Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) (3 page)

In response I crumpled
the paper in one fist.

Feather-fine black hair
falling over his brow as he shook his almost perfectly round head at me, Stan
sighed, “She’ll just sign another one. You know that, right?”

I did, but I couldn’t
just agree and admit defeat by walking away.

“Where is he, Stan? I
want to see him. After the agreement we had, I want him to explain this to me
face-to-face.”

“If ya gotta,” Stan
said, shrugging and nodding and jiggling that slight jowl of his. “He and some
of the others—.”

“Others?”

“Rilla, Finn, Cheri, a
few more models and a couple of gallery owner friends of his.”

“Cheri is with Beal
right now?” The image of Cheri tucked up under Nolan’s arm flashed unbidden and
unwanted through my head. I pushed it back, but the thought left a ghost of acidity,
like swallowing bile. “Where?”

“Up the street at
Haute.” When I didn’t react, Stan narrowed his eyes at me. “The nightclub. You
haven’t heard of…? That shouldn’t surprise me, I guess.”

A few years ago, I’d
been a regular at all the clubs worth knowing and always got in through the
back without waiting or paying a cover charge, courtesy of all the bouncers and
bartenders and musicians I had counted as friends. For what those kinds of
friends were worth after hours, after the parties, when real life took over
again. This club had come into vogue after my time.

Stan explained, “In
this town, if you’re edgy and broke, Boom Boom Factory is your club. When you
reach up-and-comer status, you’ve got The Dojo. Earn the real money, get the
right haircut, mix a little made to measure in with the ready to wear, and
you’re ready for Haute.” As an aside, he added, “Notice as the name gets
shorter, the line outside gets longer.”

“In the warehouse
district?” I asked doubtfully.

“Big money in
redevelopment, young lady, so don’t scoff. The biggest dance floor, the longest
bar, the thirty thousand gallon indoor pool with the DJ pedestal in the
middle…. These are a club’s claim to fame. For those, you
need
a fricking warehouse.”

“Right,” I sighed.
“Haute.” French for high, elegant, as in haute couture—high fashion. High
pretention.

“Uh, no,” Stan said as
I started for the front door.

I spun back to face the
assistant. “No what?”

“No, you won’t get in
looking like that.”

Through gritted teeth,
I complained, “My couture budget is a little tight these days. I don’t even
have time for this. Thirty minutes back across town, change clothes, then
thirty minutes to get back here to….” Stan made me lose my train of thought.

The assistant was
nodding and tracing his fingers back and forth over his penciled-on mustache,
gaze sweeping me from head to toe, from shoes back to frazzled office updo. “Or
you could….” Stan waved behind him with one meaty hand, toward the shiny metal
clothing racks bulging with leather and satin, linen and chiffon, in all colors
and cuts.

I peered at Stan in
question, with more than enough reason for cynicism and distrust. “What? You’re
going to let me wear one of those dresses?” When he gave me the Stan Laurel
nod, making me wonder what his last name was, I folded my arms and frowned at
him. “Why would you?”

“To prove to Nolan that
I do know how to stage a model.”

“So… because Nolan
didn’t like the clothes you picked out for me for the photo shoot, you’ll help
me with my little wardrobe problem now?”

“Precisely. Don’t look
an LBD in the seams, and never underestimate a man’s need to salvage his
professional reputation. Mark those words, missy. You can quote me on that.
That’s Stan with one ‘s’.”

He was making fun of
his own lisp, I marveled. The distraction made it easier for the man to talk me
into a short bandage dress that fit like a second skin, into giving him fifteen
minutes to do my hair in loose curls and my makeup in warm nudes and roses that
complimented my golden olive skin, and finally into donning another pair of
precariously high Louboutin stilettos worth more than a month of my wages.

Yes,
five-and-a-half-inch platform stiletto heels. That was surely the reason I
stumbled and hesitated just inside the dim interior of Haute, with the only
lighting near the door being the glow emanating from
inside
the frosted glass, metal-framed walls. The effect made every
surface look like it had been cut from some ultra-lux article of clothing or
accessory: amber and pearl for the wall and floor tiles, platinum and gold for
fixtures, satin and silk and velvet for the seating and the curtains concealing
the VIP area. From the gleaming bar counter and polished stools, to the sink-in
booth seats, to the serpentine sconces and the massive LED-lit crystal
chandeliers
, everything looked too
expensive to be real, too expensive to touch.

The luxury
price-on-request theme carried over to the patrons and the extremely subtle,
extremely expensive domination and submission uniform adopted by the clientele.
I recognized a lot of Dolce & Gabbana and Versace corsetry, BCBG Max Azria
leather cuff bracelets, dresses and belts and boots by the likes of Gucci and
Burberry Prorsum that cinched into place with numerous intricate straps and
buckles, and even an YSL high-necked jeweled collar with real
emeralds—knowledge I owed to the hours I’d spent staring at magazine ads and
boutique windows with the fashion student who’d been my college roommate. I
understood just as well as Nolan Beal did, as all these perfectly coiffed and
professionally styled people did, that there was an undeniable congruence
between modern fashion, art, and sense of
self
.
Or the made-to-order facsimile thereof. Identity with good stitching and a
designer label.

Stalking through the
press of perfumed bodies and ignoring the curious or bemused glances I earned
with my abrupt manner, I did a circuit of the club looking for Cheri and Beal.
Around a central, circular dance floor, Haute spiraled four stories. All four
had their own bars and the second and third their own balconies overlooking the
crowd. Thick glass walls blocked off the noise but not the view of the club for
the top floor, which housed an upscale restaurant with an extravagant menu
posted outside its heavy, gilded doors—sans prices, of course.

My whole experience
since I’d gotten myself involved in this scene again, with Nolan Beal, had been
like that. Overwhelming. Too stunning to be real. And with a hell of a sticker
shock after the fact.

“You waiting for
someone, Iva, or would you like to join us for dinner and entirely too much
alcohol?”

The man was always
sneaking up behind me. Always tempting me in a low voice that pretended droll
when it was absolute, unrepentant seduction. Always promising skin and kisses
that tasted of warm, spiced, rum-soaked citrus. Nolan Beal.

Feeling my teeth and my
fists clench and silently admonishing myself not to take a playground swing at
the man, I turned from the embossed linen menu to find the photographer
standing prominently amid a group of a half dozen people. I recognized only
Beal and Rilla. Despite willing myself not to stare, I noted all the pertinent
details that confirmed my memory of Beal and his sex god status, from the
low-rise jeans below his rippled abs to the heavy cross to the perfect amount
of five o’clock shadow, and now with the addition of a black leather jacket
gaping open over his bare chest. It made him look positively overdressed.

It made me want to run
my hands and my tongue over the leather and the contour between his pecs,
and
want to flog myself for thinking so
despite the man’s total lack of morality or character. It made me want to
pretend I’d never been anything like him. But I hadn’t been, really, or so I
consoled myself even as I stood there in the middle of Haute with my mouth and
my sex watering for the black-haired rake in defiance of my outrage.
 
At least I had cared about the damage I’d
done, the worry I’d caused. Devil may care? Nolan certainly didn’t. He had lied
to me and fucked me and tarnished years of work putting myself back together,
and looked carefree and smug for all the chaos and confusion he sowed.

Ranging irritably, my
gaze met Rilla’s. The model shifted to lean against Nolan’s arm.
Good for you, honey,
I sneered to myself
as I forced a pallid smile lacking even minimal effort in her direction. Better
Rilla than Cheri. Or at least that was what I should have been thinking.
Instead, the dissonance of feeling…
used
by Nolan Beal and duped and strangely rejected made the attempt at caustic
relief fall flat inside me.

“I was looking for
you,” I told Beal. Hesitant and breathy, my voice failed to convey anger—again.
So I cleared my throat and gave it another try. “We need to talk about you
reneging on our business agreement.” Which got murmurs and knitted brows from a
couple of Beal’s companions. Gallery owners, Stan had said. I’d chosen my words
with the specific intent of making them question the photographer’s trustworthiness…
and of getting his attention.

Oddly, Beal didn’t
flinch or fidget or betray any tell that he knew he was about to be called out
on his deceit. But he did stop wielding his deviously understated, one-corner
grin in that constant, possibly habitual effort to unnerve me. His sapphire
blue eyes narrowed and focused on me. Only me. I took too much satisfaction in
that.

It seemed like it took
him forever to speak, suspended in his moment of thought, his private
amusement. What was he thinking as he looked at me that way?

“I am a very lucky man
who gets drunk, laid, and paid a lot more than most other men, Miss Moreau,”
Nolan quipped in that dark, unapologetic humor that I would have bet was his
signature. “If anything, I make trouble for myself by being too damn honest
about how I live my life and my art—and how I handle my business. I don’t ever
renege
on agreements, especially after
I’ve gotten what I want out of the deal. Now if you want to critique my
performance from a few nights back….”

Beal’s turns of phrase
and carefully timed pauses were suggestive enough that Rilla sidestepped and
speared him with a glare that he either didn’t see or didn’t deem worthy of a
reaction. In that moment, he was still all about me, or at least all about the
accusation I’d leveled. When he stepped up to me, over me, I recognized what he
was doing yet again. The man had an aura of erotic heat, a presence, an event
horizon all his own. He knew what to do with it. I felt that magnetism draw
hard and strong on my insides, from the pit of my stomach, from the core of my
sex. My chest constricted and ached as my heart seemed to shift and press
against the inside of my ribcage, seeking him.

Nolan Beal was exactly
the kind of man I’d have chosen three years ago, the kind of man who would have
kept me up all night doing things I shouldn’t have, an all-around bad
influence. I wanted to kiss him right now. And bite him. And—
fuck
—part of me wanted him to bite back.
The worst thing about this man was the effect he had on me,
all the effects
he had on me.

He pursued his course
of taunting insinuation, saying, “I’m open to recommendations for improving my
technique
, sure, but to suggest I failed
to satisfy my end of our bargain?” Nolan shook his head no, very gently,
deliberately. Then he put on that Southern Comfort, sloe gin grin again, spicy
and sweet and libel to knock a girl on her ass before she knew she’d had too
much of it. “You know, you don’t need to resort to all this drama if you’re
just looking for an encore, Brown Eyes.”

His performance was
definitely on point tonight. What was it Stan had told me less than an hour
before in the studio? Never underestimate a man’s need to salvage his
professional reputation. My appreciation, my arousal, and my simmering anger
all rose, nearing a boil. It was all I could do not to slap the photographer.
Well, that and offer up a crumpled paper dug out of my borrowed evening bag.
Beal stared, his midnight blue gaze sliding back and forth between my face and
the little ball wadded in my hand. It occurred to me now that the moment would
have had more power had I been able to whip out the evidence with a flourish
for all to see. As it was, the whole confrontation went on a tension-killing
intermission while I smoothed the sheet out against my thigh.

Finally, I pushed the
paper up in front of Nolan Beal’s handsome face. And watched a confused furrow
form between his sable brows.

“A model release from
Cheri?”

NOLAN

I supposed it would
have been more polite to have excused myself from Rilla and my guests first,
but I was in no mood. Not for propriety, anyway. Not with Iva Moreau publicly
facing off against me while she flushed with temper from her scalp all the way
down that classically elegant face, along her smooth neck, and over her chest
where a push-up bodice on a tight bodycon slip dress offered an inviting swell
of exposed skin. Presented and posed, her breasts begged to be suckled gently,
then kneaded hard, until she broke and whimpered and squirmed. I seriously
considered reminding her to address me as Nolan before pulling up the back of
that dress and spanking her barehanded despite our audience. All regardless of
the lack of a mask to help her excuse herself for liking it.