January (Calendar Girl #1) Anthology Anthology (15 page)

What the fuck did I get myself into?

Cameras were clicking, lighting units and reflectors were being moved around on wheeled carts as I stood in the entryway attempting to take it all in. Bunion set my bag off to a sidewall and pointed to a man crouched down, a camera glued to his face. “Mr. Dubois,” he grumbled, then abruptly turned around and entered the elevator we’d just exited leaving me to fend for myself.

“Man of few words.” I let a slow breath leave my too-full lungs. I didn’t know what to do. Should I sit off to the side and wait for someone to approach me—hopefully not the naked men and women scattered around—or should I bug the guy busily taking pictures of something I couldn’t quite see?

Instead of waiting, I decided to take better stock of my surroundings and walked around. The room was an open loft but not a home. Rickety windows lined the walls on the right, some opened from the bottom out, others were closed tight. It looked like it took a crank to open them, which I found incredibly cool and retro. Naked an
d half naked women passed by me, sizing me up as they moved in front of giant white canvases. They weren’t really modeling, they were just standing next to the canvases, each model loosely holding a pose while attendants, dressed in black, were perfecting the poses with subtle shifts of an elbow here or moving a foot there. Then the attendant would back up and take a single photo and start over again. Tiny movements again, then another picture. It was downright weird.

I moved over to another area where there was a naked couple lying on a huge white canvas that had to be at least ten by ten feet in size. One of the attendants climbed up a small ladder that had a platform directly over their bodies and methodically poured what looked to be bright blue paint over every inch of them. “Don’t move!” he screamed. “We’ll have to start all over, and Mr. Dubois won’t be pleased,” he added tightly. The couple stayed in a naked clinch, the female model’s hands wrapped around the male’s head as if she was about to kiss him. His arms were around her, one on her ass holding a leg over his hip, the other cupping the back of her head.

Paint dripped down their legs and fell into globs on the canvas. “Still,” the man warned. I was so fascinated by the inner workings of the odd scene in front of me that I didn’t hear a person walk up behind me until my hair was swept off my neck.

“Perfection,” I heard whispered against my ear before a soft kiss hit the bare skin at the curve where my shoulder and neck met.

I shuffled back, not looking where I was going, just trying to get away from the stranger touching me when I bumped into something behind me. Before I could turn, my boot caught the edge of the canvas, and I went toppling into the platform, which held the irritated guy with the paint. Then, utter chaos ensued. The man holding the bucket went tumbling forward, and blue, sticky paint flew out of the can into a fan of color before splashing down onto the canvas and tarp protecting the concrete.

The couple beneath must have seen the fall coming, because the man rolled the hot naked chick as if he’d been trained in combat services with the armed forces. He avoided the attendant, missed being doused with more paint, and narrowly escaped the platform that was about to fall on top of them.

I wasn’t so lucky.

When I fell backward, my other heel went through the thick canvas and stuck, and my body curved around in the opposite direction. I screamed out as my ankle twisted painfully, and I landed ass-over-tits into blue paint and torn canvas.

“Sweet Jesus!” The man I tried to get away from stepped into the mess and pulled me up by the armpits. His golden brown eyes were mesmerizing and worried. Small lines at the corners of each eye revealed he was probably a good decade older than I. Sandy brown hair with hints of russet gold and red streaked through in natural highlights was pulled tight into a small bun at the back of his head. A sculpted jaw and full lips were rimmed with perfectly trimmed facial hair. I’d never dated a man with a beard, but standing in front of this man, strong arms holding me close to a very tall and muscular frame, I couldn’t fathom why I never had. He was drop dead gorgeous. Reminded me of Ben Affleck only way hotter.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you standing there, and your beauty was far beyond the likes of any mere model. I had to press my lips against your golden skin. You must be
My Mia
,” he said with admiration. His caramel gaze scanning my features from the tips of my hair down to my spike-heeled boots. I would be tossing those boots the minute I could remove them from my rapidly swelling ankle.

A quick test by placing the ball of my injured foot to the ground sent pain ripping through my ankle and shooting up my leg. I cried out and gripped the man’s forearms, digging my nails into his flesh. “Oh my, you’re really hurt!”

“Ya think?” I rolled my eyes as he used his long arms to swoop me under the knees into a princess style carry and rushed me over to an arched loveseat. Only it wasn’t a love seat, it had a curved back that started high on one end then came down low on the other. It was the type of furniture you’d see in old romantic movies where the damsel in distress would faint perfectly onto it; hand over her forehead slumping down with a pretty sigh. Me, I was gritting my teeth and ready to bite anyone that even so much as shifted my leg.

“I’ll call a medic!” One of the ever-present men in black said to the stranger, who, by then, I’d surmised was my client.

“No,
ce n'est pas nécessaire,
” he said in rapid French. “Contact 3B. She’s a doctor and a friend,” he said his eyes boring into mine. “You’ll be fine, Mia,” he assured me, and when he spoke with that slight accent I may have actually swooned; a definite clench occurred between my thighs. Men with accents were deadly sexy. Then again, it could have been the pain raging through my limb that had me clenching. I was pretty sure it was the former.

Within moments, a tiny speck of a woman rushed in holding what looked to be an old-fashioned medical doctor’s bag. She introduced herself and helped me slide off my boot without jarring the leg. She may have been a miracle worker. A snicker could be heard over my shoulder as the doctor was prodding my ankle. I looked over at my client whom I knew to be Alec Dubois, though we hadn’t actually exchanged pleasantries yet.

“What?”

“Your socks. Positively enchanting,
ma jolie
,” he finished in French, which sounded sexy as hell but pissed me off even more, because I didn’t know what it meant. Could be anything like klutz, or moron, but I’d never know. I looked down at my Christmas socks and then at the doctor. Her lips curved up, but she stayed completely professional as she checked my ankle. Her, I liked; the jury was still out on hunky French camera guy.

“Well, it’s not broken. You’ve got a slight sprain. I’ll wrap it, but keep off it as much as possible, and you’ll be good as new in a couple weeks. You’ll need to rest it, ice it, elevate above your heart and keep it wrapped. I suggest getting some crutches,” she said and my shoulders sagged in defeat. I hated crutches. The entire world hated crutches. They sucked. Bad. I was not looking forward to the skin around my underarms being worn raw or feeling bruised, along with the bum ankle, especially on a new job. I wondered if he’d want a refund on his purchase. A moment of panic shredded through my heart thinking about my dad and how I’d get the next installment to Blaine if French guy didn’t want me now that I was damaged.

“I’ll take perfect care of you,
ma jolie
. You needn’t worry for a thing,” Alec sat down next to me placing an arm protectively around my waist sliding me close, so close it was as if he’d know me for years not moments. He definitely had some serious space invasion issues. Even so, it felt nice and helped relieve the fear that he was going to send me home.

“
Retournez au travail,
” His obvious instruction was punctuated with some arm movements before he lifted me as if I weighed nothing.

“What does that mean? And what are you doing?” I clung to his shoulders so as not to fall while he walked towards the elevator.

“Taking you home so you can rest. You must be tired after traveling. And now, with a sore ankle, you need to lie down.” His eyes were kind as he looked at me. “And before, I told my crew to get back to work,” his accent was stronger now, but it was obvious he’d been in the US a long time. His English was perfect.

I huffed but hung on. “This is so weird. I’m sorry about the painting and the mess, and now I’ve busted my ankle and I’m supposed to be this spectacular muse.”

“Oh, you
are
most
spectaculaire
, the finest features, and your face in two is a perfect mirror image,” he said as if this was the most astonishing news, though I didn’t really understand.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean by a mirror image.”

One of Alec’s men in black followed us into the elevator carrying my single suitcase and pressed button twelve, which was the highest number on the panel. He didn’t answer my question as we exited the elevator, and he carried me into another wide-open loft. It was the same size as the level we were on before, only this was complete with a kitchen, living space, and a set of stairs that I assumed led to a raised loft bedroom. There weren’t any walls, other than in the corner with a door. If I was a betting woman, which I am—my dad taught me everything he knew about gambling—I’d bet that door led to a single bathroom.

He brought me to that door, and yep, it was a bathroom. I hopped on one foot to the sink when he let me go. Out of thin air, my bag appeared, and Alec rifled through it, pulling out a shirt and a pair of pajama shorts.

“Here, put these on. I’ll get a bag for your clothes.” Within moments he returned and handed me a garbage bag.

“You’ll be okay?” he asked, a hand curled around the door knob.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” I could feel my cheeks heat as he shut the door.

Stupid, stupid, stupid klutz! As quickly as possible I trashed the jeans and shirt covered in paint and put on the shirt and shorts. Once done, I washed off as much paint as I could see. I’d need a full shower, but right now, I needed to settle things with my client, gauge his mood, see if he was angry with me.  

When I opened the bathroom door he was there and swept me into his arms again.

“Ooophf!” I gasped as he carried me then sat me down on a plush velvet sectional in the deepest purple known to man. So dark it was almost black, though if you ran your hand over it, the fibers shifted and left a much lighter eggplant shade. Once I was situated comfortably, foot on the ottoman in front of me, Alec lifted his leg and straddled the ottoman, pulling my sore ankle into his lap. I leaned forward and held my leg at the sides not knowing how to respond to a man who touched with abandon.

“Now, your question, about mirror images?”

I nodded and bit my lip. He lifted a hand and with one finger traced the center of my face from the hairline at my forehead, over my nose, down between my lips and stopping at my chin. A shiver rippled through me at his heated touch, or was it the sultry way he looked at me as if I was the most beautiful woman in the world. Wes looked at me like that. Hell, Wes made me
feel
that way. A pang of guilt needled at me, but I shoved it away. Wes and me, we were not an item. Friends with benefits absolutely…with the hope of more. One day. Maybe. Not today.

“If you cut your face down the middle here,” he traced my face again with the pad of his finger, his eyes seemingly lost in his task, “each side would mirror the other.”

I frowned. “So would anyone’s.”

His hand cupped my cheek, long fingers twining through the dark tresses to cup the back of my nape. “Yes,
ma jolie
, but they would not be symmetrical. Your face, it’s
perfection
. Equal on both sides. Neither better nor worse than the other. It’s unusual. Astonishing. You are unique,” Alec’s faced dipped close and he pressed a warm kiss to each cheek. “Tomorrow, we start work,
oui
? Today, you rest.” He placed my swollen ankle onto the ottoman after setting a pillow under it. “I must work now,” he said moving around as if he was already distracted by the tasks ahead.

Interesting guy, Alec Dubois.

***

For the entire afternoon, not willing to brave the stairs up to the loft on one leg, I hobbled around, took a nap on the couch, called my best friend, Ginelle, and checked in with Aunt Millie. Both Gin and Aunt Millie found it hysterical that I’d twisted my ankle and was stuck at the mercy of a hot French artist guy. Gin called me a lucky bitch and Aunt Millie just ended her call with a “Have fun doll-face.”

The door of the elevator dinged, and I could hear the metal scraping as the gates were opened. I couldn’t see anything from my position on the couch, but I didn’t have to wait long. Alec strode through the room carrying crutches and a white takeout bag that smelled deliciously like Chinese food. Without delay, Alec set the food on the coffee table, leaned the crutches on the side of the couch, then came to my side where he sat.

Before I could open my mouth he’d cupped both sides of my neck, his thumbs on the apples of my cheeks where he proceeded to kiss each cheek. His lips were warm and left an impression long after he’d moved back to stare into my eyes. “How are you,
ma jolie
?”

“Uh, fine, I guess,” I blinked and he smiled. “What does
ma jolie
mean?”

Alec’s lips curved at the edge as he cocked his head to the side. His hand reached out and pushed a lock of my hair away from my forehead, past my temple and behind my ear. The air around us was thick, filled with the promise of something I couldn’t yet name. “It translates to ‘my pretty’ in English.”

“Oh, okay,” I whispered not capable of looking away from those tawny-colored eyes.

“Hungry?” he asked, his Rs rolling delectably.

I nodded. My throat felt dry as I watched him stand, enter the kitchen and bring back some plates and serving utensils before coming back to sit too close to me. One entire side of his body was plastered against mine. If I moved away, it would be obvious, and I didn’t want to make another bad impression on my new client, so instead I endured his warmth. And his scent. That smell would be my demise. It was a mixture of fresh paint and Hugo Boss. The only reason I even knew that scent was because I’d once worked as a spray girl in the local shopping mall in Vegas. They had me spraying all kinds of crap. So much so you left working smelling like a bag of potpourri. Hugo Boss had a yummy male smell that seemed to arrow through my nostrils and land bullseyed between my legs.