“You want to paint me?”

“Sort of…” With a bashful grimace, Mia took Julian by one arm and led him to the tarp. “I also want to taste you.”

“Taste me?”

“To see if I’ve gotten the flavors of the body paints right.”

“And how will we test that?” He moved in to kiss her, but Mia stuck a brush between them, making a broad swipe of glistening red paint across his chest. Then she layered a stripe of warm midnight-dark liquid next to it.

“Bittersweet chocolate and strawberry. Always a good combination.” She plopped another full load of the paint onto his chest, watching with an almost scientific interest as a rivulet ran across his stomach to pool at his navel just inside the waistband of his shorts.

“Maybe you should take them off.” Her round cheeks pinkened. “In the name of science.”

“Maybe you should take them off,” he replied. His voice dropped, grating in his tight throat. “In the name of sex.”

Dear Reader,

You might be wondering about the title of this book. Taste Me. Rather provocative, isn’t it? Try being the author who must answer “Taste Me” when asked about her next title! Blaze leads me down some very interesting paths….

Just as Mia does to Julian in Taste Me. She’s an outlandish creative type and he’s the conservative CEO who’s ready to follow her anywhere—even to the world of edible body painting. No slouch as a Blaze heroine, Mia’s thrilled to experiment on the man who’s been named one of the country’s hottest bachelors. This book is a continuation of my SEX & CANDY miniseries (with all new characters), so you know the fun doesn’t stop there.

Mmm. Taste me.

That’s the book talking—I swear!

Carrie Alexander

P.S. Look for my next Blaze SEX & CANDY book, Unwrapped, in December, and go online to www.carriealexander.com to enter my contests and subscribe to the Get Carried Away e-newsletter.

Taste Me
Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

THE WET PAINTBRUSH hovered above the woman’s bare breast, then dabbed down, adding another coating of goop to her perky nipple so it looked like a shiny red cherry. A glistening globule broke free and rolled along the curve of the most perfectly shaped breast Julian Silk had ever seen. He could hardly believe his eyes.

“Damn!” The artist pressed her finger to the painted breast to stop the runaway drip, making the woman’s flesh jiggle slightly. Stretched out on her side, the model didn’t move, except to stifle a yawn.

One of the assistants darted in with a handful of Q-tips to repair the mistake.

“Cress!” the artist called. She removed her finger and stepped back, giving the model an evaluating stare. She held an open palm under the gooey paintbrush. “I need more cornstarch in the cherry paint, Cress. It’s too thin. Angelika’s thighs are streaking.”

Julian looked. The model’s thighs were also perfect. Not as perfect as the breasts, because Julian was a breast man, but perfect enough to make him want to wrap his hands around them and lick from stem to stern. That the thighs happened to be painted with candy-cane stripes had nothing to do with it.

He couldn’t say the same about the words TASTE ME, which were written out in silver nonpareils that framed the perfect little belly button on her tight, flat tummy.

Julian shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, giving himself a little more room down there. So this was why the X chromosomes on the Hard Candy staff had staged a Nerf ball tournament to decide who got to “supervise” the December cover shoot.

Victor Noone, the magazine’s advertising sales director, looked up from a consultation with a contingent from Sugar High, the up-and-coming candy company that was buying heavily into the gala holiday issue. “Julian! Please join us.”

At the sound of his name, a female head snapped to. Petra Lombardi, the Hard Candy art director, hurried over. “I didn’t know you planned to be here, Julian.” Her voice was like sliding silk, her heels staccato spikes. Silver-blond hair and milky skin looked an even whiter shade of pale against a black leather suit with dainty silver buckles. Petra was a woman of sharp contrasts and biting smiles. Attractive, but potentially poisonous. After a short-term exposure, Julian had developed a resistance.

“You must say hello to the Sugar High executives.” She took his arm. “And our creative team, of course.”

Julian cast another lingering look at the photo set before letting Petra tug him away. The reclining model was arranged on a satin-draped tabletop. Every inch of her skin had been coated in glorious color—edible paint, he’d been told. A team of black-clad assistants, wielding paper cones of frosting as glue, rapidly affixed assorted hard candies to her body, decorating her in stripes, scallops and swirls. Even the model’s hair was transformed, pulled back into a knot, sprayed white and strung with strings of candy dots.

The woman with the paintbrush hovered over a long table set to one side, out of the heat of the lights. The surface was chockablock with painting implements and small buckets of the sugary concoctions in a rainbow of hues. A young black man with sunglasses perched atop his shaved head was shaking a box of cornstarch into a plastic bucket.

The artist stirred the red syrup, lifted a long-handled spoon high to test the thickness, then licked a dab off her pinkie. She nodded at her cohort. “Thanks, Cress. That’s better.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “We can’t have streaky thighs.”

“Julian?” purred Petra. She squeezed his arm, her sharp burgundy nails narrowly missing skin as they bit into his rolled-up cuff.

“Coming,” he said, without moving.

The artist glanced at him. Not a startled look, nor an eager one. She merely glanced once and looked away without reaction, as if he were just another boring plebeian she had to put up with while creating her masterpiece.

Julian forgot about the nude model. “Who is that?” he asked Petra.

“The body painter. Mia Somebody.”

Some body, indeed. Even though she was clad in a pair of shapeless overalls and high-top red sneakers, it was obvious that Mia the body painter was her own work of art. Her face was button-cute and topped by a mop of black ringlets. She was short, but her legs went all the way up to a pert bottom. The bib of her overalls bagged over a baby-doll undershirt that clung to breasts that might have been as bodacious as the model’s if he could get a really good look at them.

While Mia may have been aware of Julian’s interest, she wasn’t standing still for a leisurely inspection. Now that the cherry paint had been adjusted to her taste, she flitted between the model and the paint table, making adjustments and adding color, perfecting every splotch and candy dot of her creation while the bald assistant followed, spraying the model’s completed parts until she was as lacquered and shining as a French glycée tart.

And all the while, Mia Some Body continued to show no interest whatsoever in the presence of Julian Silk, CEO of Silk Publications and such a dashing, sought-after playboy that he’d recently been named one of Celebrity Gossip magazine’s Hottest Bachelors of the Year.

Not that he cared for that tripe. The publicity was mildly annoying and even embarrassing, particularly when it led to dazzled young women stopping him on the street to take photos or to have him autograph their bras. He didn’t want to be a sex symbol celebrity, even for fifteen minutes of fame. His conservative board of directors had let it be known they felt the same.

On the other hand, Mia’s complete disregard was humbling. And rather inspiring.

For the first time in months, Julian was roused to prove to a woman just how irresistible he could be.

“THE UMBRELLA over that strobe should be adjusted.” Mia Kerrigan gnawed her knuckle as she watched the photographer direct his assistants as they finished lighting the cover shot. “There’s too much shine coming off the paint.”

“Out of your hands, sweetheart,” Cress said. Even though they were standing off the set and out of the glare, he slid his Gucci aviator sunglasses into place. He claimed the bright lights hurt his eyes. Mia thought he just wanted to look cool for Angelika, a top model they’d worked with before, but who was too pricey to be one of Mia’s regulars.

“I want this to be perfect.” Mia was used to photographing her own artwork when she staged body-painting sessions in her home studio. But the money she got for freelance jobs was so attractive that she’d resigned herself to giving up creative control of the end product.

With a sigh, she reminded herself that Phil Shavers, the photographer the magazine had chosen, was one of the hottest in the business. Angelika would look gorgeous on the cover of Hard Candy, the sexy new men’s lifestyle magazine. A truly edible feast. If the glazed eyes and openmouthed expressions of the spectators were typical, the magazine’s young, buff, upwardly mobile readers would want to ravish the model like a pack of hungry wolves.

“It’s perfect,” Cress said, being completely sincere, unlike the toadies who’d gathered around. Cress’s taste was impeccable…for a raging heterosexual.

Reminded of why she hired the photo stylist whenever it was financially viable, and relied on him as a friend the rest of the time, Mia stood on her toes to throw an arm around Cress’s thin shoulders. She gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“Ugh. You’re all sticky.”

She licked his jaw. Sugar granules melted on her tongue. “So are you.”

He gave her a squeeze. “Let’s go shower off.”

“Not until the shoot is over. We might need to do touch-ups if Angelika starts to melt. Her butt is already looking globby.”

Cress managed an obvious leer from behind the sunglasses. “Says you.”

“Get her number yet?”

“She slipped me her card.”

“Before or after you gave her the Brazilian?” Mia needed her models to be as slick as porpoises from head to toe. Cress had developed a magic touch with the hot wax—one of his many skills.

“Models appreciate a man with gentle hands,” he gloated.

“Uh-huh. Nothing says you’re special like ripping out stray pubic hairs.”

Satisfied that the shoot was under control for the moment, Mia turned away to sort out her table of supplies. There were paints in every flavor—cherry, lime, grape, orange, three shades of chocolate. She was fully stocked with penny candy, as well. Sugar High, the candy company that was underwriting the cover as a heavy advertiser, had sent over a box of product for her use. To be doubly sure she’d have every color and shape under the sun, Mia had sent Cress out for an even larger variety. He’d gone wild at Sweet Something, a popular candy store in the Village, and come back with enough hard candy to decorate a hundred models plus their agents.

The unusually large amount of ingredients and supplies had maxed out Mia’s credit card, but she’d get the cost back a hundredfold when the check from the magazine was cut. If she was lucky, there’d be enough to pay her rent for a couple of months and still put a good chunk aside for the complicated multimodel tableau she’d already sketched out for the International Body Painting Expo coming up in a couple of months. With an attention-grabbing Hard Candy cover on the horizon, a good showing at the expo would shoot Mia to stardom in the body-painting community.

Big frog in a small pond, her father would say, if you can be satisfied with that. Pastor Robert Kerrigan ran his church and congregation like a Fortune 500 company. He believed in sticking to the rules and striving for the highest level of success, in any field.

Mia believed in breaking the rules and playing her life by ear. “Happy frog,” she mumbled.

“What?” Cress said, appearing at her elbow.

She gave him her biggest grin. “Can I book you now for the expo? It’s the first week in October. I must assemble the best team possible to have a chance at the gold medal in the group category.”

Cress sniffed. “I’ll have to check my schedule. I’m much in demand these days.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, right, Vogue called and I forgot to tell you.” He slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at Mia over the frames. “Of course I’ll do it. You’re my homie.”

Mia flicked a paintbrush at him. Cressley Godwin IV was from a family as well-off as her own. They’d met years ago in private school, two misfits more interested in the arts and independence than shopping for designer labels on Daddy’s dime and doing Ecstasy at dance clubs. Cress talking ’hood style was like Mia trying to carry on a coherent conversation with her mother’s French classics book club.

Cress frowned at the lime flecks on his champagne-colored raw silk shirt. “You got paint on me. The sugar will spot.”

Mia handed him a sponge. “Send me the dry-cleaning bill, homie.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I will.”

“Touch-ups!” screeched the photographer.

Mia grabbed the bucket of cherry paint and the air brush. “Bring the vanilla paint and the gelatin glaze. We need to layer another coat on Angelika’s southern hemisphere.”

“Have glaze, will travel to uncharted territories,” Cress muttered as he followed her to the set. “Just like Lewis and Clark.”

Mia began to spray the model’s striped thighs. “Or Stanley and Livingstone.”

“Livingstone got lost in the jungle. I’ve never met a thicket I couldn’t conquer.” Cress smiled at the model. “Isn’t that right, my angel?”

Angelika giggled. Most models giggled around Cress, who first made them his friends and then got them to take him home. He claimed that once they were in bed together, the typical supermodel soon forgot that they had six inches of height on him. His prowess supposedly dazzled them. Mia believed that his girlfriends had a shortage of brain cells to start with.

“Mmm-hmm.” Mia pointed the nozzle of her spray gun at the twenty-one-year-old’s plucked pubis and squeezed the trigger. Usually, the models wore tiny unobtrusive thongs no bigger than an eye patch, but going without produced a cleaner look.

When a model was willing to pose sans thong, Mia was careful to shoot only tastefully arranged poses. While she had much appreciation for the sensual aspects of body painting, gratuitous salaciousness frosted her cookies. Her art came first, not Hard Candy’s horn-dog target audience.

She shot a glare at the gaggle of onlookers. Huh. Several were edging closer, wanting a better look at the tempting display. Mia turned her backside to them while she worked, deliberately blocking their view of Angelika. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with the sniggers and bawdy comments that were typical of a nonprofessional audience.

“Okay, looks like we’re good,” she said a few moments later, after Cress had made a final pass with the protective gelatin glazing medium.

The photographer darted in and adjusted a peppermint-swirl candy by an infinitesimal degree. “Now we’re good. Clear set!”

Mia rolled her eyes at Cress as she backed away. She bumped into one of the spectators, who put his hand on her butt and said, “Careful, sweet cheeks.”

Gross. Pretending to be startled, Mia whirled around and let go with a spurt of the cherry-flavored paint. It sprayed across the starched shirtfront and loosened tie of a tall, dark-haired man, barely missing another of the onlookers when he lunged out of the way.

“Hey!” the lunger said. He brushed at the sleeve of an expensive suit. “Watch what you’re doing. You might have stained my Hugo Boss.”

Although she’d been on the verge of a smart retort, Mia snapped her mouth shut. She recognized the voice of the man she’d missed as the one who’d made the “sweet cheeks” comment and had assumed he was also the ass-patter. Wrong.

She aimed an apologetic shrug at the man she’d sprayed and was startled to recognize him. He was the guy who’d arrived late and stared so intently that he’d broken her concentration. Quite an achievement. Typically, she lost herself in the artwork and had to be snapped out of her trance by Cress or an extremely fatigued model.

“Uh,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

“Me, too,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to grab your butt. I was just trying to stop you from backing into me.”

She felt less sorry, but he was smiling at her, and his smile was pretty damn charming, so she wasn’t mad, either. His voice was nicer than the other guy’s, too. Deep, rich and smooth, like buttered rum. There was something familiar about his face. Maybe she’d run into him at another shoot?

Even so, he was only a suit. Albeit a cherry-flavored suit.

“I’ve wrecked your shirt.” Mia reached for his arm. “Come over here, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Shouldn’t I lick myself clean, like a cat?” the man said, letting her lead him to her table. He lifted the end of his tie to his mouth and took an experimental taste. His mouth puckered. “Uh, maybe not. I thought the paint’s supposed to be edible.”

“Technically it is,” Mia said. “But I wouldn’t want to eat it with a spoon.” She squeezed out one of the soapy sponges they kept on hand. “We’re more concerned with looks and application than the actual taste.”

“So it’s not a good idea if I set the Sugar High execs loose on—” the man nodded toward Angelika “—our holiday treat?”

Mia glanced sharply at him while she dabbed at his tie. “That would be in bad taste all the way around.”

“I was kidding.”

“Of course you were.” She tossed the tails of the tie over his shoulder, trying not to notice how wide and square it was. She normally wasn’t attracted to the men who huddled in conference at photo shoots, even when they were distractingly gorgeous. But this one had more than a thoroughbred body and a handsome face. He possessed black-licorice eyes struck with starbursts of good humor and the male version of a Mona Lisa smile. He was self-aware, not merely self-involved like the usual suit.

Then he ruined it by saying, “I’m Julian Silk,” as if she should be impressed.

Julian Silk? Uh-oh. She’d spray-attacked the man who’d be signing her current paycheck.

Never mind, she told herself, remembering that she wasn’t impressed with either power or money. She’d decided that nine years ago when she’d chosen art school instead of the Ivy League, despite her parents’ protests. She’d been on her own ever since.

“Hey, wow,” she said. “Congratulations.”

Mr. Silk gave a surprised half laugh. “Congratulations for what?”

“The stork must have loved you.” Mia tilted her head. “Being born into the Silk family is a little like winning the lottery, don’t you think? If I’m impressed, it’s only by your luck.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”

She plucked at his shirtfront to hold it away from his body while she scrubbed at the stain. Mr. Silk stood quite still, but not tense, nor embarrassed. Perfectly casual and unconcerned, as if he were used to being attended to. Which, of course, he was. The man was so sharp and well put together that there had to be a team of tailors, barbers, workout gurus and maybe even plastic surgeons at his behest.

He made a motion, lifting his hand to his lips and then flinging it away.

She squinted an eye at him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking the silver spoon out of my mouth so you’ll talk to me.”

Behind her, Mia heard Cress smother a laugh. “It would be extremely idiotic of me to be rude to the man who can have me hired and fired,” she said.

“Then you know who I am.”

She sighed. “Now I do.”

“After I told you.” He ruminated on that, lifting one corner of lips so handsomely carved they belonged in the Louvre. “Dumb move. I was enjoying the anonymity.”

“Uh-huh.” But he’d just had to pull the I’m-rich-and-in-charge card. She suppressed another eye roll and redirected her attention to getting the stains off his shirt. They’d faded to pink.

Unfortunately, when his mouth was distracting her, she’d dabbed with too much force and had dampened the fabric to the point where it was almost see-through. The wet cotton clung to his abdomen. She had to scrape the material off with her fingers, pressing them into a slab of corrugated muscle that made her temperature rise beyond acceptable core-activity levels.

“What does ‘uh-huh’ mean?” Mr. Smooth-as-Silk asked, still completely oblivious to the potentially intimate situation. He probably thought of her like the tailor who measured his inseam and asked if he dressed to the right or left.

But he had cupped her ass.

“It means that you’re one of those types,” she said. Scrub, scrub. Her knuckles rubbed his abs. “The ones who are just so, you know, sick of being catered to, kowtowed to and sucked up to. You want to be one of the guys. A regular Joe.” But not really. “And as for women—”

She stopped, reminding herself to breathe, then forgetting to as soon as Julian Silk looked down at her. His black-as-sin eyes gleamed. “Please continue. What about the women? They want me only for my money?”

“Hardly.” Mia gave one final swipe of the sponge. “They want you for your money, your social standing and your looks. Which means that, as the proverbial total package, you can’t pin down your dissatisfaction so easily. But you’re bored with high-maintenance socialites and ambitious starlets. You’re restless. You need more. Suddenly, you’re thinking it’s time to taste the earthy flavors of a working-class girl.”

Mia patted his abdominals regretfully. They were lovely.

He drew in a noticeable breath. “Hmm. Interesting analysis. Are you offering?”

“Not me. But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding willing prospects, Mr. Silk. Perhaps even in this room.” Mia turned away from his intent stare, more flustered than she wanted him to see. Cress was stirring a cup of the chocolate paint, watching her with more than idle curiosity.

Oh damn. She’d been a smart-ass. When would she learn to keep her head down and her mouth shut?

“Call me Julian.” He slipped his tie off his shoulder, sliding his hand along the silk length in a way that made her wonder what he’d be like in bed, running his hands over her thighs.

“Sure.”

“Or maybe not.” His tone was dry. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m too egalitarian.”

She shrugged, feeling the warm pink in her cheeks.

Julian gave her a long look, then turned and took several steps before stopping to glance back at her. He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. You’re fired.”

2

THE ROUND-BOTTOMED pixie’s mouth dropped open. Twin sparks appeared in her vivid peacock-blue eyes. Julian almost smiled. He’d shocked her, as intended.

“Unless you tell me your name,” he added. His palm went automatically to his wet shirtfront, as if that would quell the interesting sensations she’d set off inside him with her diligent scrubbing.

“Or I could just call you the laundry maid,” he said to provoke her further. There was a bit of the devil in him today—and she’d put it there. Before her, he’d been coasting on boredom, having everything in his empire but his crazy sisters under control.

With her tart tongue, quick mind and ripe figure, Mia Some Body was an intriguing prospect. Soon to be a satisfying conquest, when she’d received a full blast of his charm-her-pants-off charisma. He supposed that was conceited, but false modesty was a waste of time when the truth was that he hadn’t met a woman yet who could resist, as Mia had said, the full Julian Silk package.

Ahem. He’d better get his mind off full packages before his own became blatantly apparent.

“I’m no servant,” Mia said. She looked as if she might be grinding her teeth.

“Naturally. But I can hire and fire your delectable ass. You said so yourself.”

She blinked hard, widening her eyes to half-dollar size. “I don’t recall discussing delectable asses.”

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “An oversight on my part.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Do you see me laughing?”

Mia glanced at her cohort, the lithe young man she’d called Cress. He’d slid the sunglasses off his nose and was watching them with astonishment, the earpieces dangling down so the glasses hung under his chin like a chrome beard.

Mia motioned to the man. “Start packing up. Looks like the shoot is almost over.”

Julian cleared his throat.

“Right,” she said, in a way that meant “Oh yeah. You.” She tossed her head, regarding him with a smile gone smug. “Lucky for me, this job is over. I don’t have to take your orders, Mr. Silk.”

The little minx. “So you won’t tell me your name?”

She stepped behind the table and made herself busy, gathering a fistful of gloppy paintbrushes. He could tell the sudden activity was so she didn’t have to look at him, and that gave him some satisfaction. Not much, granted, but she was proving to be more of an elusive target than he’d expected.

“I’d be happy to,” she said. “If you ask nicely.”

“I was only teasing you about the firing thing. You’re not fired. In fact, I’m actually tremendously impressed by your work, Miss…” He gave her his warmest look, the one he used on orphans, harried secretaries and his sister Nikki when she broke up with another boyfriend.

“Kerrigan. Mia Kerrigan.”

“And please call me Julian.”

Her head tilted. “Not Mr. Silk?”

“No. Mr. Silk was my dad.”

“Was?” A frown flitted across her face.

“He died six years ago. A sudden heart attack. It was in the all the papers. I’ve been in charge of Silk Publications ever since.” Now why had he said all that? Mia had been right on the mark about Julian being sick of his reputation preceding him—even before Celebrity Gossip had made 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 counted to ten, then spun around. The studio had emptied—except for Julian. He was coming toward her.

“See ya,” Cress said. He scooped up his supply kit and stuffed a handful of the remaining candies into his jeans pocket. “I’m taking Angelika to lunch. She has a sweet tooth, and I have just the lollipop for her.”

Mia gave a vague wave. “Later.”

Doors opened and closed in other areas of the studio. The photographer and his black-clad assistants had retreated to the office area, somewhere behind the large, hanging screens of backdrop material. Mia heard them arguing over whose turn it was to order in Chinese. She got busy, packing up the remainder of her gear in the big industrial toolbox she used as an art caddy.

Julian stole a candy and unwrapped it with a crinkling sound. He popped it into his mouth. “Got plans for lunch?”

“I’m meeting Cress in ten minutes.”

“The bald guy?”

“He’s a photo stylist.”

“Whatever you say. He just left with the model.”

“Yes, that’s why we’re meeting up,” Mia insisted, even though he’d caught her in a lie. “In ten minutes.” She snatched up a small plastic cup of purple paint that had been overlooked. The crew at the photographer’s next shoot could graze on the remaining boxes of Sugar High candy.

She felt Julian’s eyes on her. It was hard to ignore the magnetic pull they seemed to generate.

He cleared his throat. “Would you cancel if I asked you to come with me instead?”

“No. I don’t do that to my friends.”

“You don’t like me,” he said with the supreme confidence of the adored.

“Oh gosh. What gave you that idea?” Mia angled her head to look up at him, intending to be skeptical.

Not easy. He stood at least a head—maybe a head and a neck—above her five-two. Health and vigor radiated off him. The conservative business suit couldn’t hide that his body was as lean and toned as an Olympic swimmer’s. She’d know that even if she hadn’t touched him through his shirt, or seen the shift of muscles when he’d tossed his jacket over his shoulder. She’d know even if she was locked in a sensory deprivation tank. His masculine aura was that strong.

Worse, he had the chiseled face of a Greek god…if Greek gods had been given hot-towel shaves and herbal facial wraps. Then there was the wealth, privilege and charm, not to mention the caustic humor that cut his arrogance to an acceptable level of confidence.

As far as she could see, the man didn’t have a flaw. Not one single flaw.

Very irritating.

Mia was both repelled and fascinated by the perfection. Julian was at the other end of the spectrum from her usual boho crowd of artists, writers and other creative types, most of whom struggled to make rent as they stayed true to their muses.

However, she despised superficial judgments. It seemed only fair that she give Julian a chance to prove that he was more than the sum of his glossy parts and lady-killer reputation.

Oh sure. That’s what Miss Hood had said before the Big Bad Wolf got his jaws around her.

Mia knew what she had to do. Put him back in his place and then keep away.

Julian shrugged. “What gave me that idea? Oh, I don’t know. Read any gossip columns lately?”

“Nope. I tear Page Six into strips for papier-mâché.”

“What a relief. It’s all true, but now we can skip the usual explanations and apologies.”

“All true?” Mia blurted.

Julian grinned. “I thought you weren’t familiar with my exploits. Most of them greatly exaggerated, if I may add.”

Ha! She could just imagine what didn’t make it into the papers. “I overhear things. You’re a player.”

“Assume what you will, little girl.”

Little girl? Was that a shot at her height? Maybe the cutesy features that she’d given up agonizing over? She might have been ticked if she wasn’t positive his eyes had twinkled when he’d said it. He was deliberately provoking her!

Into doing what?

Mia glanced down into the cup of grape paint. Her grip tightened when Julian leaned even closer. If he tried to kiss her, she’d throw the congealing contents in his face.

He dipped a finger into the cup. Tasted it. “Very sweet.”

“We thickened grape juice.” Or, actually, added dollops of juice and food coloring to a concoction of sugar and cornstarch. It probably didn’t taste very good at all.

Julian dipped again. “Have you tried it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His glistening finger touched her lips, drawing slowly across them. First the bottom, then the upper, leaving them coated with the sugary paint. A hundred sensations rushed through Mia’s body, surging upward to gather at her mouth. Her tingling lips swelled with anticipation.

Instinctively, her tongue darted out to lick away the thick grape coating. She made herself stop, her tongue curled against her upper lip before she reluctantly drew it back in. Sugar melted into her taste buds, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other flavors to come: the taste of hot, hard lips, warm male skin, pungent, salty, sweet…deliciously sexy.

“I want to taste,” Julian said.

Her voice whispered, barely audible. “You—you already did.”

His face was so close to hers she could have counted his nonexistent pores. His breath was warm and sweetened with the tang of peppermint. She knew that he would taste good, but not because of the candy.

Their noses bumped. “I want to taste you.”

She swallowed. “What makes you think I’ll taste any different than your thousand other conquests?”

“Every woman is unique.”

“But this one doesn’t want to be just another note in the Julian Silk hit parade.” And yet she didn’t pull away when his cheek grazed hers. His fingertips touched under her chin, tilting it up; instead of shaking him off, she felt her lips pout and her lids drift shut.

“No worry. You, Mia Kerrigan, are an entire song.”

Big whoop, she thought in some dim, lazy part of her brain, where there was still a sliver of rationality that wasn’t dying for his kiss. It was as if he were a spider who’d wrapped her in silken, sticky strands. She could not move. She was at his mercy. But lucky for her…

Julian kissed her.

Mercy.

The man really knew how to kiss. Of course he did. Practice makes perfect.

She couldn’t rouse much disgust for that, not when his lips were covering hers with a sure, steady pressure that was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and easy, and deep, sending urgent signals to her fuzzy brain about wrapping her arms around him and pushing her breasts into his chest.

She held the cup of paint to the side and slid her free hand around to his back. He’d gripped her by the waist and was bending her under the force of his kiss. She arched—terribly, wonderfully conscious of the ache in her breasts as they rubbed against the rough denim of her overalls…the melting sensation between her thighs…

The prodding of a growing hard-on.

Whoa. The man was a quick draw. With a hefty six-shooter, by the feel of it.

“Umm,” Mia said.

Julian took the opportunity to slip his velvet tongue into her mouth. Grape and peppermint. Sugar and spice. Seduction and delusion.

“That’s enough.”

He lifted his head and said, “You’re wrong.” His lips were stained purple from hers. “It’s not enough.” With a wicked quirk of one black eyebrow, he reached for her again.

She plastered a hand to his chest and pushed. “Listen to me. I said no.”

He took his hands off her, straightening up. His eyes were dark and questioning, his hair ruffled, his tie a little askew. Impossibly attractive.

She quivered with frustration. Every inch of her skin was at war with her brain, the nerve endings screaming for appeasement. While she was attuned to her sexuality and usually listened to her body’s needs when a walking advertisement for sex appeal strolled into her life, this was one time where she intended to lead with her head to protect her heart. Given his reputation, Julian Silk was a pleasure she’d have to deny herself.

And she needed to do so in a way that his overblown ego really understood, so that there’d be no teasing, chasing or seducing in their future.

None? A pang of longing ran through Mia like a strummed guitar.

“You didn’t like the kiss?” Julian said, still cocky.

“The kiss was okay.”

“Just okay?”

She shrugged. “If I had to rate it…” That gave her an idea. Oh, she was mean. But it was a perfect pinprick of an idea, sure to let the air out of his balloon.

She thrust a couple of fingers into the cup of paint and swirled them through the purple goo. He smiled when she reached toward his face, as if he expected a reenactment of his smooth move and silken lines. He didn’t even seem to notice when purple drips splattered his tie.

She bypassed his mouth and started finger painting his forehead.

“Hey!” He pulled back. Her fingertips skidded.

“Hold still.”

He gripped her wrist. “What are you doing?”

She continued to stroke the paint over his skin, finishing quickly. “Settling your score.”

“What does that mean?” He let go of her and put a hand up to his brow.

“No, don’t smear it. Go and look in the mirror.”

Frowning quizzically, Julian brushed aside the backdrop screens and went to stand before a wall-hung mirror. He put his hands at his belt and stared at the numbers she’d painted on his brow. “Seventeen?” His eyes glinted. “That’s on a scale of one to ten, I take it?”

“Not exactly.” She pursed her lips, trying to keep from laughing. “You don’t recognize your own number?”

“I wore number twenty when I played soccer in school.”

“Your bachelor number,” she said.

He grew more quiet and less cocky. “Ah.”

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped off her fingers, the stickiness shredding the fine paper. “See, it’s like this. Maybe if you were number one, or at least in the top five…but seventeen? A girl’s got to set her standards higher than Bachelor Seventeen. I’m sure you understand.”

When he didn’t respond, she wadded the tissue in a tight fist. Maybe she’d been a little hard on him.

Julian turned to look at her with a bemused expression. “What did you do, memorize CG’s entire list of bachelors?”

Mia hesitated. Great. Now he’d think she was a gold digger. “I told you, I hear things.”

That was true, sort of. One of the art models she often hired for body-painting experiments had come in a while back with the bachelor issue of Celebrity Gossip, joking that her accounts were overdrawn and she needed to snare a rich husband. While Mia had painted the model’s skin, they’d flipped through the pages and laughed at the poses of the self-consciously sexy bachelors. There had been several pro athletes displaying their rippling muscles, an indistinguishable clump of Wall Street millionaires, one blue-collar guy for show, a couple of artists and a slew of actors—one of whom the model swore was as fruity as his Hanes briefs.

And then there was Julian. Number Seventeen. CEO of Silk Publications Ltd. and the brilliant mind behind the swift rise of Hard Candy, the glossy lifestyle magazine with a guy-power attitude. Since its inception, Hard Candy had stormed both the newsstands and pop culture trends with its cheeky articles about sex, sports, careers and entertainment, and even cheekier layouts of barely dressed pretty young Miss Thangs.

Mia had lingered over Julian’s page for a minute or two, telling herself that she was only interested because she’d been booked for the Hard Candy cover shoot.

There had been a paparazzi shot of Julian doing the exiting-limo-with-hot-babe thing. One formal portrait of him wearing a serious expression and a suit and tie—probably lifted from his company’s annual report. But the photo that had captured her attention was a candid, taken at the seashore with dunes and a weather-beaten beach house in the distance. Julian was building a sand castle, looking all brown and sun-bleached, wearing nothing but deck shoes and cutoff jeans, one arm wrapped around a little girl with a sun hat pulled down to her jet-black button eyes. The display of his sand-sprinkled muscles had been impressive, but what was most attractive was the sweetness of his kinship with the child—a niece, according to the caption.

“Number Seventeen tries harder,” he said.

Mia laughed and shook her head. “Tempting, but no. I always go for the best.” Oh, her parents would choke if they could hear her! While both of them had always preached modesty, they’d also wanted her to make something of herself—or at least marry very well. She’d disappointed them on all counts.

“Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind for next year, when the new list is released.” Julian sighed and rubbed his chin. “It’s a tough task, but I’ll take it on. Wining, dining, kissing and seducing my way up the list…”

If he was trying to make her jealous, he was succeeding.

Nonsense. She tossed her head. “Whatever. As long as it’s not with me.”

“Certainly not. I may never make it to the Number One slot you require. But a man’s got to try.”

She picked up the heavy toolbox, lugged it toward the door, then thought better and set it down. “Here,” she said, digging into her pocket for another tissue. She handed it to Julian. The crooked purple numbers had dried on his forehead. He didn’t seem to mind, and he carried them off with a certain slapdash style, but she was feeling petty.

“Reconsidering my offer?” Julian said, smirking at her like a cocky bastard as he scrubbed away the brand.

She snapped to. “Absolutely not.”

“Till next year, then,” he called after her as she wrapped her arms around the toolbox and hauled ass for the door. Show a guy like that one inch of vulnerability and he’d have her naked between the sheets before she could wrap her lips around a No, Thanks.

“Have fun,” Mia muttered as the heavy metal door clanged shut. She stopped, shuddered as if a train had just whizzed past, then hefted her materials and headed for the street, making a mental note to invest her spare change in a condom factory now that Julian Silk was on a mission to seduce. If his reputation was correct, he’d already cut a swath through Manhattan. She’d better put out a warning bulletin to the boroughs.

3

A WEEK LATER, with many schemes regarding his seduction of Mia Kerrigan conjured and abandoned, Julian was still trying to figure out his next move when his kid sister, Nikki, came into the office looking for a job. Serendipity, he thought. She might be useful, for a change.

Nikki was twenty-three, a recent college graduate, just returned from a grand tour of Europe—two months sunning in Ibiza, partying in London and wining and dining in Venice. When he’d asked about museums and landmarks, Nikki talked about power-boating with Guiseppe and lashing Simon at the Dungeon. Julian shuddered to think.

“Jules, luv, you’ve got to give me a job!” In full drama princess mode, Nikki threw herself horizontally onto the new leather sofa that had replaced his dad’s old leather one. She swung her feet onto the armrest, kicking away a pillow needlepointed by their mother, beloved by their father and sneered at by the designer who’d “done” the office when Julian moved in.

“Why?” he said, even though he already had an idea of how to combine their objectives. But Nikki had to think she’d persuaded him into giving her a real and valuable position in the company. She would treat a make-work job like the rest of her gifts—from the first edition Little Women left out in the rain to the Aston Martin she’d crumpled on the gatepost of their country house when she was applying lipstick in the rearview mirror while practicing her British accent.

“I can’t be a decorative but useless heiress forever. Maybe for another few years, but what happens then?” Nikki waved her arms, happily chattering away while Julian listened with one ear while paging through his stack of messages. “Nobody cared about Stella McCartney until she started designing for Chloé. Gloria Vanderbilt had her jeans, Paloma Picasso did perfume….” She paused, reflecting on her ancient predecessors. And he’d thought she knew nothing about history.

“Look at Sofia Coppola.” Nikki sighed. “I want to be my own person. I want respect. I mean, I didn’t go to all the trouble of hiring a look-alike ringer to take my college finals only to hang the degree on a wall and never use it. But does anyone—”

Julian interrupted more forcefully. “Nikki, tell me you didn’t.”

She grinned at him from her supine position, her long dark hair spread across the cushions. “You’re so easy to tease.”

He rolled his eyes upward to ask his dad for forbearance, much as he had when Nikki had first informed him that she was getting a journalism degree so they could work side by side. If Jim Silk was watching, he was getting one helluva kick out of Nikki’s latest idea. Nothing would have made him happier than to see his girls kept safe and close under Julian’s protection. He’d said so, in fact, over the beep of heart monitors and the sobs of his wife. How could Julian decline the chore?

But there were limits. “Nik, do you really think you can just march in here and be handed a plum job?”

“Why not?” Nikki wrinkled her nose. “That’s the point of being the boss’s sister. And a shareholder. Anyway, who died and made you king?” She giggled at her wit. “Besides Dad.”

“I worked my way up.” At his sister’s age, Julian had also hoped to choose his own career. Race-car driving, he remembered with some embarrassment. But he’d been the good son and had done as his father wished, starting as an intern at one of the Silk publications and moving from position to position until he knew all aspects of the business. When his father had died unexpectedly with the company in disarray, Julian had been well prepared to take over the reins.

Nikki sat up and flung back her hair. Uh-oh. She must be serious.

“I’m willing to do that,” she said. Quite earnestly. “I’m not asking to be the next Anna Wintour by tomorrow. I can start as a columnist.”

Julian humored her. “What kind of columnist?”

His sister scowled, distorting her pretty face. “I don’t want to tell you because I know you’ll say no.”

“Oh god. Not Leather & Chrome,” he said, citing the motorcycle magazine that was one of their smaller, more obscure publications. Nikki had gone through a rebellious biker-chick phase when she was seventeen. Their father’s death had curtailed it before she could crack her head open or fall in with a truly dangerous crowd.

“Julian! You know I’m a vegan now. Leather is cruel. Plus, it really stinks and it made me sweat like a pig.”

“Of course. I forgot.” If something was a trend, Nikki would follow something.

Aha. Trendy. Which of their magazines was hottest right now? That was where his sister would want to go.

The answer came instantly: Hard Candy. Home of bikini-clad bimbos and tips on oral sex.

Nikki would be employed there over his dead body.

“How about a fashion magazine?” he suggested. That way, she’d only do damage to her credit cards.

She shook her head. “High fashion is for rich old white women.”

He wanted to ask her how much she’d paid for her spike-heeled boots, distressed jeans and the skimpy snipped-silk top that showed off her navel ring, but he resisted. The last time he’d questioned Nikki’s look, she’d come home with a tattoo that had sent their mother into a week-long dither. If he let her loose at Hard Candy, she’d be researching sex toys in a week. Or worse—posing for a spread wearing edible undergarments.

“Watch out. I may start you at Puppy Monthly.” Julian turned over a page in the ad sales projections for next spring. “What ever happened to Frodo, anyway?” Frodo was the teacup Chihuahua Nikki had carried in a designer bag everywhere she went…for about a month.

“He’s Mom’s now. She took him with her to the Vineyard while I was vacationing and got attached.”

“So that’s who was yipping in the kitchen last time I visited. I thought the cook had gone off her Zoloft again.”

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Usually that’s easy to do.”

“I know.” Nikki sighed. “But I’m serious this time. I want to do something with my life.”

“You could get married, like Lis.” At twenty-nine, Elisabeth Silk Reingold was the oldest sister. She and her husband, Sam, lived in the Nashua countryside and had two little kids who called him Uncle Julie and gave him kisses that smelled like peanut butter.

“I’m way too young to get married,” Nikki said, appalled at the thought. She studied her brother for a moment and apparently decided that he couldn’t be serious. Her lips twitched. “I’d rather be like Very. She knows how to have fun.”

Julian groaned. Very, short for Veronica, was the middle sister and his worst nightmare. She’d been in college and on track for a responsible life when their father’s passing had hit her like a locomotive. Soon after, Very had dropped out with a vow to live every moment to the fullest. Ever since, she’d been racing with a jet-set crowd of club kids. When in residence, she stayed out till dawn, partied like a maniac and slept till noon, only getting clean and sober to pay sporadic visits to their mother. Next to Very, Nikki was almost responsible.

Maybe giving her a job wasn’t a bad idea. She probably wouldn’t stick it out, but at least for the short term it’d be easier for him to keep an eye on her.

Nikki’s lashes flickered. “I was thinking I could write for…”

Not Hard Candy. Anything but. Julian seized on the idea he’d been toying with at the back of his mind ever since she’d barged into the office.

He held up a hand. “Wait. I have an assignment for you.”

“An assignment? One measly assignment?”

“You don’t start off as a columnist, Nik. That’s a prestigious position you have to work up to. Most of our writers broke into the field doing freelance assignments.”

“Oh.” Nikki brightened. She got up and approached his desk, exuding genuine interest. “What’s the assignment?”

Julian wondered if he was being smart. It could be disaster, bringing Nikki and Mia together. But setting his sister free to find her own story could lead to worse.

Plus, this way he’d have reason to see Mia again.

Not that his throbbing dick needed an excuse.

He shifted at the thought. “It’s a simple project, to start you off. If you do well, I’ll think about giving you a permanent position.” At the magazine of his choice. “I want you to do background research on an artist. We’re thinking of featuring her in a, uh, fashion layout, so I need you to—”

Nikki clapped her hands. “A feature article! Yippee!”

“Hold on. I didn’t say you’d be writing the article. The first step is gathering background information.”

“But why can’t I write the article?” Nikki climbed onto a desk chair on her knees. “No way am I doing the drudge work so some other writer can sashay in and slap their name on my story.”

“That’s how it’s done.” Sometimes, but not for a relatively minor piece like this one. Mia Kerrigan might get a three-paragraph blurb. The focus of the layout would be on her luscious works of art.

Nikki leaned forward and put her elbows on his desk. Her boots stuck up in the air behind her. “Please let me write the article.” She reached a hand across his desk. Batted her lashes. “Pretty please.”

He gave her hand a pat, feeling very fatherly except for his motivations. Those were, well, sort of sleazy. But Nikki was an easygoing kid. She’d laugh if she found out his motive was dating and mating Mia. So…why not get two birds with one stone?

“We’ll see,” he said, “if you’re responsible and thorough about gathering the preliminary research.”

Nikki popped up. “Fab!” She went and grabbed her bag—a slim leather clutch now that Frodo was ensconced at the beach house with their mom—and pulled out a wafer-thin PDA. She stood with poised stylus. “What’s the deal? Got a name and number?”

Julian turned on the phone and buzzed his executive assistant, Dustin Sheppard. “Shep, will you call Petra Lombardi over at…her office and get Mia Kerrigan’s number for Nikki?”

“For Nikki?” came the disembodied voice.

She made a face at the intercom, temporarily holstering the stylus.

“I’m sending her on assignment. She’ll be out in a minute.” Julian checked his schedule. “Send my next appointment in as soon as she leaves.”

“Yessir. Whatevah you say, sir.”

Julian disconnected. “Wiseass.”

“Who, me?” Nikki laughed. “Is there anything you can tell me about this artist? Like, what does she do, since it’s a fashion layout—paint fabric? What’s her name again?”

“Mia Kerrigan.” Instantly, Mia’s baby-doll face and full lips sprang to mind. They’d shared sweet candy kisses, but Julian figured Mia for being a tigress in bed. She had spark, verve, an electric energy. She had bite.

Nikki watched him through slitted eyes. “She must be a dog.”

“Not at all. What makes you say that?”

“Because you’d already have her number if she wasn’t.”

“You make me sound very superficial.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. Females of any shape, form or species are fair game to the man who would be the World’s Greatest Lover. Is she married?”

“Not as far as I know.” Julian frowned. “And watch your mouth.”

Nikki strutted to the door. “Julian, luv, regardless of deathbed promises, you’re not my father.”

“But I am your older brother and I do hold the purse strings.” Their father had put Julian in control of the estate, though he had no authority over the trust funds that were released as each sibling reached age twenty-five. Very was going through hers like water.

“Give me some credit,” Nikki said. “For once, I’m trying to earn money instead of spend it.”

“And I’m proud of you.” Julian joined her at the door. He kissed her cheek, relieved that she hadn’t noticed how he’d avoided the question about Mia’s career. Nikki would find out about the body painting soon enough, but he wanted her to think the potential layout and article were for a fashion magazine, not Hard Candy. “I expect you’ll do a fine job.”

“Thanks.” Nikki hugged him. She’d always been an affectionate girl. Even when she’d sent a strippergram to a board meeting on his birthday, Julian couldn’t help forgiving her. He felt the same way about the rest of the aggravating Silk women. If he hadn’t cared so much for them, the burden of his father’s expectations might be too heavy to contemplate. As it was, Julian managed by telling himself that at least he never doubted that they loved him back, even if they were doing their best to turn him gray before his time.

THE NEXT DAY, Mia was sitting on the top rung of scaffolding in a Riverside Drive ballroom when Nikki Silk arrived. The Gormans’ butler—an honest-to-goodness butler even though he was dressed casually since the owners weren’t in residence—announced the visitor with a twinge of annoyance before bowing out, firmly shutting the double doors behind him. Mia made a mental note to thank the old guy for looking after her on his downtime, even if he was only guarding her from stealing the silver.

“Hello?” the visitor called.

Mia switched off the hip-hop music blasting from her portable disk player. “Give me a sec,” she bellowed, misjudging her volume. She nudged away the earphones. “I have to finish the gold-leafing while the sizing is tacky.”

“That’s all right. I can watch.”

Mia glanced down at the rookie journalist whose face was turned up toward the ceiling arches. Nikki Silk was young, pretty and dressed like a crackpot Daisy Mae in a flared denim miniskirt, short white leather jacket and ankle boots with teeter-totter heels.

“I guess you’re related to Julian?” Mia pounced her horsehair brush on the gold leaf she’d just applied. Small flakes drifted down onto Nikki’s hair and face.

“Cool,” she said, puffing at one of the snippets of gold. “I’m his sister.”

Aha. Interesting. “He sent you here?”

“Well, he gave me the assignment.”

“Is he serious?” When Nikki had called yesterday, Mia had felt suspicious enough of Julian’s motives to consider denying the interview request. But if the proposed article was legit, the opportunity was too good to pass up.

Nikki put her hands on narrow hips. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“Not you. I meant the article. Is he serious about the article?”

“He’d better be.” Nikki cocked a leg and crossed her arms. Her boot tapped the marble floor. “I’ll shave his eyebrows while he’s sleeping if he’s setting me up.”

Mia wasn’t reassured. “Setting you up? Is that something he does frequently?”

“Not really, but he doesn’t take me very seriously.”

Mia thought of the women who reportedly dropped in and out of his love life like ducks at a shooting gallery. “What does he take seriously?”

Nikki picked a shred of gold leaf off her lip. “Lots of stuff,” she admitted. “If you want to know the truth, he’s kind of a bore, working all the time and giving orders. He thinks he’s the boss of me, but he’s not.” She reconsidered. “Except I guess he would be if I get on to the Hard Candy staff.”

“Then you’re not already?” Definitely a setup, Mia decided as she peeled off another sheet of leafing, carefully laid it on the last bit of ungilded arch and pounced the brush to fill the crevices of the carving. She just couldn’t figure out what game Julian was up to.

Nikki’s voice rose to the twenty-four-foot domed ceiling. “I might as well confess. This is my first story.”

Mia peered through the scaffolding. “We all have to start somewhere.”

“Yes, but now that I’ve met you…” Nikki grew silent as she looked around the ballroom. Even littered with painting tarps, ladders and assorted supplies, it was an amazing room. Tall dove-gray walls were adorned with gilded French-style molding. The stone floor was flecked in gray, black and pink. Sconces and elaborate wall candelabra dripped crystals that matched the immense chandelier, presently shrouded in a protective linen covering.

“What’s the problem?” Mia prodded.

“I’m confused. I thought you were involved in fashion, somehow. Julian tried to steer me toward working for a Silk fashion mag…” Nikki shook her head, gesturing at the room. “But you’re a—a—”

“Decorative painter. I do a little of everything—trompe l’oeil, gilding, faux effects, murals.”

“That’s great, but I can’t imagine what kind of a fashion layout he’s thinking of.” Nikki looked up at Mia, her eyes growing wide. One side of her mouth lifted. “Or maybe I can imagine. That dog.”

“Really.” Mia set aside her brush and the packet of leafing and started to climb down. “You mentioned Hard Candy, so I thought you knew about me.”

Nikki stepped away from the rattling scaffolding. “Julian didn’t say much at all. He might even have been secretive, now that I think about it.”

Mia swung her body down the last few rungs and dropped to the floor. “Why is that?” she asked.

At the same moment Nikki said, “What does Hard Candy have to do with decorative painting?” She frowned. “Or fashion.”

Mia studied Julian’s sister, who was six or seven inches taller and at least fifteen pounds lighter than herself, reed thin in the way of young girls and anorexic ballerinas. She liked Nikki anyway. The girl had marched in here for an interview despite her lack of experience. There was moxie in those willowy genes. Maybe resilience.

“There’s been a mix-up of some sort,” Mia said, taking a flier that she could trust Nikki not to run back to her brother and tell all. “We need to share our information.”

Nikki nodded. “And get the better of Julian.”

“Is he putting one over on me?”

“One of us. Maybe.”

“Then let’s put our minds together. You start.”

“I think…” Nikki looked Mia up and down, taking in the corkscrew curls and splattered canvas apron. “Even though you’re not his usual, and he was playing it ultracool with me, he fancies you.”

The odd stirring in the pit of her stomach disturbed Mia. Arousal she could identify and take care of. This was more than arousal. “Oh,” she said, scoffing at her own reaction, “fancy is way too polite a word for what he feels for me.”

“Yes.” Nikki laughed. “He wants to frank you.”

“Frank me?”

“That’s what my girlfriends call it when we’re being silly. You know, serve you the foot-long, the pork sausage, the—”

“I get it.” Foot-long? If the rumors about Julian Silk’s equipment and prowess were true…

Mia corralled her thoughts before they made her dizzy. As attractive and exciting as Julian was, she didn’t need the distraction right now. And she really didn’t need to be another of his throwaway “dates.”

But he could be hers. Fun all the way around.

Mia blinked. Forget about playtime. Consider your career. “So you think he sent you here to gather information on me for his own use, not an article?”

“That’s possible,” Nikki said. “And it wouldn’t be the first do-nothing task he’s set for me—all with good intentions, according to him. When I interned at the family company one summer, Julian actually assigned another intern to shadow me and keep me out of trouble.” The girl smirked. “Didn’t work, of course.”

“I’ll bet.” Mia almost pitied Julian the responsibility of looking after Nikki. Not that he deserved any lenience, since it appeared he gave as good as he got.

“I suppose you’re right—he’s playing us both.” She flapped gold flecks off her apron. “Damn. My career could have used the boost of publicity.”

Nikki swung from side to side as she gestured at the glorious ballroom. To have such a space in Manhattan was the epitome of luxury. “You seem to be doing fine without the publicity.”

“Ah, but that’s where my explanation comes in.” Mia lifted the apron off and laid it over a rung of the scaffolding. “I’m not only a decorative painter, though that’s been my bread and butter. My true calling is body painting.”

“Body painting?” Nikki’s penciled brows made twin Arcs de Triomphe. “Is that a career?”

“Not for many. But I’m getting there. I’ve painted for parties, for galleries, and the past year I’ve gotten several advertising jobs that have drawn attention in the media and in the trade.”

“Like what? Oh, wait a mo.” Nikki dug through a denim shoulder pack until she withdrew a micro-recorder. She fiddled around, rewinding the tape and testing one-two-three before she was satisfied. She held it out and clicked a button. “What advertising work have you done?”

Mia opened her mouth, but Nikki made a quick dive at the recorder. “I’m talking to Mia Kerrigan, body painter.” She held it out again. “Go.”

“There were a few small print ads, but my most well-known work so far was for the Living Color cosmetics campaign.”

“I know that one!” Nikki squealed. “Finally my clandestine subscription to Elle pays off. You’re talking about the ads where the models were painted in makeup colors…?”

“Yes, to reflect the product names. For the River of Color line, I painted several models like a rushing river and we photographed them lying head to toe among rocks and rushes.”

“The peach!” Nikki spoke into the recorder. “Tell about the peach.”

Mia grinned. “The peach caused a minor sensation. That was for their Peachy Keen blush and lipstick. A few magazines banned the ads and the company was delighted. The brouhaha over censorship gained them tons of free publicity.”

“All because the peach was really an ass, right?”

“Well, yes.” She’d painted Angelika’s derriere so skillfully it had looked absolutely authentic when photographed close up with extraneous body parts cropped out. The resulting ad had been beautiful and luscious, but fairly unremarkable. The kicker had been when the reader turned the page to a similar photo of Angelika’s outthrust bottom with a male model poised to take a bite, one hand squeezing the sensuous curves of the “peach.”

Mia brought Nikki over to one of the window seats that overlooked the street and told her about doing the Living Color ads and how that had led to a certain notoriety. She spoke about the art pieces she painted and photographed on her own time, for her own pleasure, but also how she was building a body-painting portfolio. Her ultimate goal was to win the gold medal at the upcoming International Expo and have a gallery show.

Nikki proved to be less scatterbrained than she first appeared. She paid attention to the details and asked smart questions. The only area that Mia glossed over was her family background. Her parents had requested anonymity long ago, but it still hurt a bit to be reminded that they were ashamed of her ventures.

After a while, the butler came back and looked inside. “Still here? I suppose you’ll be wanting refreshments.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary, thanks.” The butler flustered Mia. He was too posh for her blood, even when he was practically off duty. While her parents’ wealth was fairly impressive, it was never ostentatious. She came from good Puritan stock, where parsimony and modesty had ruled for generations.

Nikki, however, had no problem giving the butler orders. “Actually, I’m parched. Fetch me a Perrier and lime, will you, luv?”

“I should be getting back to work,” Mia said.

Nikki checked the recorder. “You haven’t explained about the Hard Candy connection yet.”

“I recently completed a body-painting assignment for the magazine’s cover.” She described the edible woman theme and how she’d achieved the look. “Julian was there, and that’s when he mentioned a ‘fashion’ layout, with the models wearing only my paint. It’s odd that he didn’t tell you.”

“Not that odd. He didn’t come right out and say so, but I know my brother. He doesn’t want me to work at Hard Candy.”

“Why not? Is he like W.C. Fields?”

“Huh?”

“Thinking you’re too good to work for your own—Oh, never mind.”

“It’s simple, really, but devious of him. He said you’d be featured in a fashion layout, but not what kind. Obviously because he didn’t want me getting in at Hard Candy. The magazine is pure sex. Even the offices are pretty well testosterone saturated, and my brother is so overprotective,” explained Nikki. “Or he tries to be. I usually don’t let him, except when he gets this weary expression and I start to feel sorry for him, because he does have to deal with the three of us and even I can imagine what a headache that is.”

“Three sisters,” Mia said, remembering the bachelor bio.

“There’s me, Very and Lis. Since our dad died, Julian feels responsible for us. He’s really very patient and loving. We all know we can count on him, no matter what kind of trouble we’re in.”

Mia’s respect for Julian increased. She didn’t need actual feelings complicating the matter, but there they were.

Nikki made a choking sound. “Ick, how sappy! I’m forgetting that Jules tried to mislead us about the article. But I’ll show him.” She clicked off the recorder. “I believe you’d make a fabulous feature article, Mia. My brother might interfere, but somehow, someway, I’m going to get us both into Hard Candy.”

She shoved the recorder into her pack and stood, throwing out her chin. “Julian can go suck a lemon drop.”

The image made Mia smile, especially since she already knew what Julian tasted like when flavored with candy.

She rose, shaking her head. “I’m not so sure that’s smart, Nikki.”

“You said you could use the publicity.”

“Sure. But I don’t want to cause trouble—”

“You don’t?” Nikki looked astonished, as if the thought of keeping peace had never occurred to her. “Oh, come on! Julian is just begging for trouble.”

“He’s powerful,” Mia said. Could hire me and fire me a hundred times over.

“But kind.”

“Arrogant.” And deserves to be hoisted on his own petard.

“Not cruel, though.”

“He’s also dangerously attractive.” You can say that again.

“Pah.” Nikki’s eyes narrowed. “You can resist.”

Someone has to, Mia thought. But why me?

“You won’t have to do anything but keep your mouth closed,” Nikki said. “I’ll turn in the background info to Julian like an obedient little airhead, and he’ll think I’m none the wiser that the fashion spread—if there really is one—was meant for Hard Candy. Meanwhile, I’ll get started on an article. I can pitch it to the magazine even if Julian doesn’t follow through. If you hear from him, play dumb. Remember, it’s possible that he’s only interested in getting into your—” Nikki’s lashes dropped to Mia’s lower half “—painter’s pants.”

“So it’s true that he’s had a lot of…relationships?” Mia said, even though she was slightly uncomfortable talking about Julian’s love life with his sister. Nikki didn’t seem bothered at all—she was as open as a book of the Kama Sutra.

“I don’t get to actually see him in operation because he’s discreet, but the way I hear it, he’s so smooth, most girls slide into bed without a struggle. Then they slide right out just as fast.”

“He doesn’t ever get serious?”

“Not as far as I know.” Nikki shrugged. “He never brings them home to meet family. I’m not sure why, except that he’s a stickler for doing things the right way, especially since he got put in charge of the family business. Maybe none of the women are good enough to make the cut?”

Mia was intrigued. And somewhat intimidated. She wanted to know more, but the butler returned, carrying a tray with tall glasses of Perrier on the rocks.

Nikki met him halfway into the room. “A tall cool one,” she said, sassily eyeing the reserved butler.

He nodded. “As requested, miss.”

The young woman picked up the glass, tilted her head back and drank down the entire contents, her long, elegant neck showing each big swallow. She plunked the glass back on the tray with a click of ice cubes.

“See ya, Mia.” Nikki let out a girlish giggle, snatched the lime slice off the edge of the glass and sashayed out the door with her lips puckered into a moue around it.

For a moment, Mia sympathized with Julian for being stuck trying to control such a handful. Even the stony butler looked dazed by the spectacle that was Nikki Silk.

4

JULIAN HAD THOUGHT that getting into Mia’s apartment building would be difficult—if she was serious about rejecting him and not just playing coy. As with many of the challenges in his life, the task turned out to be easy.

He simply followed the argyle sock.

The argyle sock was standing on the stoop smoking a cigarette. Certain that a bald man painted plaid from neck to toe had to be one of Mia’s models, Julian approached. The guy tossed the butt, making a motion to stub it out before realizing he was wearing only paper booties.

Julian ground the butt under the leather sole of his wingtips. “Going in?”

“I am,” Argyle said, shuddering inside a flimsy un-belted kimono. “I’m catching a chill, and so is my snookums.” He chirped and patted his thigh. For a moment Julian was worried that he was about to be introduced to a body part he didn’t care to meet, but then an ugly pinkish cat peeped out from a pot of shrubbery in the corner.

“Come along, Mrs. Snookums.” The cat crawled across the stoop, her belly low to the ground. It was hairless and shivering, and looked remarkably like Argyle except that it wasn’t plaid.

The weather was cool for early September—sixty degrees. The cement steps of the row house were not particularly hospitable, even to one wearing real woolens instead of a faux-painted version. Either way, Julian thought Argyle and his cat were taking a chance lounging out here in almost no clothes. Mia’s neighborhood in the West Thirties wasn’t the safest.

Argyle pressed the buzzer. The intercom crackled, breaking up as a male voice answered. “Let me in, honey,” Argyle said.

Julian caught the door at the answering buzz. “After you.”

“Going up to Mia’s?”

He nodded.

“You’re not a model.” Argyle tucked Mrs. Snookums under his arm and gave Julian’s suit a look. His eyes were a watery blue rimmed in pink. “You must be from the ad agency. She said someone might drop by for a look-see.” Argyle started up the steps, entirely too trusting. “Well, come on, then.”

Julian climbed four flights, each becoming progressively narrower, steeper and more twisty. Argyle was a wiry fellow who jogged upward with his robe billowing. By the time Julian got to the top, he was angling his shoulders sideways. The last time an ascent had been as tight, he’d been in a deathtrap rock chimney in the Himalayas.

He’d gone climbing three years ago, Julian remembered. His last lengthy, stress-free, solo vacation. He’d come back to disaster—Very had been arrested for DUI and his mother had become friendly with a dignified older couple who’d claimed to be cousins of the Vanderbilts and had persuaded her to invest fifty thousand in their emerald mine in Brazil. Julian had vowed never to be out of touch again.

The door to Mia’s place was open. Music blasted from it, preparing him for the explosion of light and jumble of color inside. The decor was surrealistic—giant poppies affixed to the ceiling, mad abstract paintings, peacock feathers, papier-mâché fruit as big as bowling balls on the floor, Roman columns, piles of pillows in every color and pattern. One area was filled with enough broken-down furniture to stock a rummage sale. Thankfully, the walls and ceilings were a blinding snowcap white. But there seemed to be too many of them for one small studio apartment—they jutted here and there and slanted in every direction. Julian had to duck beneath an overhanging lintel to enter.

His next impression was movement—bodies swaying to the music. Some of them were stripped half-naked, their exposed skin painted in various plaids. Julian counted six of the plaid people, equally divided between men and women when he included Argyle. They danced, they strolled, they sprawled on a low double bed stacked with pillows and tucked into a gable end hung with sheer curtains.

At the center of the mad plaid circus was Mia, dressed in only a loose smock that reached midthigh. Her bare legs were splotched with random streaks of paint. She was bent over a nude model reclining on a hard wooden chair set upon a dais, shaking her bootie to the music as she drew crisscrossing lines over the model’s legs with an artist’s brush, turning them into navy blue and yellow plaid.

Julian’s gaze went from the model’s bare breasts to Mia’s round butt. Every time she rocked to the beat, the hem of her smock flipped up, flashing an expanse of smooth thigh. When she bent way over, still bobbing, the tail of the loose shirt was pulled even higher. An especially vigorous wiggle momentarily revealed the twin globes of a perfect round ass. She straightened, one hand reaching behind to tug the smock back down over the provocative red thong that peeped out from the apex of her thighs.

The flash had been involuntary and brief, but heat surged through Julian’s veins. He tried to look away to take in the rest of the scene, but his eyes couldn’t stay away from Mia’s bouncing bottom. The second most amazing thing was that no one else seemed aroused. Or even to notice.

“Brought you a visitor, Mia,” Argyle announced, more concerned with pulling the cat’s claws away from his kimono. He went to the CD player and turned it down a few notches. “From the ad agency.”

Mia whirled. “But you’re too ear—” the pink drained from her cheeks “—ly.”

Julian gave a casual wave despite a body that had grown as stiff as a cigar store Indian.

“Julian.” She shifted the artist’s palette to one hand and frowned down at her skimpy shirt and bare legs. One stocking-clad foot moved on top of the other. He saw that the paint splotches that decorated her skin weren’t entirely random, but patches of plaid test patterns.

“I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time.” He regretted that his presence had made her uncomfortable. She’d seemed so free and natural. So happy.

She shrugged. “It’s always a madhouse around here.”

He raised his brows.

She waited a questioning beat but he wasn’t sure what to say to explain his arrival. After Nikki had turned in the background info on Mia, including her address and phone number, curiosity had gotten the better of him. He’d come with an excuse—an offer, perhaps even genuine. But the scene in Mia’s studio had knocked him out of his nonargyle socks. The glib words that usually flowed without conscious thought were lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Well,” she said, setting her palette on the crowded table. “Let me introduce you. This is the garret where I live and work, and these are my friends.”

She pointed. “Stefan, on the bed with Leslie.” A reclining bearded man, fully clothed, chatted to a slim blonde perched on the edge wearing a bikini top and a schoolgirl-plaid skirt. Every inch of exposed skin was painted to match the skirt, even her face. The white of her eyes and pink of her lips grew when she glanced at Julian and mouthed hello.

He returned the smile. The bearded man frowned.

Mia continued. “This is Fred—” Argyle man “—and Maurizio.” Maurizio was a ponytailed dude noshing in a minuscule open kitchen area. He waved a cheese slicer and a packet of crackers. Although he was stripped down to his boxers, only his chest was plaid, airbrushed a pale jaundice yellow and sketched in with a herringbone pattern that turned his bulging pecs into a piece of Escher artwork.

“This is Sue,” Mia said, indicating an older woman with buzz-cut silver hair and tartan skin from the neck down. Julian thought she wore a thong, but he didn’t want to stare.

“And Cherie.” The brunette in the chair, unabashedly nude even though she only wore paint on her legs. Her breasts were small and rather unobtrusive, considering that the nipples stood out like pencil erasers. When Julian nodded at her, she flicked her tongue across her lips and winked.

“Everyone,” Mia said, “this is Julian Silk.”

“Oh!” Fred, aka Argyle, put his hands on his hips. “Naughty boy. I thought he was from the ad agency.”

“Do we know him?” Stefan asked, rising up to one elbow.

Julian couldn’t remember many of the names. His head was ready to explode. He’d been to wild photo shoots before, including the Hard Candy bikini calendar shoot with naked, oiled babes, tropical heat, rum punch on demand and a much more sultry air than could be found in a fifth-floor walk-up attic. Maybe that was the difference. Mia’s friends seemed quite casual about it all, as if the body-painting extravaganza was an everyday occurrence.

“Ooh, the big boss from Hard Candy,” Cherie said. She moved in the chair, hooking an arm over the backrest and tilting one breast higher. She studied Julian with a tight little smile. “Mia was just telling us about you, Mr. Silk.”

“Julian,” he said.

“Julian,” she purred.

Another Petra. Lovely, but potentially lethal. He crossed her off his list, despite the honed body and the champagne-glass tits. After a moment’s thought, he realized that his recent reluctance wasn’t only from caution. Mia made other women seem calculating and almost bland. Juiceless.

She’d seen him looking. With an irritated nose twitch, she tossed Cherie a scarf. “We have a visitor, Lady Godiva. Keep the naughty bits under wraps.”

Cherie shook out the scarf, seductively lowered it across her front like a veil and then tied it around her hips. “There, I’m decent.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “No modesty. This is what I get for hiring a nudist.”

She retrieved the palette and approached Cherie again, squinting at the pattern of the plaid. “Don’t know if I’m happy with these colors…”

“I can only stay another half hour,” Cherie said. “I booked a job downtown. What a trek!”

“Someone grab the Polaroid for me,” Mia said. “We’ll try some test shots. Maurizio? Want to bring your chest over here? I need to see the contrast.”

Julian found the camera on the table and put it into her extended hand. She glanced up with a distracted thank-you. “Oh, Julian. I forgot. Was there something I can do for you?”

Either she was very good at playing it cool, or his renowned charisma truly had no effect on her. He was tending to go with the latter until he remembered their kiss. A woman didn’t kiss a man she could take or leave like that.

“I’d hoped to speak to you in private.”

“Should have called for an appointment then.” Mia framed a shot of Cherie’s extended legs and snapped a photo. She bent at the waist to get a close-up, her own legs straight, knees glued together. The tail of the smock lifted across the back of her thighs, dangerously close to revealing her thong again.

The view was so enticing Julian felt as though he’d been granted a ringside seat at a strip club. But instead of tucking a bill into a convenient crevice, he battled the urge to tug the shirt down to keep her rear end decently covered. Maurizio, crossing to the dais, had finally noticed.

“No modesty,” the muscle man said, reaching out to pat Mia’s behind as he slid into place between Cherie’s legs.

“Whoops.” Mia felt for the back of her shirt. Julian caught her eye. She colored slightly. “Maybe you should come back another time? This is only a test shoot, but it’s going to take a while yet. We tend to get a little goofy. Even, uh, wild.”

“I can wait. And I’m an expert at getting wild.”

A sexy laugh came from the dais as Cherie folded her legs around the male model in a suggestive pose. Mia glanced from them to Julian, in his suit and tie. “In the middle of the workday? Be honest, now. This isn’t really your scene.”

“No, but I’m always up for new experiences. If you don’t mind an observer, that is.”

“All right.” Mia waved him to a chair. “As long as you keep out of my way. I’ll forget you’re here, so if you get thirsty or hungry, go to the kitchen and help yourself.” Her ripe little mouth puckered. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I will.”

He settled down to watch, seated in the one space of sanity in the kooky studio—a lime-green easy chair positioned against the wall with a reading lamp and a side table stacked with worn paperbacks. Romance novels. He picked one up, found the used bookstore stamp on the inside cover. The well-thumbed book sprang open to a love scene.

He skimmed a few paragraphs. Mia had a telling taste in literature. But, of course, he already knew how sensually alive she was. The proof was in the flush of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, the shape of her mouth opening to his.

He returned his attention to the work in progress. Mia shot dozens of Polaroids, rearranging the poses and pairings, then took even more test shots. Eventually, she released Cherie to make her appointment. The other models scattered, taking a break while Mia worked on Maurizio’s herringbone chest, managing to laugh and talk with him while never losing her focus. Her hand was skilled; the paintbrush was always in motion.

No one approached Julian, though they sneaked frequent looks at him. All except Mia. She spared no glance at all. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten his presence.

Julian realized that he was as out of place here as Mia would be in a Park Avenue drawing room. He sank deeper into the cushions, trying to get comfortable. To prove to himself that he still could. He wasn’t, as his sisters accused, a stick-in-the-mud whose only interest was work.

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