his exploits famous.
Was he trying to impress her? If so, bad try. She’d made it obvious that she wasn’t the kind of girl who’d be impressed by an inherited position and wealth, even if the family company had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy when he’d taken over and he’d saved his mother and sisters from having to downgrade to coach class.
“I don’t follow the society and financial sections,” Mia said. “But I am sorry for your loss.”
Her voice had softened. There was only sincerity behind it. Not a hint of the inner calculation over how much he was worth and whether she could snag him—reactions he’d come to recognize at fifty paces.
Julian gave his rolled-up sleeves a brisk shove. “Thanks.”
Mia’s eyes met his, and for a moment a warm current flowed between them, sweet and pure, unadulterated by her flip remarks and the surface charm of his initial attempts at seduction, which suddenly seemed rather puerile.
Petra clacked toward them. “Julian, you must join us. The shoot’s breaking up, and Victor and I are taking the Sugar High team out for drinks.”
“Not this time, Petra.” He didn’t want to take his eyes off Mia. Certainly not to schmooze a bunch of ad guys.
“Julian…” Petra’s dark red lips pooched out. She moved herself into his line of sight, cutting off Mia. “I know it’s a bore. But they have bought a six-page spread in the December issue, and Victor’s minions are working on a long-term contract for future ad campaigns…”
Yammer, yammer, yammer. Julian let Petra rattle on, but he wasn’t listening. He was watching Mia, who’d moved onto the set to lean over the model’s dais and begin removing the hard candies. The overalls pulled snugly across her derriere. Even in baggy denim, Mia Kerrigan was all T&A, as ready for plucking as a ripe plum. But she was no easy fruit who’d fall into his open arms after one shake. She was a lofty reward he’d really have to work for, tantalizingly out of reach until a final, supreme effort delivered her to his arms….
Making the first taste of her juicy flesh all the sweeter.
The model rose off her perch, full breasts swinging as she shimmied into the robe Cress held out for her. Julian barely registered the outstanding multicolored body that made the other spectators gape. There was a smattering of appreciative applause as she stepped off the set like a queen, Cress holding her hand aloft.
The pair disappeared behind a door in the darkened part of the vast studio. A murmur of satisfaction came from the suits, while the photographer and production team carried on without comment. For them, a gorgeous nude woman, even one tricked out like a gingerbread house, was business as usual.
For Mia Kerrigan, too.
Another good reason for Julian to explore her world. Thoroughly.
“Julian?” Petra faked a light laugh. “You’re not usually so distracted. I suppose I don’t have to ask why.”
He nodded. Let her think that. “This cover should fly off the stands.”
“It’s not exactly a new concept.” Petra’s sniping tone betrayed tendrils of jealousy, even though she was usually good at giving off the modern woman’s anything-goes, live-for-the-moment, no-commitment vibe. “Demi Moore did it on the cover of Vanity Fair ages ago.”
“We’re doing it better.” He paused. “Thanks to Mia Kerrigan. Where did you find her?”
“The artist? Oh, I don’t know. She was in someone’s Rolodex, I suppose. I think she’d done body painting for the ad campaign of a makeup company. Living Color.” Petra shrugged. “Her fee was outrageous.”
“She’s worth it.”
Petra’s eyes narrowed as she followed Julian’s gaze and realized that perhaps it wasn’t the model he was slavering over. “Oh really?”
“As art director, I’m surprised you don’t agree.”
“But I do. The cover will be…spectacular. I was only saying it’s not a new idea.”
“Hard Candy should do a body-painting feature. A fashion spread, all in paint. I can speak to the managing editor about it, if you’re not keen on the idea.”
Petra smiled. “No, no, I’d love to make the proposal. It’s a spectacular idea.”
“Spectacular,” Julian echoed, watching Mia walk to the back of the studio with her arms wrapped around a half dozen containers of edible paint.
“The crowds grow restless.” Petra touched his shoulder. “We really should go.”
“You should. I don’t have to.” Once more, Julian counted himself lucky to be the boss. Sometimes, the burden was worth it. “Though I will step over to make my apologies.”
As they walked toward the ad group, he touched Petra lightly on the arm, accustomed as he was to escorting the women of his family. Her face took on a glow that he could no longer attribute to the strobe lights. Those were being shut down one by one.
Apparently, Petra still carried a torch for him. Damn. So that’s why his father had always said not to dip his pen into company ink. Once again, the old man’s advice proved to be true.
Julian grimaced. A couple of years ago, after the Hard Candy launch party, he’d found himself alone in a chauffeured company car with Petra after they’d dropped off other members of the staff. She’d come on to him as if he’d been catnip, finishing up with an invitation to her place. He’d gone.
An obligatory dinner date had followed, then another night of Catwoman sex, then comments at the office about the scratches on his neck. Julian had realized the affair was getting complicated. Petra had surprised him by ending it before he did, parading a new model—an impossibly handsome twentysomething print model, in fact—past his office door.
Julian had been relieved to be replaced. Much later, he’d learned that he was supposed to have been jealous. Behind her mask of cool, Petra hadn’t forgiven him for that mistake.
“THE DOMINATRIX has her claws in him,” Cress said over the sound of rushing water.
“Quit looking.” Regretfully, Mia dumped liquid chocolate into the deep sink instead of sticking her face into the bucket like a horse at a trough. She was trying Atkins for the sixth time in an effort to take off her stubborn excess poundage. The water thinned the rich concoction and swirled it down the drain. “I don’t care what they’re doing.”
Cress ignored her. “Ouch. He tried to get away and she grabbed him by the buttons. Or maybe the nipples. Her hands are all over him—pretending she cares about his stained shirt. Aha. Now she’s pressing up against him, ‘helping’ with his suit coat—”
“Cress. I do not care.”
“She’s buttoning him up. Smoothing the coat over his shoulders. Clinging to his arm, doing the boob-press thing. Ooh, that bitch.”
“I’m not gonna look,” Mia said.
“They’re leaving.”
Mia
