by Tina Donahue
She and her dad looked nothing alike, not even within the same family tree or forest. Frank had been short for a man, no more than five-five and painfully thin even before his heart started giving him trouble. His hair had been curly and red, his features on the homely side given his big nose and protruding teeth.
Lauren’s mouth was exceptionally nice. Plush lips tinted a delicate rose, further enhanced by a tiny mole to the side.
Dante studied her beauty mark as he had earlier. Again, something shifted inside him. Ignoring the pleasant sensation, he took in her delicate features that were sweet and pretty rather than sensual. Her deep-blue eyes went really well with her honey-blonde hair. Styled shorter than his, a few of the strands brushed her cheeks.
A part of him thought about easing them back. Good sense warned Dante against it. The way he was staring at her seemed more than enough.
Lauren’s complexion pinked up as it had earlier, which gave her some color. Despite living in Florida, she was as pale as a corpse and dressed like a modern-day version of a nun. Without thinking, Dante leaned closer and inhaled deeply, catching her scent once more. Subtle and floral with a hint of musk.
A rush of blood pooled in his groin.
Lauren blinked rapidly at his proximity, her face lifting, her lips not all that far from his. For a woman, she was tallish, probably five-seven, five-eight, without her heels.
She finally stepped back. He resisted the urge to follow and took her in instead.
Even with the clothes she wore, Dante could tell she had a lush, womanly figure, her breasts, hips and ass giving a guy something to do with his mouth and hands. Like running his fingers over her ripe boobs, feeling her nipples peak as they pressed against his palms, licking the long tips and tight areolas. Were they pink or brown? He figured they’d be as rosy as her velvety folds when they were plump with desire.
Dante wondered if she was into carnal games. Not the hardcore BDSM stuff—whips, corset, ball gags—but playful dominance, submission and an occasional spanking. Damn. With that in the mix, there’d be endless stuff to enjoy.
His balls pulled up into his body. He edged closer, then looked down as the tips of her fingers touched his abs.
Not to stroke him. She still wanted him to shake her hand.
At last, he took it. Her fingers were soft and moist, a delight to hold. He squeezed them gently.
More color flooded her face and throat.
Dante liked that. “So, you’re Frank’s little girl.”
Offense quickly crossed her face. “We’re related,” she said coolly. “Or were.”
Her reaction didn’t surprise Dante. Frank had told him what had happened long ago. Stuff he wasn’t about to bring up now or pry. Not his place. Calling himself a fool for saying what he had, Dante nodded.
“And you are?” she asked again.
Right. He still hadn’t told her. “Dante Avana. Your dad hired me on as manager, though I do my share of piercings and tats.”
Lauren’s attention fell to the one on his left biceps. She got a dreamy look on her face as though she liked the design or his arm. Possibly both. He ran his thumb over hers.
Noticing, she looked down. After a moment, Lauren pulled back her hand and glanced around, taking in the parlor not him.
Before their silence grew too uncomfortable for her, he asked, “Want me to show you everything you own?”
Lauren slanted him a look.
“Furniture, equipment, computers,” he clarified and smiled.
Her expression got all soft and feminine again then hardened just as quickly, as though she’d flipped some kind of internal switch.
Dante had seen that kind of transformation before in others and wondered if she worked as an attorney.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
He hoped it wouldn’t be about her dad given the history Frank had revealed. “Shoot.”
“Would you be interested in buying this place? I wouldn’t ask,” she added quickly, “but I really need the money. I’ve been out of work since December even though I’ve sent out hundreds of resumes. No one’s offered me a job. My benefits are going to end soon and my savings are nearly gone. I’m kind of tapped out, you know?”
Dante understood perfectly. He’d had trouble with his last career, which had led him to this place. Good times. Few hassles. Just what he’d needed, and she apparently wanted to avoid. “At this point, I couldn’t handle the expense.”
“The payments wouldn’t be that bad. I’d make them reasonable.”
“Sorry, I can’t.”
Her shoulders slumped.
Dante’s heart twisted at how hopeless and weary she looked. “Hey.” He touched her arm. “It’ll be okay. Everything will turn out. If you want, I could lend you a couple of hundred to help.”
Surprise flickered across her face. “You’d do that for someone you don’t know?”
It was only money. A truth Dante had learned a few years back when everything had changed in his life. “We’re all family here,” he explained. “You own the place. That is, if you are who you claim to be. Should I ask for identification?”
Lauren smiled. “Ask all you want, you’re not seeing my driver’s license.”
“Picture’s that bad, huh?”
Her cheeks flamed again with his teasing. “Maybe.” She cleared her throat as though she didn’t approve of how nicely husky her voice had been. “Do you mind if I look around by myself? Can you show me where the books are?”
Dante leaned close, catching another whiff of her fragrance. His body hummed. “I’ll show you whatever you want.”
Her expression grew even more heated, her worries about her financial situation forgotten for the moment. Good. Dante wanted her to feel at home here, not only because he and Frank had been close, but because she seemed so alone.
He knew she wasn’t married. No wedding ring. He sensed she wasn’t dating anyone special either, given how she kept blushing at his attention, as though she wasn’t use to that from a man. At least one who worked in a tattoo parlor. “Before you go over the books though, you probably should meet the rest of the staff first. So they understand why you’re here and what you’re doing.”
Lauren glanced at the front door. “The young woman who left a few minutes ago, she works here?”
“If you’re talking about Jasmina, then yeah. Started about eight months ago. She answers the phone, books appointments, takes payments, runs out and gets our lunches, stuff like that. That’s where she is now, picking up takeout.”
“She’s gorgeous. Is she the girl in the mural on the front door?”
Dante smiled. “The same. You like it?”
“Oh yeah. Did my—” Lauren stopped then said, “Did Frank do it, or is that your work?”
Dante pretended not to notice her hurt when she’d said her father’s name. “Neither of us. Your dad could ink simple designs, same as me. Van Gogh’s our resident artist.”
She smiled. “Seriously? That’s his—or her—real name?”
“His.” Dante lowered his voice. “At least that’s the name he goes by. Trained to be a painter, just like his namesake. Couldn’t sell enough of his stuff to pay rent and eat, so he’s inking here until he gets his break. By the way, if you call him Cory, he’ll cry.”
Lauren worked her mouth, clearly fighting another smile. “Sure.”
“See for yourself. Hey, Van Gogh,” Dante called out. “Can you come up front? Someone wants to see your best work.”
“In the binders or on me?” he shouted from his workstation.
“On you.”
“What’s he talking about?” Lauren asked.
“You’ll see. Don’t close your eyes.”
Her attention shot to the photo of the guy who’d gotten his nuts and cock inked.
“Don’t worry,” Dante assured then teased, “Van Gogh will be decent, for the most part.”
Reluctantly, she turned to the hall as Van Gogh shuffled down it, naked
to the waist, and joined them. He was a scrawny kid who’d just turned twenty-two, had shaved his head and wore a scraggly goatee.
Dante doubted Lauren had noticed Van Gogh’s facial hair or bald noggin. Her hand went to her throat as she stared at his tats. The skin on Van Gogh’s narrow chest looked as though he’d ripped it away to show his heart, ribs and guts beneath. Gunshot wound designs covered his arms. Bright-red blood seemed to seep from the holes. All of the art in glorious 3-D, amazingly realistic.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
Van Gogh turned to Dante. “She gonna be okay?”
“I’m fine,” Lauren answered. She reached out to touch the ribs and heart etched on his chest then dropped her hand as though she’d thought better of it. “You actually tattooed yourself? Using both hands?”
“I’m ambidextrous. Long as I have a mirror, I’m good.”
“I’d say better than good.” She regarded the tats on his arms. “What you’ve done is freaking amazing. It’s so gory and real.”
“Oh yeah?” Van Gogh puffed up. “Thanks. You want something like this on you?”
Lauren stepped back. “Absolutely not.”
He seemed confused and spoke to Dante. “Why’s she here?”
“She’s Frank’s kid,” Dante said. “Owns this place and everything in it, including you and me. Right, Lauren?”
She arched one pale eyebrow.
Dante smiled at how cute she looked.
Lauren got all soft as she had earlier, her gaze blurry with what appeared to be need. His pulse started picking up again.
After a long moment, her eyes cleared. She’d clearly flipped that damn internal switch again and spoke to Van Gogh. “I’m your boss until I get rid of this place, which I will. As soon as I can.”
“You mean selling it to someone?” Van Gogh asked.
“Or shutting it down and liquidating its assets.”
The young man’s complexion went paler than hers.
Dante’s smile had already faded. Apparently, Lauren wasn’t as soft as he’d thought.
Big changes were coming, and they didn’t look good.
Chapter Two
Lauren figured her shitty financial situation had finally fried her brain. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Hell, she hadn’t realized how tactless she’d been until she caught Van Gogh’s expression. The poor guy looked as though the bullethole tats on his arms were real, causing serious pain.
His lower lip trembled.
Oh crap, was he going to cry? She’d thought Dante had been kidding about that.
Even if he hadn’t been, what was the matter with her? As a human resources professional, Lauren knew she had to be careful when delivering bad news to a staff member. She was supposed to be firm yet gentle, explaining why the company was downsizing the department or division, assuring that there would be severance, a letter of recommendation, a decent transition from being employed to being thrown out like so much trash.
She recalled the afternoon she’d been let go from her job, two days before Christmas. After work, she’d planned to go shopping at the mall to get into the spirit of things, maybe have a nice dinner out then decorate her condo while old holiday movies played. Sure, she’d be alone, but Lauren understood that her work buddies had husbands, children, boyfriends or family members to spend time with. She was happy for them.
Okay, she really envied what they had. Her mom had passed away more than a year ago. Frank had been missing for decades. There wasn’t a spouse or anyone remotely close to a boyfriend in her life. But hey, she’d have fun even if it was by herself.
That dream had died when the CEO had called Lauren into his office shortly after lunch. She’d thought it might be for a holiday bonus, especially when she saw her supervisor in there, a sweet matronly woman who was a vice-president. Next to her was a security officer.
That kind of threw Lauren. Still, she had hope, until the CEO, a grim man, regarded her as though she were a particularly nasty specimen he’d just viewed under a microscope.
For the first time ever, Lauren’s supervisor avoided her gaze.
At that point, her heart started to pound. She sank into a chair, her mind racing at what she might have done wrong. Before she could ask, the CEO spoke.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he’d said. “Your position’s being eliminated. The company’s moving in a new direction. Today’s your last…”
She’d seen his mouth move after that but hadn’t heard his words, her ears were ringing too badly. The room kept lurching. The CEO pushed papers at her that Lauren could barely read much less understand given her shock. If she refused to sign the separation contract, the CEO warned, there’d be no severance. He alluded to the fact that the company might even fight her on unemployment benefits.
That got her to read faster than she would have liked. Her hand had shaken so badly, her signature was illegible. The CEO had taken the signed contract from her, handed it to Lauren’s former supervisor then said, “That’s all.”
No have a nice day, Merry Christmas or go to hell.
Six years she’d given the company, working ten-hour days most of the time, and the man had altered her future in less than fifteen minutes without breaking a sweat. The security guard escorted Lauren to her desk as though she were a convicted felon. He watched closely as she put her few personal items into a box, which the company had graciously provided, then escorted her to the elevator.
None of her work buddies had bothered to look up from their computers as she and the security guard walked past their desks. No one had said goodbye. She’d organized birthday parties for them, celebrated their marriages and the births of their children.
Her tears had started when she was halfway home, making it impossible for her to see. She had to pull into a strip mall. Holiday music pumped from the storefronts. Kids bolted down the sidewalks, heading for the toy and sports stores. Young couples strolled arm in arm window-shopping, probably dreaming about Christmas Day.
She spent it in bed, curled in a fetal position, too defeated to move.
Lauren wanted to tell Van Gogh that if it came to liquidation, he’d get a decent severance. If she sold Wicked Brand, he’d have a job with the new owner. Good god, anyone in his right mind would want Van Gogh as a tattoo artist. Trouble was she couldn’t promise something that might not come true. Lauren had no idea what shape this place was in. It was solvent for the next few months because of Frank’s insurance. After that…
There weren’t even any customers in here. Was it always this slow?
Afraid to ask and risk Van Gogh’s meltdown, she said, “It’ll take a couple of weeks, maybe a few months before anything happens. I’ll do everything I can to make the transition as easy as possible.”
He looked at Dante as though he needed confirmation of what she’d said or he wanted a hug.
Dante clamped his hand on Van Gogh’s thin shoulder. “Everything will be all right. It always is.”
Lauren wished she had that kind of confidence or knew what else to say. After another moment of strained silence, the door swung open. Jasmina strode in, ponytail bouncing, a large white sack in her slender arms. She beamed at Lauren then noticed Van Gogh’s downturned mouth and slumped shoulders. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Dante pulled the bag from her. “This is Lauren, Frank’s kid.” He inclined his head in her direction.
Jasmina perked up again. “Yeah? Well hey.” She threw her arms around Lauren in greeting, hugging her hard.
Surprised, Lauren stiffened momentarily then finally hugged the young woman in return. Jasmina smelled of baby powder. Somehow, that made Lauren want to protect her, just as she would a younger sister.
Jasmina gave her another squeeze and stepped back. “I’m so sorry about your dad. Frank was a great guy. Unbelievably nice. I really needed a job so I could pay for school. Told him I’d die if he didn’t hire me, so he did.” She smiled.
Lauren nodded dumbly at Frank�
��s kindness to others. She supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise when it came to Jasmina. Not only was she sweet, she was even better-looking than Lauren had first thought. Flawless skin dewy with youth, large dark eyes surrounded by sooty lashes, a mouth Angelina Jolie would have envied, an expression filled with excitement and hope because no one had crushed her dreams yet. Suddenly, Lauren didn’t want anyone to do that to her or anyone else here.
“So you’re in college,” Lauren said, hoping Jasmina wasn’t studying human resources, a dying field. The corporate community’s newest way to make an extra buck was to outsource HR functions. “What are you taking?”
“Business administration at the community college.” Jasmina jabbed her thumb at something behind her, presumably the school. “So far, I’ve gotten A’s in all my courses.”
Dante flashed a grin like a proud older brother. “Jasmina’s our resident brain.”
The young woman waved her hand in dismissal, though her smile did widen a bit. She turned to Lauren. “Dante’s just kidding. He’s the one with all the brains. He’s—”
“This is getting cold,” he interrupted.
“I’m not hungry,” Van Gogh muttered.
“Sure you are.” Dante slapped him on the back. “Throw on your shirt and join us, got it? Lauren, you’ll eat with us too.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Jasmina said. “You don’t like Mexican food?”
Dante had already opened the Styrofoam container on top. Four enchiladas swam in red sauce with cheese blanketing them. To the side were scoops of sour cream and guacamole, refried beans smothered in more cheese and a mound of Spanish rice.
Amazing scents of corn, beef, chicken, garlic and onion wafted toward Lauren. Her mouth watered. “It’s okay. I’m not really—”
She stopped as her stomach growled really loud and long. Once it had settled down, she finished, “Hungry. I’m not. Seriously.”
Dante arched one dark eyebrow. “There’s enough here for all of us, including you.” He elbowed Van Gogh. “Come on. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jasmina asked.