on the sketchpad in front of him. But he was too aware of her, only steps across the room. Through slitted eyes, he let himself take a longer look. Theresa had pulled the shirt down even farther, and the curve of the woman’s breast swelled above the white lace of the bra, which itself barely covered her nipple. His groin tightened as he thought of running his tongue along that satin skin, flicking it across that taut peak….
She winced, and he winced for her. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Pick out something in the room to look at and focus all your attention on that. It’ll take your mind off the pain.”
Most people chose to look at one of the flashes on the wall, but she turned her eyes to him. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She had unusual eyes, gray and slightly almond shaped, luminous against her pale skin and hair. “Tell me about your art,” she said.
He gave her the general spiel he’d uttered hundreds of times before. “Tattooing has been around since ancient Egypt. People decorated their bodies with images for religious, ethnic or simply aesthetic reasons. At times, it’s been considered a rite of passage, or something that marked you as part of a particular group. Sailors and travelers brought the idea of tattooing to Europe and America from the East. Today, it’s as much a matter of fashion as anything, though for some it’s still a sign of rebellion.” His eyes met hers. Was she rebelling against something? Or someone? What was going on in that gorgeous head of hers? “We specialize in custom designs,” he concluded. “We can do just about anything a customer wants.”
“You’re obviously very talented. Some of your work reminds me of Alex Katz.”
Her mention of the New York artist surprised him. “You’re familiar with Katz?”
“Not especially, but my father has some of his work. He collects modern art.” She flinched again as Theresa began work in a new area of the tat.
“Breathe deep,” he reminded her.
She nodded and did so. “Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist and not a painter or maybe a commercial artist?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.
As if etching a design on flesh didn’t take as much—or more—talent as rendering it on paper or in a computer file. “I prefer the human body to more traditional canvases.” It was a stock answer, but not entirely true. “I like to play by my own rules,” he added. “Doing tats lets me do that.”
Her gaze flickered over him, taking in the long hair, the leather. Some women really got off on the whole rebel image; maybe she was one of them. Just like some dudes really went for the innocent-virgin type. But he wasn’t one of them. At least, not before now.
“I imagine you meet some interesting people in this line of work.”
“Uh-huh.” Bikers and college students made up the majority of his clientele, but he got his fair share of businessmen and even the occasional bored housewife. Then there were ones like her, who were harder to classify. “What do you do?”
“I’m a dancer.”
Surprise jolted him. Exotic dancers were also frequent customers, but she didn’t look the type. He took in her trim figure and killer legs, and hazarded a guess. “Since when do ballerinas get tats?”
She smiled and looked pleased. “I do some ballet, but mostly modern dance. Jazz. Hip-hop. Even Latin dance.”
He thought of her dancer’s body. Fluid and graceful. Flexible and strong. The kind of body a man could get lost in….
Don’t go there, Zach. “You must be pretty good if you make a living at it.”
“Right now, I teach at the Austin Academy of Dance. But I have a chance at getting on with a dance company in Chicago. They’re doing a new stage production that combines hip-hop and jazz dance with urban and pop music. Sort of Riverdance meets Stomp. It’s called Razzin’!” Her eyes took on a new light as she spoke, like a student anticipating recess. “They don’t take very many new dancers each year, so to get on with them would really make my career.”
“What do you have to do? Try out, or something?”
“I’ve already had a tryout. Now I have to make it through a three-month internship in Chicago. If I do a good job with that, I can be accepted as an official member of the company.”
It figured she was moving away. Further proof he wasn’t meant to have anything to do with a chick like her. “So is this tat a way of psyching yourself up to ace the internship?”
Little worry lines creased her perfect brow. “Something like that. I’m not worried so much about the internship as getting to Chicago in the first place. My father doesn’t want me to go. In fact, he’s forbidden it.”
The art-collecting father was apparently a bit over-protective. “But you’re twenty-three and can do what you want, right?”
She nodded, though not with any assurance. “I can, but I’d really rather leave home on good terms.”
“Maybe your old man will change his mind.”
“I don’t know. He can be pretty stubborn. And he thinks by saying no he’s protecting me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “It’s my own fault, really. I’ve always lived at home. I’ve let him take care of me. I figure it’s time I stepped out on my own and did what I wanted for a change.”
“Like getting a tattoo.”
She smiled. “Yeah. I guess I just wanted to make a statement, you know?”
“Well this ought to do it.” Theresa shut off the tattoo machine and leaned back to study her work. She gave a satisfied smile and nodded. “Looks good.” She cleaned the new tattoo and applied ointment, then plucked a dressing from a sterile container on the cart. “When you get home, take this dressing off and follow the instructions I’m going to give you. How good this looks depends on the care you give it now.” She taped the dressing in place, then stood. “How do you feel?”
The blonde cautiously rolled her shoulders. “Okay.” She stood. “Thank you.”
“No swimming for two weeks. If you see any kind of blistering or unusual swelling, see a doctor. It’s rare, but sometimes people are allergic to the ink.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you?”
Theresa’s smile broadened. “Oh, you can pay Zach over there.” She nodded toward the counter.
He shot Theresa a go-to-hell look, but her smile only broadened. That was the problem with working with your kid sister—you couldn’t intimidate her for anything.
The blonde made her way over to him, carefully avoiding his gaze, which let him know she was definitely aware of him. The way he was aware of her. “You doing okay?” he asked when she stopped in front of him. She looked pale.
She nodded and handed him a credit card. He took it, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. He didn’t want to risk the kind of reaction he’d had last time they’d made contact.
He wrote up a ticket and slid the card through the reader, then glanced at it before handing it back to her. Jennifer Truitt.
Did
