WickedSeduction (2 page)

Inhaling deeply at the thought, he wondered what her name
might be.

Marnie Cruz avoided eye contact with the passersby,
especially the men, an old habit she found hard to break.

Now wasn’t the time for her to be bold, though she would be.
A promise Marnie had made to herself and kept—somewhat—when she’d been in front
of Wicked Brand. Simply going there today had taken so much effort, she felt
wrung out and tired. The punishing heat hadn’t helped, making her sweaty
beneath too many clothes. Given what her blouse and jeans hid, she had little
choice except to cover up.

She walked faster, as though distance and speed would help
her outrun bad history. Never worked
.
Her past kept returning to haunt
her at the worst possible times…such as when she’d met Tor Avana’s gaze. She’d
wanted to drink him in as long as he’d allow yet also felt hesitant to do so
and had finally left.

Disheartened at her retreat, Marnie recalled the warmth in
his eyes, his easy smile with charm to spare. Her belly fluttered. No wonder
the other women were attracted to his personality, while the rest of him…

Easily six-three, he was a big man who wore his size well,
his body and muscles sculpted. Tor’s black tank top hugged his beautifully
defined pecs and abs, worn jeans rode low on his lean hips, his left shoulder,
biceps and arm sported a gladiator tat. The 3-D design boasted varying shades
of brown and black, depicting the armor warriors had in times past—braided
leather edging the metal plates, a lion’s head with a ring through its nose,
the artwork showing shadows and depth, making it appear amazingly real.

Marnie had stared at the tat for minutes, looking away only
to see his face. Tor’s features were strong and masculine, no longer a boy’s
but a man’s. At age thirty or so, he had a masculine beauty that had nearly
made her whimper. His eyes seemed closer to black than brown, his skin bronze,
upper lips, cheeks and chin bristly. He wore his dark-brown hair short on the
sides, the thick locks fuller and longer on top, begging a woman to run her
fingers through them.

Marnie trembled with desire, unable to push aside what she
felt.

If forced to choose what part of him she liked best, his
eyes would have won easily, followed by his full, chiseled mouth, the dimples
in each cheek when he grinned. Simply remembering his welcoming smile caused
Marnie’s breathing to pick up and spoke to everything she’d longed for in a
partner but never had.

He seemed to be a man who smiled often…who wasn’t mean,
controlling, dangerous. How to be certain though? A few exchanged glances or
even an initial conversation wasn’t proof a guy was good.

Why are you even thinking this?

Looking for a hookup or a lasting relationship with any man
wasn’t what Marnie could risk at this point in her life. Sure, she was lonely
but her survival mattered the most, along with going through with what she’d
planned to do today.

This time, she’d only managed to get as far as the front of
Wicked Brand. Finding enough courage to go inside and ask for what she needed
to was more than she’d been able to handle.

Kneading the back of her neck, Marnie entered Alice’s
Wonderland, the high-end giftshop where she worked. A blast of icy air washed
over her, cooling her sticky skin. She blew out a sigh.

Alice Peters, the owner, turned at the sound of the front
bells jingling. Well into her sixties, Alice wore her gray hair shorter than
most hairstyles for men. Elaborate, beaded earrings hung nearly to her
shoulders, the bright-purple color matching her cat-eye glasses. Her vintage
top and skirt were a blast from the hippie-sixties past, both garments in black
with sparkly silver embroidery.

Two elderly couples roamed the shop, glancing at imitation
Tiffany shades, wrought iron and crystal chandeliers, elaborate candelabras and
no end of funky stuff, each piece as unique as Alice.

Giving Marnie a broad smile, Alice gestured her toward the
door to the stockroom, the area deserted.

Marnie pointed over her shoulder at the couples and mouthed,
shouldn’t I wait on them
?

Alice shook her head and gestured Marnie closer.

The moment she was near, Alice leaned in, sending a wave of
her scent toward Marnie. The older woman smelled sweet and powdery, the way a
mom should, at least in Marnie’s opinion. Since losing her mother, she
appreciated Alice filling some of the emptiness.

“Did you talk to him?” Alice asked quietly. “What did he
say?”

Marnie held back a sigh, feeling like a fool for not having
done what she’d set out to do. Hell, she wasn’t helpless, never had been
really, and should start behaving like the adult she was.

“He was busy,” she finally said, not liking to hedge but not
wanting to get into the details of what happened either.

Alice took Marnie’s hand, squeezing her fingers gently.

“No biggie if you didn’t go in,” Alice said, clearly
guessing what had happened. “These things take time.”

“I’m twenty-seven. I should be able to go into a tattoo
parlor without too much thought.”

“You will.” Alice cradled Marnie’s cheek, her touch light
and loving. “Quit being so hard on yourself. Small steps, remember?”

The same advice Marnie’s therapist kept repeating, telling
her there were no defeats unless she gave up.

“I don’t know if I can go to him or if I should,” Marnie
said without thinking.

“Why? Does he remind you of—?”

“No, it’s not that—we looked at each other.” Marnie’s body
flooded with heat at the memory, her nipples peaking more at the image of Tor
in her mind than the chilly air in the shop. “Our eyes met for minutes—maybe
seconds. I don’t know. Everything seemed to stop.”

“In a good or bad way?” Alice asked.

Marnie lifted her shoulders. “Felt good. Probably better
than it should, given what a lousy judge I am of men.” Recalling how clueless
she’d been in the past, her face and throat got even hotter.

“Could be he looked at you because you’re beautiful,” Alice
said.

Marnie shook her head.

“You are.”

“You didn’t see the other women there.”

“Did he stare at them?”

No. Thinking back, Marnie recalled how he’d glanced at the
others, not focusing on anyone for long…until he’d seen her staring—or rather
ogling.

Oh crap.
She nearly groaned. No wonder he’d reacted
as he had; she’d behaved as badly as the others had.

“What?” Alice asked.

“He grinned when he saw me gawking at him. God, I’m so
embarrassed.”

“Why?”

Clearly, Alice needed to act more like a woman her age.
“Because.” Before another “why” came her way, Marnie decided to change the
subject. “His pictures in the paper don’t do him justice. He has dimples.”

“Wow. Sounds hot.”

Very.
Marnie smiled.

“From what I’ve read about him and seen on TV, he seems like
a nice guy too,” Alice said.

Marnie’s smile faded immediately. “Maybe.”

“Sweetie, there are good men out there. I was married to one
for forty years before the bum died on me.”

Marnie laughed before she could stop herself and quickly
slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m not making light of
your loss.”

“I know.” Alice hugged Marnie hard. “You’re too serious
though. You need to loosen up, have some fun and start trusting.”

“I’m trying.”

“That’s all anyone asks.” With her arm around Marnie’s
waist, Alice led her to the business end of the shop. “During lunch tomorrow,
you can try again. Or make a call to the parlor now.” She started to lift the
receiver of the landline phone on the counter.

Marnie eased Alice’s hand away. “I need to do this in
person.”

As soon as she got the guts.

Several days later, Tor stood next to his sketches, warning
himself not to get too excited about a possible sale. Polly Kitchum, a tourist
from Minnesota, couldn’t decide which of his pieces she liked best—one of his
black-and-white, stylized portraits or a whimsical image, depicting a carousel
at a local park. The pastels he’d used on the second illustration evoked an
idealized version of childhood, hazy and golden.

“Hank.” She turned to her husband.

The old guy was dressed in a red polo shirt, tan Bermuda
shorts, running shoes and white socks covering his spindly calves. He
alternately squinted at photos of tats on the wall and at Van Gogh, who was
inking a middle-aged tourist in the chair in front of the window. The man had
chosen a design with a series of green buttons running down the right side of
his beer belly with the buttonholes on the left. A black gap in the middle gave
the illusion of his unbuttoned skin separating over the nothingness inside him.

The guy grinned like a fool. His wife stood nearby, shaking
her head. On the other side of the window, men who looked to be in their
fifties and sixties watched raptly. While Tor’s audiences were mainly women,
Van Gogh drew men who were primed for a midlife crisis.

“Hank,” Polly said again, her voice louder than the
recording of Maná and Shakira’s
Mi Verdad
filling the parlor.

Hank held up his forefinger. “In a sec.”

He moved closer to Van Gogh, who’d bulked up quite a bit
since Tor had joined Wicked Brand.

Six months ago, Van Gogh had been a skinny, weird-looking
kid. With the help of thirty extra pounds and lifting weights, he sported
actual muscles now. Gone was the scraggly goatee. He’d even stopped shaving his
head, letting his hair grow out.

Tor figured the change in Van Gogh was because he had to ink
clients in the front window. Like anyone else, he wanted to look good.

His dour expression, however… Poor guy didn’t like being the
center of attention and his feelings showed big-time, no doubt chasing away the
babes.

Hank seemed more impressed by the bullet wound tats on Van
Gogh’s arms than his personality. Each of the 3-D holes seeped blood in
glorious color. Peeking out from the top of Van Gogh’s tank top was the
outstanding design on his chest, which he’d actually inked himself.

The moment Van Gogh had finished with another button on his
client’s belly, Hank cleared his throat loudly. “Ah, hi. I read about your
chest tattoo on the Internet. Can I see?”

“Why?” Polly asked, crossing the room to her husband.

Tor held back a sigh, telling himself this sale definitely
wouldn’t go through. Polly looked ready to haul her husband out of there before
he could sign up for a tat.

“I just want to see,” Hank said to her.

Van Gogh turned to his client. “Give me a sec.” He put down
his tattoo gun and lifted his top.

Hank’s eyes rounded at the design. The image showed what
appeared to be Van Gogh’s skin ripped away to reveal his guts underneath—ribs,
heart…

Hank whistled. Polly made a face.

“If I were thirty years younger,” Hank said.

Polly smiled weakly and slipped her arm through his. “I need
your help, sweetie. I don’t know which drawing to take.” She hauled him back to
Tor.

While the couple went back and forth over which sketch was best
for their home, Tor waited patiently, pretending his pulse wasn’t sprinting in
anticipation. Usually when people behaved like this, the husband told the wife
to sleep on her decision, promising they’d return the following day for the
purchase.

They never had.

Don’t put too much hope in—

“Aw hell,” Hank said. “Take both if you like them so much.”

Squealing, Polly threw her arms around him.

Tor might have done the same if the gesture wouldn’t have
been weird. “Let’s get you rung up. Jasmina?”

She came down the hall, clipboard in hand. “Yep.”

“Can you write up Polly and Hank’s purchases?” Tor pulled
the drawings off the wall, both of them nearly as tall as he was. “Be back as
soon as I wrap these.”

“I’ll bring the car around,” Hank said and left the parlor.

Tor made fast work of slipping the pieces into
packaging at his station.

Lauren popped in.
“Wow, heard about your huge sale. Major congrats.” She high-fived him. “Next
time, make it three sketches.”

He laughed. “I
was sweating bullets through two.” He spoke as softly as she had so those up
front couldn’t overhear. “Three might kill me.”

“No dying until
you sell everything on the walls.” She backed out of his station and winked. “I
know you will.”

Grinning like a
kid at Christmas, Tor hauled the artwork to the front.

Polly touched the
packaging carefully, as though she might damage the drawings inside. “I’m so
excited.”

“Me too,” Tor
said.

Laughing, she
gestured to the front door. “Hank just pulled up. He’s double-parked.”

“I’ll hurry.”

“Not too much. I
don’t want you hurting my drawings.”

“Absolutely not,”
Tor said, liking how she’d said
my drawings,
taking emotional possession
of his work. Always a good sign for a return visit to buy more. “I’ll be
careful.”

Just past the
front door, he stopped abruptly. Facing Tor was the young woman from earlier in
the week. Her slender eyebrows lifted slightly, as though she hadn’t expected to
see him.

Tor grinned,
excited and pleased as hell to be this close to her, his heart slamming into
his chest. “Hi.”

Color rose to her
cheeks, making her even prettier, soft and vulnerable in a good way. “Hi.”

“I’ll be with you
in a sec,” he said to her. “Soon as I finish with this.” He lifted the artwork.

Her blush
deepened. She glanced past him to Van Gogh. Had Tor made a mistake? Was she
interested in having Van Gogh do whatever work she had in mind?

Tor’s smile felt dumb, suddenly. Damn, he’d really misjudged
what had happened the other day, thinking they’d shared a deep connection.
Apparently not for her.

“Ah, Van Gogh will be with you as soon as he can,” Tor said.
“If he doesn’t have another client, your wait shouldn’t be too long.”

“I don’t…” She didn’t continue.

“Don’t what?” Tor asked.

She shifted from foot to foot, her gauzy, white skirt
fluttering around her ankles. This afternoon, like the previous one, she’d
covered up most of her body, her long-sleeved, white shirt tied at the waist
rather than above her midriff. He wondered if she had to dress that way for
work.

After glancing at Van Gogh again and looking torn, she
suddenly turned to Tor. “I can talk to you—I want to. Whenever you have a
minute.”

Tor wished he had one right now. If he could have tossed his
artwork at Hank without pissing off Polly, he would have. The woman kept
tapping his shoulder.

“Hank’s double-parked,” she said again.

“I know the cops around here,” Tor said. Actually, his
brother Dante did, being an attorney. “I promise, no one will give you a
ticket.”

“Hank’s still waiting.”

Right. She wanted Tor to act like the professional he was
supposed to be. He gave the young woman a gentle smile. “Be back in a sec.”

“You will be careful, right?” Polly asked. “You won’t rush.”

“Never.”

Tor forced himself to take more time than needed as he put the
sketches in the rear of the couple’s Toyota hatchback.

Before he could move away, Polly touched his arm. Looking up
at him, she squinted at the brilliant sun. “How do I take care of my drawings?”

Without thinking, Tor glanced at the parlor. Rather than
having gone inside, the young woman waited for him by the door. If he’d been a
gambling man, Tor would have bet she was debating whether to leave.

Reining in his desire to join her, he turned to Polly.
“Don’t handle the drawings unless you absolutely have to. No touching the
surfaces to see how they feel. Your fingertips have oil on them you don’t want
to leave on the artwork. Wash your hands first or wear gloves if you absolutely
have to touch the drawings to move them or whatever. Never place them in direct
sunlight or they could fade. Keep them in a cool, dry place and—”

“Wait. I need to get this down. I’ll send myself a text.”
She pulled out her smartphone, fiddled with the device, and finally nodded.
“Okay, repeat what you just said.”

Good God.
Although he’d be forever grateful that
Polly liked and had bought his work, Tor still wanted to get back to the parlor
before the end of today. Suppressing a sigh, he repeated what he’d said earlier,
adding information on the extra care one had to give drawings in ink and those
in pastels.

Seconds after he’d finished, Polly kept tapping on her
phone. At last, she beamed. “Got it. I’m so excited.” She gave him a hard hug.
“I’m telling my friends about this place and you.”

Tor’s face got hot with his grateful blush. “Thanks, I
appreciate you spreading the word.”

She dismissed his appreciation with a wave of her hand. “You
have talent to spare. Someday you’re gonna be big. And I’m gonna get rich
because I have your early work.”

He laughed.

Hank cleared his throat. “Babe, we are double-parked.”

After Polly hurried into the passenger seat, Tor waved them
on their way, watching until they’d turned down another street and disappeared
from view.

Hot damn.
Tor approached the young woman, relieved
she was still there. “Hi.” He offered his hand. “Tor Avana.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her fingers across
his palm.

Every nerve-ending in Tor’s body fired, sending a tsunami of
delight through him. Her skin was achingly soft, delightfully warm. Hell, if
merely touching her hand did this to him, what was going to happen when they engaged
in something truly intimate? Kissing. Stripping. Crawling naked over each
other, mouths, tongues, hands exploring with shameless desire.

“Marnie Cruz,” she said.

Marnie, short for Marina? Tor smiled at her nickname and
fragrance, a light, floral scent fresh as spring flowers, enticing as the
caress of a heated breeze. “Nice to meet you, Marnie.”

She hesitated for a moment, smiled but eased her hand from
his. “You too, Tor.”

Clearly, she didn’t want him coming on too strong. Her call.
He’d always respected a woman’s boundaries.

“Want to go inside? It’s cooler.”

Again, she seemed reluctant. “Maybe I should ask what I have
to first.”

“Sure.” Many people were hesitant about getting tats or
piercings, needing to weigh the pros and cons first. “What do you want to
know?”

She moved away from the parlor, as though worried someone
might overhear what she said.

Tor followed. Once she’d stopped and faced him again, he
shielded his eyes from the sun. The rays backlighted Marnie’s hair, bringing
out the red highlights, making her tempting as hell. Even from where he stood,
Tor caught a whiff of her shampoo, the scent sweet and seductive.

“Do you do special tattoos?” she asked.

Her question surprised him. He’d expected her to ask about pain
and sanitary conditions—if she could get an infection from the ink or, God forbid,
a blood disease. Some women wanted to know what the tat would look like in
forty years. If wrinkled skin would make the design too awful for words.

“Special?” he asked. “You mean like a unique design? Sure. I
can create whatever you want. The same goes for giving an image depth, the
illusion of 3-D, until the flower, butterfly, lace or whatever looks more
genuine than the real thing.” He grinned. “We have Fluorescent tats too. They’re
practically invisible until you turn on a black light then
pow
you can
see the design. Totally amazing.”

She smiled weakly. “I’m sure, but that’s not what I meant.”

Oh. Tor thought he’d seen everything but hey, he was only
human. Some stuff did get by him in the ink world. “You have a design you’ve
seen somewhere else? A picture maybe?”

“No.” She seemed daunted then oddly resolved. “Do you have
any tats to cover scars?”

Without thinking, he glanced at her long sleeves and skirt.
Rude, he knew, but Tor hadn’t been able to help himself. No wonder she wore the
kind of clothes she did, her decision to do so in this horrible heat finally
making sense. He wondered if she’d been in a car accident and figured she had.
“Yeah. Sure. Do it all the time.”

Women who’d had mastectomies often wanted tats to cover
their scars. The same for marks left after tummy tucks or Caesarian sections.

“Then what I want is doable,” she said.

He smiled at her obvious relief, wanting to put her at ease.
“Completely. Come inside. I can show you some pictures.”

Back at the parlor, he opened the door for her and directed
her to the left. “My station’s this way.”

“Afternoon,” Lauren said to Marnie in the hall. “Welcome to
Wicked Brand.”

“Thanks. I don’t know if I’ll be getting anything.”

“No problem,” Tor said before Lauren could. “Our
consultations are free. Take as much time as you want to look through the
designs then you can make a decision.”

Once inside his station, he gestured Marnie to one of the
chairs, took his own and kept the door open. A necessary evil when he or the
other male artists had female clients, so the ladies couldn’t return later
claiming assault. If any of the women did want the door closed—because their
breasts or other intimate body parts were exposed—security cameras in each room
recorded everything to protect all involved.

Marnie stared at the opened door and hall, her expression
pained. “I thought this would be more private.”