Wicked Design (Wicked Brand) Page 2

  “The others cost more. Looks as if you’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  “Which is?”

  Jasmina rocked on her heels. “Seduce him.”

  “No.” Lauren spoke to Clover. “Talk to him. Say hi. Start a conversation.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. I’m so desperate, I’m even willing to bat my eyelashes and all the other junk women are supposed to do with guys. But how can I if he won’t even look at me or if he runs the other way when I approach? It’s not as if I can take a sledgehammer to his ankles to keep him from budging like that nut did to the writer in Misery.”

  “Good point. That’s no way to begin a romance. You’ll have to be yourself. You’re perfect just as you are.”

  Hardly that, but Clover felt comfortable in her own skin. Whether that equated to success with men was another matter entirely. “Maybe there’s another way.”

  Jasmina and Lauren exchanged a glance.

  Lauren spoke first. “How’s that?”

  Chapter Two

  Van Gogh bandaged his client carefully. The biggest, baddest dudes always whined about how a tiny needle hurt. They could take a bullet to the heart, walk out unscathed after a bomb blast, and fight off a rabid dog, but approach them with a tattoo machine and they whimpered like little girls. “You’re all set.”

  “Fuck, this stings.”

  “It’ll get better. See you next time.”

  Alone at last, Van Gogh closed his door and hauled out his sketchpad. After flipping through previous drawings of Clover, he started anew to get her features right. Almond eyes, high cheekbones, long throat, dark hair. Not brown as he’d thought but black enough to have blue highlights. Her skin white as snow.

  He trembled and blew out several breaths to calm down. Acting like an idiot wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Doing this sketch wouldn’t, either, since she’d never see it, same as the oil he’d done. Maybe he’d hang both in his apartment. Jack off to her images like a perv. Or a lovesick fan.

  He worked feverishly, establishing the outline first. Details would come later. How the sun shone on her outside the parlor, perspiration dotting her temples and throat, her tank top hugging her sweet breasts.

  His intercom crackled. “Van Gogh?” Lauren. “Are you in there?”

  Odd question, given the security monitor showed everything in the room, including him. Not that watching him was the purpose of having the monitors. Surveillance gave clients, especially females, total security even if they’d be alone with a male tattoo artist while getting an intimate area inked. No one who worked here had ever been accused of anything weird or inappropriate, and Lauren intended to keep it that way.

  He stated the obvious. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Are you busy?”

  Second time this week she’d asked that. Two days ago, she had errands to run and wanted him to watch Molly. The kid was cute for someone that small and limited, but entertaining her wasn’t his thing. He didn’t know how to interact with adults that well; babies were totally foreign to him. Staring. Drooling. Crying. And those were the good parts. If this involved a diaper change…he’d rather face unemployment. He could hawk his work on the street. “I am busy. Swamped in fact.”

  “Doing what?”

  He held up his pad to the camera but hid the sketch from her. “Design work for a client.”

  “Sorry, but it’ll have to wait a few hours. Tor and the others are with their own customers. We have a walk-in. Don’t want to lose the sale. I’m bringing the client back now. Thanks for doing this.”

  He should have stopped working but didn’t want to and sketched in the lips. Plump and pouty for the bottom one, the top perfectly formed, the corners lifted slightly in an aroused smile. Heat rolled through him.

  A fist rapped the door.

  He started.

  Lauren breezed inside. “Hey, I’d like you to meet Clover Dasleigh. We’re selling her jewelry designs up front. She’s finally decided to try our services. Clover, this is Van Gogh. He’ll take good care of you.”

  Clover smiled even better than in his many drawings. None captured her friendly and sweet essence. He liked her hair, cut short like a guy’s, the blue highlights staggering. Her dark eyes, rosy mouth, and pale skin radiated so much femininity it hurt to look at her without touching.

  He squeezed the pad.

  She slipped inside and offered her hand. “Hi.”

  His mouth wouldn’t work. Every muscle tensed, denying him speech and movement. Drawing her likeness had already stiffened his cock. Seeing her in the flesh, so to speak, made his stupid rod rigid enough to hurt. If his balls plumped even a fraction more, they’d burst. Exactly how he’d reacted in the window when he’d caught her gawking then grinning. Not at him though…at his work.

  To women, he was the invisible man.

  She stared, waiting for his response.

  His face warmed. Not another damn blush. Fuck, he didn’t need that adding to his humiliation. “Ah…” He straightened in his chair, his legs too watery to support him, took her hand, and couldn’t pull in a breath to stop his increasing dizziness. Suede wasn’t as soft as her skin. She smelled fresh and flowery, better than anyone he’d known. “Hi.”

  She caressed his fingers.

  His scalp tingled. He leaned closer. His pad dropped onto the floor. At the slap, he jerked and wanted to die. Her likeness stared at them, or at least her outline and mouth did. He grabbed the paper and put it facedown on his desk. “You want to get inked?”

  “She does.” Lauren smiled indulgently. “I’ll leave you two to work out the details.” She closed the door.

  A first. Unless a woman bared her breasts, pussy, or ass for an artist to ink, station doors always stayed open here. Kept everyone chaste. Screwing came after the parlor closed, not too many hours away.

  His pulse sprinted. “Do you know what you’d like?”

  Clover glanced at his groin. “For what?”

  “A design.”

  “Oh. No. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “No. Sure. Please.” With any luck, he’d move beyond monosyllables before she left. He pulled over a chair. “Do you at least have a theme you’d prefer? Flowers? Butterflies? Fairies? Something like that?”

  “I love your bullet holes. Especially the blood seeping out.” She stroked his arm.

  Pleasure shot to his teeth then back down, settling in his groin. “Thanks.”

  “Can I see your chest?”

  “What?”

  She gestured to his tank top. “I read those articles about your tat. Did you really do it yourself?”

  “Yeah. No biggie.”

  “Are you kidding? You inked yourself. That’s amazing.”

  He smiled. “Yeah? You think so?”

  “Don’t you?”

  When it came to emotions, he was admittedly clueless. Right now, he felt invincible and vulnerable yet also oddly comfortable. Totally screwed up.

  “Come on.” She stroked his nipple through his top. “Show me.”

  If his clothes had been on fire, he wouldn’t have undressed faster. Nude to the waist, he actually pushed out his chest. Like a douche.

  Clover clutched her throat.

  “Too much?” He grabbed his top.

  “No. Seriously, that’s epic.”

  His design was pure illusion, his skin seemingly ripped away to show his heart, ribs, and guts beneath. Everything in 3-D, completely realistic.

  And gross to most women. When they spotted pictures of his tat next to the other designs gracing the walls, they curled their upper lips or shuddered. The same reaction they gave to inked testicles and cocks. In that, he agreed with them and would never fuck up his equipment. “You don’t think this is ugly?”

  “I’ve never seen anything more awesome.” She traced the inked heart and touched his nipple.

  Goose pimples rose on his arms.

  She leaned closer. “You’re a real badass with spatial depth. I
mean, check out those ribs. I can almost stick my fingers between them.”

  She stroked his abs.

  His belly trembled. “You talk like an artist.”

  “Designer. Jewelry. Remember?”

  He’d never forgotten. Lauren and Jasmina had discussed putting Clover’s work in other Wicked Brand locations when their franchise plan took off.

  “You design this?” He touched her silver bracelet.

  “You did.”

  “Huh?”

  She laughed. A light, tinkling sound that encouraged joy and hope. “It’s your design.” She stroked the petals. “I made it into jewelry. Hope you don’t mind me stealing the idea from you.”

  “You didn’t. It’s not mine. Maybe Tor’s. I’m not into delicate stuff as a rule. It’s nice, though. Pretty. I like how it fits your arm.”

  “That’s one of my styles. I call it wraparound jewelry. Metal or precious gems that decorate a woman like a tat. Maybe Lauren will commission more of my pieces and you’ll see them in the display case. I love your artwork, by the way. You’re living up to your name.”

  “Van Gogh?”

  “Yeah. His work is incredible. Monet’s, Renoir’s, and Degas’s, too. They’re my faves.”

  He pointed. “I figured you might be an Impressionist fan.”

  “Why?”

  She had an ethereal quality, like a sprite. Instead of her black tank top, shorts, and sandals, she should have worn a gossamer gown, fragile and feminine like her umbrella. He’d planned to put the piece in his drawing and give her wings. Maybe even a halo. “I don’t know. You’re so…”

  “Different?”

  She was, but in a good way. “Not exactly.”

  “Weird?”

  “What? No. More like narrow.”

  She glanced down. “You think I’m too skinny?”

  “Not at all.” He gestured helplessly. “You’re small.”

  “You mean flat-chested?”

  “No.” His face heated. “Small all over.” He gestured from her hair to her feet.

  “You can’t mean short. I’m five ten.”

  “But not wide.”

  “My hips?” She touched them. “They aren’t curvy like other women’s are?”

  Van Gogh hadn’t a clue how they’d gotten on this subject or if other women talked this candidly to guys they’d just met. He didn’t have much experience. “No. I mean—I’m not referring to your hips. You look like a woman should. Not like a guy does, muscular or super athletic. You’re pretty and fragile looking. You know.”

  Her eyes rounded, and then she beamed. “Thanks.”

  He breathed more easily, amazed his compliment seemed to have surprised and pleased her. Women had never come to him for validation. Especially a babe who looked as good as she did. Not over-the-top provocative like many females in South Florida, but refreshingly natural. If she wore makeup, he couldn’t see it. She didn’t need enhancement or anything to cover up flaws that didn’t exist. There wasn’t one visible pore in her alabaster complexion. No moles or freckles either. She looked like she’d been Photoshopped, only in real life. “You’re sure you want to get inked?”

  “Only by you. I don’t trust my bod to anyone else.”

  A few more minutes of her praise and he’d hyperventilate. Spending several hours around her might not be a good idea for either of them. He could have a problem keeping his hands steady enough to ink. His resolve not to touch her X-rated parts might not last while giving her a tat. For her own good and his, he should turn her over to Tor. “You ready to look at some designs?”

  “I have all night.”

  The only responses that occurred to him sounded suggestive and foolish. She simply liked his art and was nice to him, as she was to everyone. Seeing him as a man couldn’t be in the equation. Too many missteps with women had convinced him of that.

  He handed her the binders that advertised his and the other artists’ work. “Take your time. I have more designs on the computer. I can even make up something special for you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “If you want.”

  “I’d like to see these first if you don’t mind.”

  She could have set fire to the place and he wouldn’t have objected. Her smile turned his brain to mush. Burying his face in her neck and sniffing her fragrance seemed a reasonable way to spend the following hours. Except for the expected letdown, of course. Her being involved with someone else. Possibly another Impressionist jewelry designer who looked great, had loads of cash, and confidence to spare.

  Every guy’s worst nightmare when it came to competing for a woman like Clover.

  Van Gogh rolled his chair away, pulled on his top, and forced himself to work rather than lust for her. After too many minutes, he finally sketched a design for a returning client who wanted something spectacular on his back. What he came up with wasn’t his best work. Hunkered down, he focused. Other, and better, ideas came quickly. First, an open zipper that revealed a metal spine. Insects crawled around it and fed on the gore. Next, he sketched a zombie eating his way out of the client’s spinal cord. Then an Angelina Jolie lookalike clawing her way through his skin.

  Clover sucked in a breath, her hand pressed to her chest.

  She’d gravitated to his goriest designs. Huge spiders or scorpions crawled from guys’ mouths. Eyes decorated chins and foreheads, where nature had never intended them to be. Lips widened to touch the clients’ ears. Bald heads appeared split open, revealing brains, or in one instance, a tongue and teeth.

  He tapped the binder. “Farther back are the nice ones.”

  “I like these. I didn’t know you could tattoo eyeballs.”

  “I make it a rule not to. That’s weird shit. You’d have to go to someone else here for that.”

  “Oh, hey, I’m just saying. These are crazy good. I can’t get over the bloody eye on that one woman’s chest. And the nails in that guy’s shoulder. Ow. Or the one who looks like his throat was slit, revealing his spinal cord. You did those, right?”

  He pushed back in his chair. “I know this is your decision, and I can’t stop you. But you really shouldn’t mess yourself up with that stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your skin’s too nice.”

  “It’s paler than a corpse.”

  “Bull. It’s pretty, and that’s putting it mildly.” Even God descending from on high couldn’t capture his attention as her complexion did. “Since I’m not good with words, you’ll have to give me a couple of hours with a thesaurus so I can come up with something better and more descriptive.”

  She hugged the binder to her chest. “What do you suggest I get? And please, not flowers, butterflies, or fairies. I want something unique.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re the artist. You decide.” She paused. “Tell you what. Come to my place tonight. We can discuss it during dinner and after. All night if we have to.”

  Chapter Three

  The second Clover’s invitation fell out of her mouth she tensed and waited for the fallout—Van Gogh turning her down. Worse, him mumbling about getting back to work and actively avoiding her as he always did. Pretending these last moments hadn’t happened.

  She was no stranger to some guys’ inherent difficulty in finessing social situations. In middle school, she’d finally screwed up enough courage to ask a computer club geek to the Sadie Hawkins dance, her first attempt at interacting with the opposite sex for something other than the stuff kids usually talked about. While the event may have been a feminist’s dream for female empowerment, it became her personal nightmare. Her classmate had trembled worse than she had, grunted something unintelligible, and then dashed into the boys’ john. From the sounds wafting into the hall, he’d lost his lunch.

  Granted, she hadn’t been Suzie cheerleader, but she wasn’t the plague, either.

  After that, she and the dude in question didn’t make eye contact or speak until junior year in high school and then only
to say “hey.”

  To repeat those awful times wasn’t an option now. She refused to wait endless years for what she wanted, especially when it came to Van Gogh. “My place isn’t far from here. It’s the apartment above Alice’s Wonderland, totally within walking distance. You familiar with it? The gift shop, not my place.” She gripped the binder. “Jasmina used to live there. That’s how she and I got acquainted. Alice, the shop’s owner and my landlady, has my jewelry on consignment. I make a pretty good living with what she sells. Not that she’s my only revenue source. I have other outlets. But she really pushes my stuff, you know? She’s a nice lady. Older. Dresses like a hippie, all that beaded vintage finery and…”

  Clover wanted to stop but couldn’t. Inane conversation poured out in an endless flood, along with questions she didn’t let him answer. She’d never been the silent type and had always lacked a filter in what she’d said, but now was worse. She couldn’t freaking shut up.

  Surprisingly, Van Gogh didn’t back away.

  Maybe he couldn’t. Several times, she could have sworn he stopped breathing.

  Good thing. She needed all the available oxygen. The room still dipped and swayed, her lightheadedness part anguish, part lust. He smelled amazing, lime and musk tingeing his clean scent.

  She sniffed deeply and battled an urge to crawl onto his lap. “Tell you what. I’ll take this out front with me.” She held up the binder. “I’ll take the others, too.” She gathered them and cradled the lot to her chest, along with her parasol. “While you finish up your shift, I’ll wait on one of the sofas and go through the designs. That way we’ll both have ideas for tonight. If we need more, I have a tablet. We can use it to scour the Net. I’ll let you get back to work now. I’m looking forward to this. Thanks for saying yes.”

  Somehow, she got to her feet and out the door, closing it too hard, the thud explosive. She should have run before Van Gogh found his voice and followed to cancel, but her rubbery legs wouldn’t support her. She slumped against the wall.

  Jasmina and Lauren leaned out of a room near the lobby. They gestured her to join them.