Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “I’ll let her explain the endowment more, but she might be up at the top. Want to climb with us?” He points around the wall, and we move past a throng of people.

  In the middle of the room, there’s a big, black, spiral staircase that disappears into the ceiling.

  My heart skips. “Yes, I’d love to climb up with you.”

  At the base of the stairs there’s a video display that tells us that we’re at the trail head, halfway up a mountain. And as we take the first few steps, the photographs mounted around the main floor suddenly look like they’re the forest below us, and we really are about to climb a trail.

  The staircase acts as a natural choke point, which means when we get to the second floor there aren’t many people ahead of us. The photographs are printed at full-size scale, some covering an entire wall. Others, like close-up shots, pop out from the dark background as something we should pay attention to.

  By the third floor, I see a pattern. There are no explanations posted with the images. It’s an immersive look at as much of a single mountain as she can give us.

  And all of the focal points show the amazing life on a mountain. A startled marmot, a blooming alpine wildflower, a rushing creek.

  She’s set it up so that the staircases are staggered, front and back and middle, so you aren’t quite sure which way to turn as the trees thin and the landscape gets scrubbier, rockier.

  There’s a palpable energy, knowing you must nearly be at the top.

  This exhibit will make people think about going to find a mountain to climb. It will make people think about meadows and water and forests and, as they reach the sixth floor, it’ll make them think about glaciers in the distance.

  The view here is almost as incredible as it is in real life, and my chest aches.

  Marcus and Poppy are talking about the exhibit, but I drift away from them, wanting to be alone with the pictures.

  They’re perfect. I don’t know how she does it, but you can see the grass blowing in the wind, the rocks tumbling. At the second to last picture, I realize I’m looking at my own footprint in the dirt, because she must have taken it from right behind me, after I crested the peak.

  A little part of me in her masterpiece.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I whisper as Astrid steps right beside me. “How did you do all of this so quickly?”

  “Worked round the clock. Drank a lot of coffee. Paid top dollar for the best trades people. And I called in a lot of favors.”

  “I never imagined it would be this amazing.” I turn and give her a big smile. “Of course I should have known.”

  “It’s all you, actually. My agent tried to talk me out of this because it was too risky. Too expensive. And I thought…what is life without risk? You taught me that.”

  I’m not sure I did, but I like the sound of it. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines lately myself,” I murmur. “But that’s a conversation for later.”

  She steps back and I move out of the exhibit, away from the peak of the mountain around the corner of a dividing wall.

  On the other side is an elevator, and another staircase, this one spiralling all the way back to the first floor in one single, quick descent. Around the base of it I can see people chatting animatedly.

  “How do you want to go down?” I ask as I look up at her face. Damn it, I didn’t mean it like that, but…

  Her laugh starts in her eyes, and she tugs me into an alcove behind the elevator. “In private,” she says, still giggling. Her laugh turns me on just as much as the promise of her mouth between my legs. “And for a very long time. I’ve missed the taste of you.”

  I gasp as she presses me back against the wall and kisses me senseless. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve missed her too. Her taste, her laugh, the ways her eyes crinkle at the corner. Her camera and her amazing vision, too.

  I slide my arms around her waist, over the black silk blouse she’s wearing, then I drop my hands to her hips. Tight pants, firm ass. Yanking her toward me, I press our hips together and push up on my toes.

  Not nearly enough contact. I want to crawl inside her, but there are like five hundred people out there in the gallery who want a piece of her tonight.

  With a sweet, reluctant groan, she presses her forehead against mine. “Later, yes?”

  “Yes.” I savor the last taste of her lips before she eases back and gives me an uncharacteristically dorky grin.

  “I’m so happy to see you.”

  I catch her hand and lift her fingers up so I can kiss them. “Go and see your adoring public. I’ll be the girl crushing on you from the back of the room. And when you finish up, we’ll have all night together.”

  “There’s a lot more for you to see downstairs. We’ve got a whole wall about the business model behind this gallery. Museum. Gallery museum? We’re still working out the language.” She steps back and fixes her blouse. “How do I look?”

  “Perfect. Do I look like I just scored with the artist of the night?”

  She laughs and tangles her fingers in mine as we step back into the hallway. From the other end of the top floor, Marcus waves.

  Astrid squeezes my hand. I return the warm grip.

  “So is this a Dane cousin initiative?” I’m still a little confused on how they can afford it.

  Astrid nods. “Entirely self-funded by revenue generated by private-public partnerships that use venture capital funds, with a small percentage earmarked for DEEP projects.”

  And my confusion isn’t helped at all by that answer. “Tell me later.”

  “It’s really—”

  I stop at the top of the stairs and lean in, brushing my lips against her ear. “What I mean by that is, tell me when we’re naked.”

  Her cheeks turn pink. “Deal.”

  “Now go. Be amazing.”

  I watch her descend the stairs, and when the crowd below realizes she’s coming down, they applaud like crazy.

  Marcus stops beside me.

  I look at him. He looks at me. We both smile.

  I am a risk-taking, mountain-climbing, entirely-unreliable ex-employee. “I’m really happy,” I finally say.

  “I can tell.”

  “I’m going back to Vancouver soon.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And I’m falling in love with your cousin.”

  He nods, his eyes warm. “Amazing.”

  “Do you have a secret venture capital firm?”

  He just laughs and gestures at the stairs. “You’re missing a great party down there.”

  Fine. I’ll leave Poppy to figure out the rest of the mystery that is Marcus. I have my own Dane cousin to investigate in great detail.

  Great, naked, personal detail.

  I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I’m pretty sure if I spend the rest of it chasing Astrid up and down mountains, I’ll be blissfully happy.

  And maybe it’s time for me to resurrect my Twitter account, too.

  Thank you!

  Thank you for reading Personal Proposal!

  This was my first f/f romance, and it was a joy to write. The story where Marcus and Poppy meet (Personal Disaster) is available in the first Rogue Hearts anthology, Rogue Desire.

  Most of my stories are m/f romances, but if you enjoy my LGBTQ+ voice, I recommend reading Full Mountie next. It’s a poly-MMF triad relationship exploration that was also a joy to write. There’s a theme there! I love writing about love in all its wonderful combinations.

  If you would like to hear more about my future stories, definitely sign up for my newsletter at www.smarturl.it/AinsleyMail.

  And…turn the page for a more detailed description of my books!

  Also by Ainsley Booth

  If you like Canadian erotic romance with enthusiastic consensual kink…

  * * *

  Frisky Beavers

  Retrosexual

  Prime Minister

  Dr. Bad Boy

  Full Mountie

  M
r. Hat Trick

  * * *

  If you like romantic, modern, billionaire fairy tale romances…

  * * *

  Billionaire Secrets

  Personal Delivery

  Personal Escort

  Personal Disaster

  * * *

  If you like intense, off-limits book boyfriends…

  * * *

  Forbidden Bodyguards

  Hate F*@k

  Booty Call

  Dirty Love

  * * *

  For more information on all my books, please visit my website at: http://www.ainsleybooth.com/

  Work of Heart

  Olivia Dade

  About This Book

  Down-on-her-luck artist Jenny Meyers will do almost anything for money. Wrangle balloon parakeets at children's parties? Fine. Recreate a portrait of Napoleon for a detestable presidential candidate? Sure. But when that politician pays her from his charity, Jenny balks...and contacts the most trusted and swoon-worthy investigative reporter around. David Redi knows an explosive political scandal when he sees one, but he never expected a career-making tip to come from an effervescent portrait painter with the eyes of a freakin’ cartoon princess. A romance with his source would wreck his credibility, but Jenny is the one lead he can’t refuse to follow. And soon it’s not only truth, justice, and liberty at stake—it’s love.

  1

  Good thing Larry Bigelow hadn’t demanded any more sittings after today. Jenny was running out of visual metaphors to indicate the infinitesimal size and flaccid status of his dick.

  “Bigelow Tower cost more than any other hotel in history.” He slid his right hand a little further into his ridiculous waistcoat. “The people here in D.C. had never seen anything like it before.”

  Instead of flicking her wrist in a jerk-off motion, as she longed to do, she concentrated on painting a tiny, drooping ecru mushroom at the edge of the forest.

  “The rooms are beyond compare. Huge. Everyone says so.”

  That was it. She was definitely making the fall of his breeches appear concave. Just a little smudge of gray, a hint of shadow, and…done. “Hmmm.”

  “Since we finished construction, we haven’t had a single vacancy.” He tilted his chin up another centimeter. “It’s a remarkable achievement.”

  Doubtful, given the lack of foot traffic she’d seen in the lobby. Unless the guests at his hotel spent all their time hiding in shame due to their choice of accommodations.

  Jenny considered that an understandable decision.

  Bigelow’s assistant, a woman named Kristi, checked her cell. “Thirty minutes until your interview with David Redi, sir.”

  Pursing her lips, Jenny sat back to consider the painting. Should she add another mushroom? Or a sickly-looking, bent tree? One with inexplicable bulbous lesions on its bark?

  In a way, she hated implying that Bigelow’s penis was small and soft and disease-ridden. There was absolutely nothing wrong with undersized and/or limp penises; she’d encountered a few in her non-professional life and found them both useful and enjoyable, especially after her partners had ingested any necessary blue pills. And God knew STDs could happen to even the most wonderful people.

  “Redi’s a nasty piece of work. I have half a mind to cancel the interview.” Bigelow sniffed. “Maybe I can get him fired.”

  Bigelow, however, was not one of those people. She’d seen footage of his raucous, frightening rallies and read transcripts of his speeches. Enraged by the media’s critical scrutiny, he wanted not just the dismissal of an honest, hardworking reporter, but the wholesale abridgement of the nation’s free press. His proposed policies would allow overt racism and religious bigotry to take a firmer grip on the country. They would deprive her and so many other vulnerable Americans of health insurance. They would hurt women and the disabled and anyone who wasn’t exactly like Larry Bigelow: white, male, able-bodied, wealthy, and nominally Christian.

  And a man like him, a narcissist and sexist to the marrow of his bones, believed his supposed virility crucial to his supposed appeal, key to his supposed qualifications for the presidency, and integral to his supposed power. He portrayed himself as a dominant, handsome male animal with a big, stiff, flawless dick, and his ego depended on that perception. He’d hate any tiny-dick—or limp-dick, or diseased-dick—imputations.

  So she was putting them everywhere. In the library painting, the bowl on his desk contained a withered baby eggplant slumped against a crooked carrot. In the forest painting, small mushrooms wilted and bent under the weight of their pockmarked caps.

  If any justice existed in the world, his penis looked just like those mushrooms. She’d never know for sure, thank God.

  He turned his head and arched an eyebrow. “You’re almost done, Jenna?”

  “One more moment.”

  A swipe of her brush, and the very tip of a golden horn peeked from underneath his absurd sweep of hair. Then another on the opposite side, too subtle to be seen by anyone not looking for clues to her state of mind.

  All these touches wouldn’t make it to the final painting, the one she’d complete at her home studio with oils instead of acrylics. No, she’d dutifully recreate Jacques-Louis David’s The Emperor Napoleon in His Study at the Tuileries with the French dictator’s face replaced by that of a would-be American dictator. She’d do the same with David’s Napoleon Crossing the Alps, removing all traces of the incongruous forest and unfortunate mushrooms. Then she’d create similar paintings for all Bigelow’s cronies, who’d clamored for her contact information once he boasted about his personal portrait artist.

  She could have done the same exact job if they’d e-mailed her a few selfies, as all the other clients of Artify Yourself! did. Inserting random people’s faces into famous paintings didn’t require a great deal of time or preparation. But Bigelow—and thus his friends—had wanted the cachet of a private sitting, and she’d needed the money such arrangements produced.

  So here she was, creating a painting out of sheer spite, one that would never be seen by anyone outside this ostentatious room. And she sincerely hoped equally few people would see the final product, innocuous as it would prove.

  Enough was enough. She’d playacted painting for a decent length of time.

  “All done.” She laid down her brush on her palette. “The rest I can finish at home.”

  Bigelow strutted to her side of the easel, and she backed a safe distance away. His ruddy face twisted in a frown.

  Oh, Jesus, had he noticed all her rebellious touches? Or the inaccuracy of the forest and the bowl of veggies in the study? Or the way she’d used acrylics, instead of oil, after all of them had nearly suffocated from turpentine fumes during the first sitting?

  The windows in his damn hotel didn’t open. As much money as he claimed to have poured into the place, he really should have fixed that.

  He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed on the painting.

  She’d bet that he knew nothing about paints or portraiture or art in general, that he wouldn’t notice anything but his own face—and that the sight of that face would be enough to please him. God knew he’d plastered it enough places around the hotel.

  But maybe he understood more than she’d imagined. Maybe—

  “Looks great.” His arm snaked around her shoulder, tugging her to his side with such force she stumbled. “How soon will it be ready?”

  Her flesh crawled, and she jerked away from him. “I need to do preliminary sittings for your”—sycophants—“friends, and then I’ll get to work on your paintings again. Two weeks should be enough.”

  She could almost see his momentary interest in her disappear. “Kristi, give her the check, and then get her stuff out of here. When I come back, I expect to see this mess gone.”

  Two expressionless dudes emerged from a side room and began heaving her supplies onto a small cart, the portrait-in-progress thrown on top with casual unconcern.

  Another reason to use quick-drying, inexpensive a
crylics for these faux-paintings. For all the money he was spending on them, he and his people didn’t treat her canvases and supplies with any care. Then again, she preferred acrylics for her personal work too, so she wasn’t complaining.

  Bigelow headed for the entrance to the suite of rooms, beefy bodyguards falling into place behind him. And then she was alone with Kristi and a few of his other underlings in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, a gold-encrusted space with hard furniture chosen to impress but not welcome.

  The woman, dark bags under her eyes, handed Jenny a check for half the agreed-upon price of the portraits. The rest of the money would arrive once the final paintings did, and that was reason enough to hurry. Without the check, she could barely afford the paints she’d need to finish the damn portraits.

  Why they hadn’t paid her online, she had no idea. Maybe they simply enjoyed a certain feeling of beneficence and superiority whilst bestowing checks upon peasants in exchange for their meager services.

  Jenny glanced at the check, prepared to shove it into her bag, gather her supplies, and flee as quickly as possible.

  Then she paused, hand halfway to her battered purse.

  The amount of the check was correct, to her relief. She’d half-expected Bigelow to claim they’d agreed upon a lower fee. And Jenna Meyers was close enough to Jenny Meyers that the bank wouldn’t quibble.

  But…what in the world?

  When she’d called herself a peasant, she hadn’t meant it literally.

  “Kristi? I think there’s been a mistake.”

  Bigelow’s assistant had already begun directing the removal of the easel and the tarp underneath, and she turned toward Jenny with lips thinned in impatience. “Yes?”

  “I know I didn’t dress to impress.” Jenny glanced down at her paint-splashed coveralls and ratty Chucks, the practical gear she always wore while painting. “But I’m not sure I can officially be considered a charity.”