Taste Me. Carrie Alexander

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