What’s wrong?”
Model Behavior Page 5