Maximum Exposure

by Alison Kent

  Jodi’s laugh rocked through him like a gunshot. He felt it where she held his arm, where she held herself to his back. He felt it against his ear, where she pulled in a breath and exhaled, a feathery breeze.

  He ground his jaw, flexed his fingers when he wanted more than anything to fist his hands and knock the shit outta himself. He had no business being here. No business being with her, even if his being with her was only a farce.

  “It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, it’s not my cuppa, either,” she admitted. “But I can see the artistic appeal, the use of color and lighting, the juxtaposition of the felines with the females.”

  Talk about a bunch of bullshit. “Can you see the challenge the photographer had to get the cats to sit still? How they’re begging for the treats they’ve been promised?”

  “There is that, I suppose,” she said, slipping forward several steps to stand next to him. “I had no idea about your soft spot for animals.”

  He saw strands of her blond hair flutter in the breeze from the overhead fans, but he saw that in his periphery, because he refused to look her way. Right now, he feared he’d give himself away if he did.

  That’s how soft he was feeling. “How does your boss feel about you less than wholeheartedly embracing his gallery’s exhibit?”

  She waited for a moment, as if counting out beats, then lowered her voice and dropped a bomb. “I think the more important question is, how do you feel about my boss?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Roman had made sure that Roland never spoke a word about his love life, so if that was what Jodi was digging to find…

  “He’s got it bad for you. Almost as bad as I have it.”

  He did not want to have this conversation. “The two of you should see a doctor about that.”

  “It’s true,” she said, then let the clink of glasses and the low buzz of chatter fill the silence between them.

  He didn’t know what to say, whether to leave things alone and let them die without further acknowledgment, or be the friend he’d agreed to be and talk. He went with the first, the one that wouldn’t trip him up and get him in trouble. The one that was the easiest and required no commitment that he’d regret.

  “He told me earlier this week,” she said, taking his silence as an invitation rather than a lack of interest. “I stayed late one night, finishing some things I hadn’t had time for with all the prep for the show. I mentioned that you were escorting me tonight. He admitted that he’d like you to escort him, and then the floodgates opened.”

  She paused as a server approached.

  “Would either of you care for champagne?”

  “Thank you,” he said, reaching for two drinks, handing one to Jodi, finally catching her eyes as they sipped.

  He tried to look away, to not get pulled into what he was seeing, but he had been using her in his head for so long, getting off to her when he needed relief, that all he could think about was doing her with her eyes wide open and focused on his.

  It wasn’t a safe fantasy to play with. The atmosphere in the room pulsed with a grinding vibe. If he grabbed Jodi up against him and pulled her hem to her waist, he imagined the small gathering around them would scatter, but no one would be surprised.

  She lowered her flute, rubbed the rim against her bottom lip, then moved the glass away. “Well?”

  “Well what?” he asked, shrugging as he belted back half of his drink.

  “Do you return Dustin’s…affection?”

  “My private life is private, Jodi. I’m not going to discuss my affections.” If he did, she might not find this conversation to her liking.

  “Did you know how he felt? Before now?”

  “I still don’t know how he feels. He hasn’t told me.”

  “Would you like him to? I can go get—”

  “No,” Roman said, the low-spoken word gruff and gritty as he grabbed the wrist of the hand she’d used to gesture.

  She made no effort to pull away. Instead, she arched one brow and glanced down to where he held her.

  “No,” he repeated, more softly this time, taking too long to release her. Goddamn but her bones felt so fragile, her skin like paper he could easily tear. “Let it go. I’d just as soon not see anyone. I’m not in the mood for polite chatter.”

  “I’m wondering if you’re in the mood for polite anything,” she said, then finished off her champagne.

  Christ. What the fuck. He rubbed at his forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I’ve had a bad couple of days, and tomorrow’s going to be the same.”

  “I’m sure Dustin wouldn’t mind helping you feel better.”

  “That’s not even close to funny.”

  “Would you rather I help you feel better?”

  “I’d rather the weekend get here.” It wouldn’t be the same relief as the end of this job, but right now? He’d take it.

  Jodi moved close, fingered his jacket’s lapel. “I really can help, you know. That’s what friends are for.”

  He was not this much of a sucker. Really, he wasn’t. “What can you do?”

  “Actually, several things come to mind. A good massage for one,” she said as he grabbed for another drink. “Would you like that? If I were to knead your muscles? Help work out the kinks?”

  His balls twitched. His cock followed, thickening. He’d started this. He deserved whatever torture she delivered. “Thanks, but I can work out the kinks at the gym.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, giving him a studious once-over and walking a circle around him. “Maybe kinks wasn’t the right word. I’m thinking knots? Or tightness? The type that has you aching to stretch? Surely you get tight with all the stress your under.” She was in front of him again, facing him. “Tight and swollen? I know I could help with that.”

  “That so,” he said, surprised he was able to push even that much out through his constricted throat. She was wearing a man’s jacket, when she’d told him she’d bought a dress especially for the occasion, and all he could think about was yanking it open and sending the buttons rolling across the floor.

  “Oh yes. It’s all about using my hands.” She held out her free one, wiggled and flexed her fingers, which were slender but so clearly strong. “I can rub and stroke, help ease that tension. It’s not good, you know, to let it build up. You need a way to relieve it.”

  If she only knew how many times he’d let it go into her mouth while he showered. “You don’t say.”

  She widened her eyes as if some grand solution had just come to her. “We could go to my office if you’d like. I’ve got a visitor’s chair with no arms. You could straddle it in reverse and let me start with the muscles in your shoulders and neck.”

  Or she could straddle his lap and start with the part of his body that was the tightest of all. “Your boss won’t miss you if you cut out for awhile?”

  “Me, no. He might miss you,” she added, with a sound that could’ve been a snort or a chuckle. “But we won’t be gone long. Not unless you’re wound up enough to need a lot of time.”

  He was such a fool. Such a fool. He swallowed the rest of his champagne, then, before he could stop himself, said, “I’d say that I am.”

  Her eyes glittered with excitement and, for a moment, with what looked like tears. “Should I give Dustin our regrets? Tell him you’re not feeling well and I’m going to see you home?”

  He shook his head. It was too late for that. “I can’t wait that long.”

  She didn’t say anything else. All she did was hook two of her fingers around two of his and lead him to his doom.

  Eleven

  “What do you mean, you’re here because of me?” Olivia asked, her finely arched brows drawn into a frown, the tiniest wrinkle creasing the skin above her nose and creating a cute little dent.

  Finn kept his gaze locked on hers while he downed the rest of his champagne. He liked her look. Liked that her face showed her emotion, that her expression wasn’t bland and frozen, as if moving
a muscle might mar her makeup or cause permanent damage to her skin.

  It would make photographing her much more interesting if she wasn’t worried about perfection. Should he decide to take the job. “Dustin wanted me to meet you.”

  Her frown disappeared, replaced by a triumphant grin. “Then I was right. You are working for him.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She gave a soft snort. “You might as well have.”

  “I don’t talk about my work except with those paying me to do it. Not even to confirm or deny their identity for a friend. For all I know, you could be an enemy.”

  “Of Dustin? That’s absurd.”

  Finn reached for her elbow and guided her back to his side, out of the lane of gallery traffic. “You can draw any conclusions you want, but that’s all they’ll be. Your conclusions.”

  “Fine,” she said, waving her free hand, begging the pardon of a woman whose shoulder she had swiped. “No more about you working for Dustin. I’ll go to the source.”

  What was the deal? Why was she so intent on digging into Parks’s personal business? “Do what you’ve gotta do. As far as I’m concerned, the subject is closed.”

  “I intend to. I can’t let it go as easily as you can. It’s not Dustin I’m worried about.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me. Or these last ten minutes of conversation,” he said, even as he recognized that this wasn’t about her being nosy or minding business that wasn’t her own. This was about something else, something that went deeper than wondering what her friend was up to.

  She set her empty flute on the tray of a passing server, declined taking another, though Finn accepted the refill. With one hand in his pocket and one holding his drink, he was less likely to reach for Olivia again, because he found himself wanting to and that couldn’t be a good thing.

  Yes, her skin was soft, and she smelled sugary sweet and edible and better than he remembered. He wasn’t here to feast or indulge any appetite but curiosity and his need for work. So what if he’d started to sweat the moment he’d seen her standing alone, her body language giving off vibes that said she was both approachable and aloof?

  “I don’t know if I can explain so that you can understand.” Her statement brought him back to the present.

  What was there to understand? “I’m not a complete dumb ass, Olivia. I get most things.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you were, or that you didn’t.” She smiled, sliding in front of him as they moved toward the next photograph.

  This one depicted an African American woman kneeling in a garden of bloodred roses, her hands clasped as if she were praying, a pure white Persian sitting tall and proud in front of her, its head concealing her clit and her labia, but not her bush of black hair.

  Finn studied the purposeful use of color, thinking how he might capture Olivia similarly—if he decided to take the job. If he could deal with the way she enjoyed showing off her body and not take it personally that she wasn’t saving herself for him.

  “I don’t expect you to know much about Splash & Flambé, or even its reputation in Miami, but we are considered one of the places to shop for cutting-edge fashion as well as pieces that are original and unique.”

  She stepped closer to consider the photograph he’d just admired, the light catching the shimmering and honeyed folds of her dress and shining right through the fabric. Until she moved just so into just the right light, he hadn’t realized the fabric was sheer, but it was.

  He could see her breasts, the rings in her nipples, the gold chain dangling between that looped from both hoops to the third, where it pierced her navel. He forced his grip on the champagne flute to ease.

  Slicing his palm on broken glass might work as a distraction, but he wasn’t some emo kid who dealt with his issues by slicing into his flesh and causing himself pain—though pain would sure take his mind and his dick off the other things he was feeling.

  He’d seen the delicate jewelry before. Had taken pictures of her wearing it. Had printed out the photos and stared at them more often than he would ever admit. But there was something about the tease of seeing the way she wore it through the clothes she had on that stirred him more than the digital images possibly could.

  “We have exclusive contracts with several area designers to showcase their work,” Olivia was saying while Finn adjusted the hem of his jacket to better hide his fly. “Doing so continues to bring in our discriminating clientele and gives the creators the sort of exposure other designers would kill for. Or if not kill, at least sabotage for or plagiarize for or, well, you get the picture.”

  Whoa. Wait a minute. “And that’s what you think I’ve been doing? Stealing designs?”

  “Not you, no,” she conceded. “But perhaps that’s what the client who hired you is planning to do with the photographs you’ve taken while pretending to drink your lattes.”

  If there was room in private investigating for sensitive feelings, he might be insulted by her roundabout accusation of theft. But there wasn’t, and he wasn’t, and on this at least he was man enough to set the record straight. “My taking pictures from the bistro has nothing to do with your business.”

  “That does put my mind at ease. Somewhat,” she admitted, turning so that the overhead spotlight shined strategically through her dress. She wasn’t wearing panties. And there was yet another part of her body that was pierced.

  Finn looked away, staring at the room full of tits, which did nothing to rouse him compared to the image of that fourth gold ring nestled in a thatch of dark hair. He was beginning to wonder if he’d be able to walk out of here tonight.

  “Then somewhat better be enough,” he told her, “because that’s all you’re going to get.”

  “I guess all I can do is trust you,” she said, her face lighting up as she caught sight of Dustin making his way through the crowd to where they stood.

  “Livia! Finn! Look at you two. You’ve already met.” Dustin cupped their heads with his long-fingered hands, kissed them both on the cheek—big, smacking welcoming kisses, which, Finn decided, were their host’s public and attention-grabbing greeting. “I was hoping to get you together, but not having to lift a finger to do so is a great surprise. And a relief. I cannot tell you how busy I am.”

  Olivia smiled at the dramatic roll of the other man’s eyes. “Rest assured that all your business has paid off. We guinea pigs love the show.”

  Finn snorted, giving up his empty flute to a hovering server and glancing around at what he could see of the gallery’s visitors mingling in and out of the various rooms. “Is that what we are? Guinea pigs?”

  “Of course!” Dustin opened his arms, a wide embrace taking in the whole of the crowd. “I wouldn’t compare my friends to rodents, but the idea that you all are my test subjects does ring true.”

  Finn supposed he could live with that, however…“You supply free food and drink, and bring us in to gawk at women’s breasts. I’m not sure how objective we’re going to be.”

  Dustin turned and spoke to Olivia. “I see Mr. McLain is not an aficionado of the arts.”

  “He’s a private investigator,” she responded, as if that explained his crude description of the exhibit, when what she was obviously doing was testing how Dustin would react.

  Finn was curious himself. Would the other man give Olivia what she wanted or keep their involvement to himself?

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Dustin hurried out with. “He’s been working for me.”

  Olivia spared Finn a quick glance before turning her interest to Parks. “Why in the world would you need to hire a PI?”

  Dustin drew in a deep breath and heaved it out again. “A matter of the heart, which I’ll explain to you later.”

  This time when she looked at Finn, it was as if to ask, “What matter of the heart would bring him to my store?” Finn shook his head. He wasn’t saying a word.

  Their exchange didn’t escape Dustin’s notice. “It is so weird, so complicated. And so unim
portant. Unlike the two of you, getting along as well as you seem to be doing. Does this mean you’re going to work together?”

  Olivia glanced from one man to the other, settling her curious gaze on Dustin. “That’s why you wanted us to meet? To work together?”

  “Well, yes. Of course,” replied Dustin. “Why? Did you think I was matchmaking?”

  Finn chuckled softly. Dustin obviously had no clue of the matchmaking Olivia had already done—she who was still in inquiry mode.

  “Why would you want us to work together?” asked Olivia. “Is there some reason I need a private investigator? Is something going on with Splash & Flambé? Have you heard—”

  “Livvy, sweetheart. I haven’t heard a thing.” Dustin wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. “What I had in mind was you hiring McLain here to take those photos we’ve been talking about.”

  The photos of Olivia Hammond letting people look. The way she’d let him look down her blouse as she’d sat beside him, at her ass as she’d crossed the street from the bistro to her shop. The way she’d let him look through her office window when she’d stripped out of her top on his orders.

  The way she’d let him and a table full of rowdy businessmen have a look along with their scotch and cigars. The way she was giving the gallery crowd more to look at now than the portraits hanging on the walls.

  Finn glanced from the anticipation on Dustin’s face to Olivia’s expression of confusion, her features softened by her several flutes of champagne. Why not shortcut this whole process and tell her friend that his investigator had already seen her, uh, everything?

  “Finn’s a PI, Dustin, not a photographer. At least not a professional photographer,” she said. “Not that I don’t trust your judgment. I’m just surprised you aren’t more insistent on hiring a pro.”

  Now Finn was the one who was confused.

  Olivia had approached him with the offer before Dustin had suggested that she do so. Was she hoping her question would raise valid doubt with the gallery owner, giving her a legitimate reason to balk? Had their clash of opinions at Cigar Paolo been more than a simple disagreement?