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didn’t like considering that Finn’s failure might be his own. “He’ll be at the gallery tomorrow night. I’ll be too busy with my duties as host to spirit him away. If you can find anything more substantial, I’ll pay you double your hourly fee. If you don’t, you can send me a final bill, and I’ll find a new place to shop for my clothes.”
“That sounds pretty drastic.”
“Drastic, dramatic, dire, and doleful. Such is unrequited love, n’est-ce pas?”
Nine
L ivia couldn’t remember the last purely social night out she’d had. She wasn’t counting Tuesday evening spent with Finn. Their time together had been strictly business, even if they’d hardly talked business at all.
That was okay, because the type of business they’d be doing together required a simpatico understanding, which she didn’t have to consider when it came to Splash & Flambé. For Finn to capture her digitally or on film the way Dustin wanted, he needed to know her—even if he didn’t understand her.
And the way they’d ended things Tuesday evening, she doubted he ever would.
Accepting a flute of champagne from a passing server and smiling as she ducked around a couple admiring one of the Noir Purrfection pieces, she decided she was wasting time worrying about what Finn McLain thought of her.
His opinion wasn’t any more a part of their arrangement than his insight into who she was and why she did what she did. He had to know her only well enough to be comfortable taking the photos Dustin wanted.
Dear Dustin. He’d never questioned her exhibitionist tendencies, and though he knew more of her history than she’d shared with Finn, he didn’t know everything. And though he didn’t, she could understand Dustin sitting in judgment of her actions. Not Finn.
So why did it bother her that he did?
And was judgment the right word? Was he judging her? Or was it more a case of trying to figure her out and using his own moral compass to do so? She’d been thinking about it for two days and was no closer to understanding her feelings now than she had been on Tuesday. She couldn’t think about it any longer. Besides, tonight was about Dustin and about, well, naked women and their cats.
Literally. Cats.
She brought her drink to her mouth, smiling as she touched the rim of the flute to her lower lip. The exhibit tickled her. Probably tickled the subjects of the photographs, too, she thought, with a bit of irreverence.
The photographs were reminiscent of early pictures of Clara Bow, with a very “It girl” look and feel, the models wearing appropriate scarves and jewelry, as well as stockings and shoes from the same era, but nothing more.
Each was dramatically posed, with her legs spread and a full-grown cat sitting between, or draped strategically over her thighs. The arrangements were very well done, the looks on the subjects’ faces broadcasting their indifference to their sexuality while being completely magnetic.
Livia moved behind a couple studying a photograph of a woman lounging on a chaise, her orange tabby matching the cloud of strawberry blond curls on her head. The next photo showed a full-frontal view of its female subject leaning back, her elbows propped on a Grecian column, which Livia thought resembled a plant stand, her bare breasts thrust pertly upward. A second column, thigh high and positioned in the foreground, held her sitting cat, an exotic Siamese, with its own pert nose in the air.
Livia was busy comparing the tilt of the woman’s nipples with that of the feline’s nose when a voice at her ear said, “Kinda makes you want to say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ doesn’t it?”
She knew the voice, didn’t have to turn and see that it was Finn, and so she didn’t. She continued to face the photograph and grip her champagne flute, willing her fingers to relax before the glass shattered and the drink ruined her dress.
She wouldn’t forgive herself if she let that happen, and not because of the
“That sounds pretty drastic.”
“Drastic, dramatic, dire, and doleful. Such is unrequited love, n’est-ce pas?”
Nine
L ivia couldn’t remember the last purely social night out she’d had. She wasn’t counting Tuesday evening spent with Finn. Their time together had been strictly business, even if they’d hardly talked business at all.
That was okay, because the type of business they’d be doing together required a simpatico understanding, which she didn’t have to consider when it came to Splash & Flambé. For Finn to capture her digitally or on film the way Dustin wanted, he needed to know her—even if he didn’t understand her.
And the way they’d ended things Tuesday evening, she doubted he ever would.
Accepting a flute of champagne from a passing server and smiling as she ducked around a couple admiring one of the Noir Purrfection pieces, she decided she was wasting time worrying about what Finn McLain thought of her.
His opinion wasn’t any more a part of their arrangement than his insight into who she was and why she did what she did. He had to know her only well enough to be comfortable taking the photos Dustin wanted.
Dear Dustin. He’d never questioned her exhibitionist tendencies, and though he knew more of her history than she’d shared with Finn, he didn’t know everything. And though he didn’t, she could understand Dustin sitting in judgment of her actions. Not Finn.
So why did it bother her that he did?
And was judgment the right word? Was he judging her? Or was it more a case of trying to figure her out and using his own moral compass to do so? She’d been thinking about it for two days and was no closer to understanding her feelings now than she had been on Tuesday. She couldn’t think about it any longer. Besides, tonight was about Dustin and about, well, naked women and their cats.
Literally. Cats.
She brought her drink to her mouth, smiling as she touched the rim of the flute to her lower lip. The exhibit tickled her. Probably tickled the subjects of the photographs, too, she thought, with a bit of irreverence.
The photographs were reminiscent of early pictures of Clara Bow, with a very “It girl” look and feel, the models wearing appropriate scarves and jewelry, as well as stockings and shoes from the same era, but nothing more.
Each was dramatically posed, with her legs spread and a full-grown cat sitting between, or draped strategically over her thighs. The arrangements were very well done, the looks on the subjects’ faces broadcasting their indifference to their sexuality while being completely magnetic.
Livia moved behind a couple studying a photograph of a woman lounging on a chaise, her orange tabby matching the cloud of strawberry blond curls on her head. The next photo showed a full-frontal view of its female subject leaning back, her elbows propped on a Grecian column, which Livia thought resembled a plant stand, her bare breasts thrust pertly upward. A second column, thigh high and positioned in the foreground, held her sitting cat, an exotic Siamese, with its own pert nose in the air.
Livia was busy comparing the tilt of the woman’s nipples with that of the feline’s nose when a voice at her ear said, “Kinda makes you want to say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ doesn’t it?”
She knew the voice, didn’t have to turn and see that it was Finn, and so she didn’t. She continued to face the photograph and grip her champagne flute, willing her fingers to relax before the glass shattered and the drink ruined her dress.
She wouldn’t forgive herself if she let that happen, and not because of the
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