Taste Me. Carrie Alexander

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.