Maximum Exposure

by Alison Kent

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Well, you’ve got to consider I’ve been off the market for a year.”

  “So that’s why you came when I crooked my finger.”

  He flipped on his turn signal, maneuvered into the right lane, then into the bank’s lot. He found a spot, put the truck in park, but kept the engine running. “I came because you fuck like it’s in your genes.”

  “How romantic,” she grumbled, knowing it was a childish response and she was all grown up and knew better. God, she knew better. How many relationships had she checked out of because she was the only one who knew what it meant to be an adult?

  Roman shifted on his seat to face her, grabbing her hand when she would have picked her cuticle until it bled. “Is that what you want, Jodi? Is that what this is? A romance?”

  “What it is, is the scariest relationship I’ve ever been in,” she found herself admitting.

  “Because of the threat? Because of who I am?”

  “Because of all of that, and because I don’t know if there will be anything real on the other side,” she said, fighting the tears that had welled in her eyes, the emotion banding her throat.

  Roman stroked each of her fingers, taking his time, his touch soothing, calming. “Do you think it’s worth hanging in to find out?”

  That one was easy. “God, yes.”

  He chuckled, a gut-deep sound that she felt in her bones. He cupped the back of her head and pulled her close for a searing kiss, and all too soon he let her go.

  “You go in, get started on doing your thing. Once I’m sure no one tailed us, I’ll follow. Then we’ll go back to the room. You’ll pack up your things, and I’ll load your car. I should be finished tonight by eleven latest—”

  That timing was all wrong. “If we leave at eleven, you won’t get back until nearly noon tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll let Livia know.”

  “What? Another lie on top of the big one she just caught you in?”

  “Christ, woman. I’ll go to the fucking doctor and bring her a note, okay? Will that make you feel better?”

  She nodded, climbed out of the truck when he shooed her on her way. Halfway across the parking lot, she realized this would never work. She was one of the others, and she was getting in his way. He needed a clear head. He did not need a woman incapable of protecting herself.

  As much as she loved him for including her safety in his plans, she made plans of her own. Once all of her things were in her car, she would wait until he was gone, then hit the road. She’d tell him where she was when he called, which she knew he would do. And if he wanted to know, she’d tell him where to find her in Georgia.

  If he didn’t ask, if he didn’t want to know, if he didn’t come north for her when his case was done, to bring her back to Miami, well, she’d see how much of Gramma Netta’s gumption she had in her blood and maybe just turn the old farmhouse where she’d spent a dozen childhood summers into a home of her own.

  Thirty-three

  Tuesday night was the next shoot Finn and Olivia had arranged. They hadn’t decided on a final number, though they’d agreed on wanting at least six settings.

  Eighteen photos, three from each location, would offer a decent crop from which to choose for Dustin’s exhibit. He’d be in on the selection process, too, of course, since it was his dime and all.

  Finn was meeting Olivia at Downtown Blue at ten. It closed at nine, and Dustin had given them a big thumbs-up when they’d approached him with the suggestion of using the building’s interior.

  Whatever pieces were currently on display would be temporarily relocated, and if they couldn’t easily be moved, Finn would shoot around them.

  He also wanted to take some shots outside and had thought about shooting through the glass of the front doors for the special effects.

  Which was why he was now in the dark, in his room at Splash & Flambé, focusing out his window. And it was why he was looking down at the boutique’s back delivery access when car headlights lit up the dark alley.

  Two sets, one following the other. Both vehicles, a van and a truck, pulled to a stop behind Olivia’s store rather than continuing on and out of his line of sight.

  He stepped away from the window, leaned one shoulder against the wall, and kept the camera’s viewfinder to his eye, searching out the vehicles in the dark by the interior lights when the doors opened and the drivers climbed out.

  Shuck-shing.

  Shuck-shing.

  Shuck-shing.

  One man he didn’t recognize, but even with a minimal amount of moonlight—and that from the corner streetlamp—to go by, he could tell the other man was Roland Green.

  Olivia hadn’t said anything about Green returning tonight, or that she had a delivery arriving after hours—an assumption on Finn’s part, since the extra vehicle looked like a courier’s van.

  Finn wasn’t spooked enough by what he saw to call her or to call the authorities. He’d keep both options open, sure, but for now, he’d use his own eyes and ears, and record what he could of the meeting without letting the sound of the shutter give his presence away.

  The remark Olivia had made about Roland’s friends in high places had Finn wondering about the manager of Flambé. Green wasn’t gay, like he’d told Olivia, yet he’d wanted the job at the boutique badly enough to play up that he batted for the opposing team.

  Not only that, he’d had a friend with political connections put in a good word. And now he was meeting someone at her shop after hours, knowing she’d be tied up elsewhere?

  This song was even more outta tune than if Finn were to sing it. And too bad for Green that he hadn’t factored Finn’s movements tonight into his plans.

  It was obvious that Green was angry. He towered over the smaller man, gesturing almost maniacally. Or maybe that was Finn’s interpretation, and the dramatic display was nothing but the role he’d taken on.

  And the smaller man wasn’t backing down. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by Green’s antics, leading Finn to believe that he was the one reading too much into this meet. Still, Finn wasn’t of a mind to walk out and interrupt, buy a round of beers, shoot the breeze.

  He’d seen way too much in his line of work not to have a keen instinct for self-preservation. That instinct was telling him now to see what he could see, but to stay out of sight while doing it.

  He watched the men for a few more minutes, taking pictures from his second-floor vantage point. Roland disappeared beneath him, obviously to unlock the back door, as seconds later, Finn heard the beep of the alarm sound in the store before the other man turned it off.

  The man with Green moved to the back of his van and opened the double doors, dousing the interior light and hindering Finn’s already limited visibility. He adjusted his camera’s settings accordingly and continued to shoot as the men below unloaded the van, hauling whatever was inside it through the boutique’s back door.

  They moved quickly, but Finn feared he was still going to be late meeting Olivia. She’d gone home to change, then on to the gallery to walk through it with Dustin. Finn had left it up to them to decide what items needed to be moved for the shoot.

  He glanced again at his watch. Then, hearing the slam of the van’s doors and raised voices, he focused in on his subjects as they prepared to part company, Green still angry, the other man blowing him off with a dismissive wave.

  Finn followed the van as it turned, zoomed in to capture the vehicle’s plates, then gave himself twenty minutes before heading out. He arrived at Downtown Blue to find Olivia waiting at the open back door. He grabbed his gear from his Jeep and hurried inside.

  “Sorry I’m running late,” he told her, setting his camera bag on the small conference table in Dustin’s office. “Where’s Parks?”

  “He had a date.”

  “Oh yeah?” Good news as far as Finn was concerned. He liked Olivia performing for him without an audience. He wiggled his brows. “Does that mean while the big
cat’s away, we mice can play?”

  “This mouse would like her rat of a photographer to get these pictures done so she can ditch this getup.”

  Finn finally turned and noticed. “Me-ow.”

  “You like?” she asked, spinning where she stood, the skirt of loud gypsy-print scarves swirling with her.

  The top was made of a fine black mesh that was only transparent in the right light. She was definitely standing in the right light. Finn wanted to bend over and bite down on those damn gold rings. Instead, he brought up his camera and shot wildly.

  She squinted, raised her hands to shield her face. “Hey, I’m not ready.”

  He was beyond ready. They just weren’t on the same page. “That looked like a performance to me.”

  “I spun in a circle,” she said, doing it again, the scarves fluttering and giving him sneak peeks of her hips, her thighs, the fine curve of her bottom.

  He was never going to make it through this shoot, much less the three they had left to do. “You spun in a circle. You smiled. Your eyes lit up.”

  “It still wasn’t a performance,” she said, crossing her arms.

  He nodded toward her chest—the source of his fantasies and his downfall. “It was either take your picture or take off your top and count the links in those gold chains you’re wearing.”

  She shook her head slowly, a tsk-tsk-tsk, her eyes narrowing, her mouth fighting a smile. “We’re never going to get anything done here tonight if you’re already fixated on my jewelry.”

  He came closer, brushed the back of his fingers over her nipples. “You told me they make you feel like you’re waiting for sex. And I’m not supposed to fixate?”

  He watched her swallow; watched her shiver; watched her eyes drift closed, then open again. “They only feel like that with you.”

  He moved closer to the door, farther from her. “I did not need to know that.”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  “Why? So I have even more trouble functioning around you?” he asked, wondering if he could possibly find the distance he needed to get this shoot done.

  She walked toward him, stopped, leaving just enough room for a shadow to slip between. “Do you have trouble around me?”

  “I can’t think straight around you.”

  “That’s good, because I can barely breathe when you’re around.”

  He took several moments to gain his bearings, to push the blood from his groin back into the rest of the body parts he needed to work. He had to figure out where to go from here, because there was no way in hell he’d be able to go back to where he’d come from before that day at the bistro.

  “So,” he finally said. “Do we do this, or do we do something else?”

  “If by this you mean take pictures, we’d better, or Dustin will whine about all the work he did to clear the Indigo Room of the gallery.” She walked through the door, trailing her fingers over his midsection as she passed. “As far as doing something else…”

  And she left him with that, her words and the tease of her fingertips, and walked down the corridor, toward the room where they’d be shooting.

  By the time he got there, he had a handle on the things that needed handling and was able to give Olivia his attention as she explained what she and Dustin had discussed for the shoot.

  They finished by midnight, stopping only to make out three times, though she refused to strip off her top and let Finn play hoops and chains while they did.

  He consoled himself with her promise of doing so later, storing it right next to her admission that he made it hard for her to breathe, and his that he couldn’t think straight around her.

  They’d locked up the gallery, leaving the placement of the art for the crew Parks had coming in early tomorrow. As itchy as he was to get his hands on Olivia, Finn would’ve hated to drop any of the penis sculptures and separate the cocks from their balls.

  It wasn’t until they were in the parking lot, debating whose vehicle to take where, that he remembered seeing the mystery man and Roland Green unloading the former’s van at Splash & Flambé. When he told her, Olivia climbed into his Jeep, making both choices for him.

  “I don’t get it,” she said as Finn drove. “I know there was a problem with a delivery on Friday, but Roland picked up the racks we were waiting on, and Tomás brought everything else before we closed for the night.”

  “You think this other guy was Tomás, then?” Finn asked and saw her nod in his periphery.

  “From his description, yeah. And the Aerostar van? That’s what he drives. All I can think is that he missed something when he was unloading and discovered it later. But Roland didn’t say anything.”

  “Maybe he did deliver short and wasn’t able to get back until tonight. And Roland didn’t think it was worth bothering you over and took care of it himself.”

  That seemed to settle her a bit, though she still had a death grip on the door panel’s molded handhold. “I suppose it’s possible. I still want to take a look around the boutique. If anything happened to it…”

  He reached over, covered the hand holding her purse, and squeezed her fingers. “It was fine when I left, and they’d been gone twenty minutes by then.”

  “I know. I’m worrying for nothing.” She pulled her gaze from the dark streets outside and glanced over. “Thank you for being here. And for putting up with me.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he said, surprised that the words had been so easy to say, and that he hadn’t had to think twice before saying them.

  Thirty-four

  For the life of her, Livia couldn’t figure out what Roland would be doing at Splash & Flambé so long after the boutique had closed. He’d left on time, and he hadn’t said a word about overtime or mentioned anything about coming back to meet Tomás for a late delivery.

  Maybe Finn was right, and Tomás was making up for a shortage on Friday. Since she’d given Roland autonomy when she’d put him in charge of deliveries, he had no reason to report to her every problem he could easily solve.

  She trusted him to handle things. And that was obviously all he’d been doing. She’d walked through the store twice and couldn’t find so much as a hanger spaced wrong.

  The offices were locked tight, the alarm set. She was worrying for nothing, for no reason at all. She needed to stop being such a control freak, really.

  “Stay there. Don’t move,” Finn said from behind her.

  She was standing in the center of the boutique, directly between Splash and Flambé.

  “What?” she asked, turning in time to be blinded by his flash. “Finn, what are you doing?”

  “I want to shoot you here.”

  “In the store?” she asked, and he shot her again. The man was nuts. And she was going to take great pleasure in crushing him if he did that again. “Blinded. I have been blinded by the light.”

  “Talk to me, Olivia,” he said, climbing the two steps into the checkout kiosk. “Tell me about Splash & Flambé.”

  Maybe nuts had been too nice a word. “What about it?”

  “Where you got the inspiration. What it means to you.”

  “And you’re going to take pictures while I’m talking? My big mouth wide open?” she asked, though she was intrigued by his not-so-nutty idea. This was one stage on which she’d have no trouble at all performing.

  “I’m not after your mouth,” he said, with a wink, his hair falling into his face and begging for a cut. “I’m after your eyes. You should see them when you talk about this place.”

  She laughed. Nuttiness really could be cute. “What? They glow yellow like a cat’s or red like a vampire’s? Or they burn like Peter Petrelli’s when he turned radioactive before exploding in outer space?”

  Finn moved his camera to the side and stared at her as if she was speaking another language. “Who the hell is Peter Petrelli?”

  “He’s in Heroes. That was the first season Don’t you watch TV?”

  “No,” he said, snapping her rand
omly while she pranced and preened.

  She had no idea where the burst of energy had come from. Adrenaline, maybe? Relief at having found the boutique all in one piece? “I’ll tell you about Splash & Flambé if you tell me about my eyes.”

  He gave an indulgent shake of his head but moved his eye back to the viewfinder, adjusting the lens to zoom in. “Right now, they’ve got the deep shine of fresh-brewed coffee.”

  “I know they’re brown. What else?” she added, suddenly more interested in how he saw her than in how she appeared to him in these photos.

  “Quid pro quo,” he said. “Give me something about Splash, and I’ll give you more of what I see.”

  She supposed that was fair enough and moved into the side of the boutique featuring women’s fashions. “I love clothes. I always have. The more obscenely wild, the better, and, no, I don’t mean indecent. Just…outrageous, I guess.”

  She ran her fingers over a silk scarf in every imaginable shade of pink, so many that the end result was a riotous clash. “Your turn.”

  “You’ve got the longest lashes I think I’ve ever seen, and don’t spoil my fantasy by telling me they’re fake. Makeup I get. Leave me with the illusion.”

  She laughed. “You’ll have to take more notice in the shower. Or next time you’re beside me when I wake up.”

  “Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind.” He took three shots in rapid succession. “You go.”

  “Let’s see.” She thought back to those days in school before she’d been labeled a slut for what she wore, not for her behavior or even gossip. “I hated seeing girls hide in dowdy clothes, not wanting to call attention to perceived flaws with bright colors or loud patterns.”

  “Maybe they felt more comfortable out of the spotlight.”

  Shuck-shing.

  Shuck-shing.

  “Oh, no doubt. And I’m not saying they would’ve felt better for wearing them, just that I hated seeing the dull and drab, because it seemed to take over their lives.”

  “Whereas bright colors would mean life was beautiful all the time?”

  She glared at him. “I was eight or ten, okay? So, in my world? Yes. Back to you.”