Forsaking All Others (7 page)

“Hey, will this thing hold me?”

But he was already inserting himself into the almost circular basket, but very, very gingerly, as if it were going to drop him the moment he settled his full weight in it.

“Nope!” she answered.

He laughed, crossed his hands over his belly, pushed gently with his heel, and called across the room, “Hey, I want an under-duck.”

“A what?” she asked, popping her head up from the depths of the cabinet where she was searching for a bowl.

“An under-duck. You know . . . when you were a little kid and you got pushed on a swing, didn’t you call it an under-duck when they’d go running right under you?”

“Oh,
that!”
She laughed, cracked the eggs into the bowl, and remembered back. “No, I think we used to call it . . .” She screwed up her face, trying to remember.
“Would you believe I can’t think of what we used to call it.”

“Shame on you. How will you teach your kids those all-important things if you forget them yourself?”

“Haven’t got any kids.”

From the depths of the basket chair Rick studied her while she beat the eggs with a wire whisk. The movement made her shining hair bounce at the ends, and inside her baggy sweatshirt he could make out the outline of her breasts bouncing, too. He let his glance rove down to her derrière—tiny, shapely buns . . . trim hips . . . long, supple legs.

You will have kids, he decided, admiring what he saw. “Do you plan to have kids?” he asked.

“Not for a while. I’ve got a career to establish first. I’m just getting up a good head of steam.”

He liked the way she moved, brisk and sure, taking a moment to wipe her palms on her thighs before reaching into the cabinet for a salt shaker.

Allison was conscious of his eyes following her, though she wasn’t even facing him. It was disconcerting, yet welcome in a way, too. She was standing uncertainly, gazing into an open cabinet as she admitted, “This is awful, but all I have to put in an omelette is tuna fish.”

She turned apologetically to find him six inches behind her. Startled, she drew back a step.

“Tuna-fish omelette?” he repeated, grimacing. “You lured me up here for a tuna-fish omelette?”

“I didn’t lure you up here, and besides, experimentation is the mother of invention.”

“I thought that was necessity.”

“Well . . . whatever.” She gestured haplessly. “Right now it’s necessary for me to experiment, all right?”

“Okay, tuna-fish omelette. I’ll grin and bear it, but we could have had a perfectly good hamburger and french fries if you hadn’t been so stubborn.”

“I get that way sometimes . . . female pride or something like that.” She turned her back on him and rummaged for a can opener, her heart fluttering giddily at his nearness. When the tuna can was open, he reached around her, took a pinch, and popped it into his mouth. “Sorry,” he offered, without the least note of contrition in his voice, “but I’m starving, and I thought I’d get at least one good taste before you ruin it.”

“Would you rather have a tuna sandwich?” But immediately she waggled her palms. “No, forget I asked that. I just remembered I’m out of bread.”

“There’s one thing a person can’t accuse you of, and that’s trying to finagle your way to a man’s heart through his stomach.” He turned away and wandered to the tape deck, squatting down on his haunches to scan the titles on the shelf below. “You like The Five Senses, huh?” he noted.

At his question something tight and constricting
seemed to settle across Allison’s chest. A lump formed in her throat as she stared, unseeing, at Rick’s back.

He swung around on the balls of his feet to look at her, and immediately she whirled to face the cabinet. “Yeah,” she said, so crisply the word held an edge of ice.

Immediately he sensed he’d touched a nerve. She exuded defensiveness that chilled him clear across the room. “Do you mind if I put something on?”

She stared at the frying pan, seeing Jason Ederlie instead, wondering how she’d react if Rick happened by accident to put on the wrong song. Yet she’d just said she liked The Five Senses, so how could she possibly say what she was thinking:
anything
but The Five Senses.

“Go ahead,” she answered lifelessly, leaving him to wonder what motivated her quicksilver change of mood.

She busied herself with the omelette, and a few minutes later the music of Melissa Manchester drifted through the apartment. Relieved, she cast him a quick glance to find he was standing by the stereo, studying her across the room.

Don’t ask,
she begged silently.
Don’t ask, please
. Thankfully, he didn’t, but went to sit on the davenport and wait to be called to the table. He stretched out, crossed his feet at the ankles, threaded his fingers
together, and hung them over his belly, watching her covertly as she put the food on the table and wondering what had caused her sudden defensiveness.

A guy, he supposed. When it involved music it was usually a guy and some song the two of them had considered special. He made a mental note never to play any of The Five Senses tapes if he ever got up here again.

“It’s ready,” she announced soberly, standing beside the table with a long face.

He eased slowly to his feet, walked across the room, and stood by a chair next to hers. “Listen, I’m sorry for whatever I said that upset you. Whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment she looked as if she might cry. Then she slipped her hands into her jeans pockets, her throat working convulsively. “It’s not your fault, okay?” she offered softly. “It’s just something I have to get over, that’s all.”

His sober eyes rested on her questioningly, but he asked nothing further. Wordlessly he leaned across the corner of the table to pull out her chair. “Agreed. Now sit down so I can, too.”

She gave him a shaky smile and sat, but the gaiety had evaporated from the evening. They shared their meal in strained silence, as if another presence were in the room separating them.

Allison avoided Rick’s eyes as he intermittently
studied her, the downcast mouth, the forlorn droop of shoulder. His eyes moved to her left hand—no ring. Covertly they moved around the room in search of evidence of a man sharing the place or having shared it. There were no pictures, magazines, articles of any kind intimating a male presence in her life. His gaze moved to her again, to her shapely mouth, breasts, fine-boned jaw, shell-like ears, downcast eyes, and slender hand picking disinterestedly at the omelette. He leaned toward her slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table.

“Stop me if I’m stepping on hallowed ground,” he began, “but are you committed to someone?”

Her head snapped up, and a shield seemed to drop over her eyes.

“Yes.” She dropped her fork, giving up all pretense of eating. “To myself.”

A brief flare of anger shone in his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Is there some man in your life right now?”

Her heart began to beat furiously, but immediately memories of Jason came to quell it. “No,” she answered truthfully, “and I don’t want one.”

He scrutinized her silently for a moment, his lips compressed. “Fair enough, but I had to ask. I enjoyed myself tremendously the last two evenings.” He watched her carefully while relaxing back in his chair, leaning his elbows on the chrome armrests.

She propped her elbows beside her plate, entwined her fingers, and rested her forehead against white thumb knuckles. A shaky sigh escaped her lips. “I did too, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” she snapped, but her eyes remained hidden while her lips trembled.

“Somebody hurt you, and you’re going to make damn sure nobody does again.”

“It’s none of your business!” Her shoulders stiffened, and her head came up.

“We’ll see,” he said with disarming certainty, not a flicker of doubt in his unsmiling countenance.

“I make it a practice never to get personally involved with my models. I’m sorry if you thought . . .” Her eyelids fluttered self-consciously before her gaze fell to her plate. “I mean, I never meant to lead you on.”

“You didn’t. You’ve been a lady every inch of the way, all right?”

Her eyes met his again—unsteady brown to steady blue. Against her will Allison was struck again by his flawless handsomeness, even as it filled her with mistrust. She wanted to believe he was sincere, perhaps for a moment. His face wore a look of quiet determination, warning her that he wouldn’t back off without a fight.

She swallowed. “It’s been a long day—”

“Say no more, I’m gone.” Immediately he was on his feet, plate in hand, heading for the sink.

She felt small and guilty for giving him such an obvious brush-off when he’d been a perfect gentleman. But since Jason her instinct for self-preservation was finely honed. The faster she got Rick Lang out of here, the better.

He padded over to the entry, picked up a boot, and leaned his backside against the door while pulling it on. From the closet she retrieved his coat, and before she realized what she was doing, held it out as she’d often done for Jason. A surprised expression flitted across Rick’s face before he turned, slipped his arms in, and faced her once more, slowly closing the snaps while she waited uncomfortably for him to finish and leave.

She trained her eyes on the frayed collar, afraid to raise them further, for she knew he was studying her while the sound of the snaps seemed to tick away the strained seconds.

His hands reached the last one, and he leisurely tugged his gloves from the jacket pocket, slowly pulled them on while she stared at them, knowing no other place to safely rest her eyes. He jammed his spread fingers into the gloves, all the while studying her averted face.

He was dressed for outside, ready to go, yet he stood there without making a motion toward the door.

“I heard what you said before. I know what you were telling me,” he said in a low voice. “But I just have to do this . . .”

She had a vague impression of the scent of leather while his glove tipped her chin up. Soft, warm, slightly opened lips touched hers. A tongue tip briefly flicked. Two strong gloved hands squeezed her upper arms, pulling her upward, forcing her to her toes momentarily, catching her totally off guard. Almost as if it were a harbinger of things to come, the kiss ended with a slow separation of their mouths. He lifted his head, studying her eyes for a brief moment, then dropped his gaze to her surprised, open lips.

“Nice,” he said softly. Then he was gone, leaving behind only a rush of cold air and a trembling in her stomach.

A
LLISON
half expected Rick to call the following day, Wednesday, but he didn’t. She wondered what he’d say when he walked into the studio Thursday night. She wondered how to act, then decided she would act no differently than she had all along. Maintaining the same light, teasing banter would be the best way to remain at ease and keep their relationship on a nonpersonal level.

One of Allison’s Wednesday chores was to talk her landlord out of a garden hose and lug it up to the studio in preparation for filling the “lake.” Then she made a trip to get firewood and a piece of asbestos for under it, so the heat wouldn’t raise the linoleum off the studio floor. If that night watchman found out she was going to
start a fire in the middle of the building, she’d be out on her ear. Thankfully the building was such a relic it had no smoke alarm or sprinkler system.

Thursday she filled the pool, checking to make sure there were no leaks, then set up her lights, deciding how many she’d need, the general positioning of both key light and fill lights, and what color filters to use on each. She cut out a circle in the backdrop paper, inserted an orange filter on one of the strobes, and positioned it to simulate the moon, which would appear only as a hazy, out-of-focus orb in the finished photograph, its reflection on the water being the chief reason she needed it at all.

By five o’clock she was loading her camera with nervous fingers, telling herself this was stupid, this was business, and Rick Lang was only a model.

Then why was she shaking?

She secured the camera on its tripod, coiled up the hose, disconnected it from the bathroom faucet, then cursed softly to find it had left a trail of water across the floor. Mopping up the spill, she suddenly remembered she hadn’t asked the janitor for a wet vac to have on hand in case of an emergency, and ran to do so.

Returning to the studio, pushing the clumsy machine, Allison found Rick standing in front of the set, studying it.

He looked up as she entered and smiled.

“Hi,” he said simply.

Something joyfully warm and appreciative crept along her veins at the sight of him. It was impossible to forget his brief parting kiss.

“Hi.”

“You did it.” He grinned, glancing at the lake, the sand, the bonfire ready for lighting.

“I told you I would.” She sauntered over to the edge of the set.

“Clever lighting, with the moon—I presume—reflecting across the water.” He turned to indicate the strobe showing through the backdrop, the low positioning of the camera on the tripod.

“Let’s hope so. We haven’t taken the shots or seen the results yet.”

“How did you get that lake filled up?”

“With a garden hose.”

“And you’re going to suck it up with that when you’re done?” He indicated the wet vac.

“Yup.” She flipped her palms up and gave him a plucky smile. “Simple.”

“Don’t underrate yourself. It’s more than simple, it’s ingenious.” Glancing at the set again he commented, “I see you made another trip for firewood.”

“Yup.”

“Who carried you out this time?” he teased.

“I wore my boots like a good girl. How ’bout you? Did you bring your bathing trunks?”

“Yup!” He pulled them out of a pocket, rolled up
tight. “Got ’em right here, but I’m not anxious to put ’em on. It’s like a meat locker in here, as usual.”

“Don’t worry, the fire will warm you up.”

“Oh, I thought Vivien Zucchini was supposed to do that.” He grinned down at Allison, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his letter jacket, and watched her swing away.

“Zuchinski,” she corrected without turning around.

Rick grinned in amusement, watching her trim hips and thighs take no-nonsense steps. Her hair swayed. Her backside was firm and athletic as she strode toward the dressing-room doorway, reached inside, and flipped the lights on. Slipping her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she turned and leaned one shoulder against the dressing-room doorway like a model in a chic shampoo ad. He scanned her long-sleeved khaki safari jacket, which was belted and had epaulets at the shoulders, his eyes lingering only a fraction of a second on the breast pockets with their button-down flaps. Matching trousers were tucked into thigh-high boots. Her hair was again held behind her ears by the upraised sunglasses, though night had fallen outside and inside the lights were dim.

“I’ve had the door to the dressing room closed so it would warm up in there,” she said. “I don’t want you to freeze and break in half before we get you posed and the fire started.”

“Where’s Miss Zucchini?”

She laughed, hands still in pockets, bending forward
at the waist, then peering at him with mock admonishment. “If you say that one more time, she’s going to walk in here and I’m going to pour tomato sauce over her instead of oil!”

Rick leaned back and laughed appreciatively while Allison checked her wristwatch. “She’s due any minute. If you want to use the dressing room first, we can get started oiling you.”

The oiling was news to him, though it was common practice to oil skin to simulate wetness and bring out highlights on the skin.

But at that moment the door opened and in came a stunning blue-eyed brunette bundled up to her ears in fake fur. In an affronted tone she said, “I hope it’s warmer in here than it was the other day, or my unmentionables will shrivel up like raisins.”

Both Rick and Allison burst out laughing. The woman gazed at them with wide, innocent eyes, as if she had no idea she’d made a graceless, tasteless opening remark.

“Rick Lang, I’d like you to meet Vivien Zuchinski.” It was all Allison could do to hold a straight face and get the name right. “Vivien, this is Rick Lang, the man you’ll be posing with.”

Rick extended his hand.

In slow, sultry motion, Vivien’s came out to meet it. She wrapped it tightly in long, shapely fingers with long, shapely nails of a ghastly vermilion that looked
surprisingly right on her. Sweeping her spaghetti-length lashes up and down Rick’s body, Vivien cooed, “Ooooo,
nice
.”

Rick laughed good-naturedly, playing along when Vivien refused to relinquish his hand. “Likewise, I’m sure, Vivien,” he said congenially. “I’m happy to share a book cover with a pretty face like yours.”

She teased the hairs on the back of his hand with a tapered nail and widened her devastating eyes on him. “Heyyyy, no . . .lisssen, I’m the one that’s really knocked out. I mean, you’re really somethin’, Rick. I’m already forgetting how cold it is in here.”

Allison cleared her throat, and Vivien turned to find her leaning against the doorway to the dressing room, one foot crossed in front of the other, with a toe to the floor.

“Mr. Lang has been complaining about how cold it is in here, too, so maybe the two of you can warm each other up, huh?” Bringing her shoulder away from the door frame, Allison gestured Vivien into the brightly lit dressing room. “Would you like to be first, Miss Zook—” She caught herself just in time and finished, “Miss Zuchinski?”

Vivien swooped into the dressing room, shedding her coat and looking around. “Heyyyy,
nice
. Lots of good light for putting on makeup.”

“Yours looks great already, so don’t change a thing. Just put on your suit, and I’ll give you a bottle of baby oil. Is your hair naturally curly?”

“What?” Vivien momentarily gave up studying her pouting lips in the mirror.

“Your hair—is it naturally curly? I’d like to put baby oil on it, too, to create the illusion of wetness.”

Vivien patted her tresses with deep concern. “Oil! On my hair? I’d rather not.”

“How about just on the ends then, to make it look like you’ve been in the water?”

“Well, you’re the boss . . . but, gee!” She looked crestfallen, her face much more expressive than her vocabulary.

“Why don’t you change first, then we’ll experiment a little,” Allison advised.

Vivien closed the door all but a crack, through which she waggled two fingers at Rick before closing it the rest of the way. Allison bit her lip to keep from laughing, but she couldn’t resist glancing Rick’s way to check his reaction. When their eyes met, he feigned a wolfish grin and rubbed his palms together in anticipation. “Hey, I can’t wait,” he teased in a whisper.

“I’ll just bet you can’t.”

The door opened a short time later, and Vivien appeared, clad in a minuscule two-piece bathing suit that showed off every voluptuous hill and valley to great advantage. Out she came, hands thrown wide. “How’s this?”

“Wow!” Rick exclaimed exuberantly.

“Nice,”
Allison commented dryly.

“I’m ready for oiling,” Vivien declared.

“Let me get the tomato sauce, and I’ll get you started,” Allison quipped.

“The wha-a-a-t?” Vivien questioned, a puzzled frown on her face, dropping her hands to her hips.

“Rick, go ahead and change,” Allison suggested. “It’s just an old inside term, Vivien. Come on.”

Allison felt rather small, having resorted to such catty tactics with Vivien. It wasn’t like her at all. What in the world had she been thinking to say such a thing? Vivien was here as a professional, and if anyone was acting unprofessional, it was Allison herself. The truth was, Vivien Zuchinski was a beautiful woman with impressive proportions. Allison was abashed to find herself slightly jealous.

In two minutes the changing-room door opened again. “Hey, come on in, ladies, it’s warmer in here.”

Standing behind her desk, Allison lifted her eyes, and her mouth went dry. Rick stood in the doorway, barefooted, bare chested, bare legged, only that tight white suit striping his midsection, dividing his dark skin. Unlike Vivien, he didn’t flaunt his assets, but just appeared at the door, invited them in, then stepped inside himself.

“Heyyyy, sugar, I’m comin’!” Vivien giggled.

There was an awkward moment when Allison stepped to the door and handed Rick a full bottle of baby oil. Her eyes had lost all hint of teasing. He was
magnificent! Sparkling golden hair covered not only his chest, but also dove in a thin line down his belly, covering his legs and arms lightly. He turned to face the mirror and poured a modicum of oil into his palm, then began applying it to his shoulders while Allison saw his back for the first time. Her eyes drifted from wide shoulders to narrow hips, taking in firm skin and fine-toned muscle. His derrière was flat, his legs well shaped without the bulging muscles that ruined the male form when it came to photographing it. Truly, his body was an artist’s concept of beauty.

In the mirror Allison caught his eye and knew he’d been watching her assess him, but he only looked away and continued applying oil briskly. Unlike Jason, who used every such opportunity to smirk and flaunt and tease with his eyes, Rick accepted his physical assets with dignity, but not ego. He radiated no sexy innuendo, but merely turned to the mirror and vigorously continued what he was doing.

Vivien sat on a chair and hooked her shapely toes—vermilion, too, Allison noted—on the edge of the vanity, squirting a line of oil up a perfect leg. Spreading it, she kept her eyes on Rick.

“I’ll put some on your back,” Allison offered, moving behind Vivien, who swiveled sideways a little on the chair.

It seemed Vivien had dreams of becoming a Playboy
bunny, and she prattled on about a trip she had taken to the Playboy Club in Chicago, all the while scouring Rick with admiring gazes.

“I think we’ll need some oil on the ends of your hair anyway, Vivien. Do you want me to put it on?” Allison asked.

“Do we have to?” Again Vivien appeared devastated.

“Unless you have some other suggestion as to how we can make it appear wet.”

Vivien stood before the giant mirror beside Rick, leaning forward while she concentrated on the monumental decision, then began applying carefully controlled amounts of oil to selected strands of hair.

“Will you help me with my back?” Rick asked Allison, offhandedly passing the bottle of oil over his shoulder and catching her eyes in the mirror.

She was suddenly reluctant to lay a hand on him. She had little choice, however, and accepted the bottle from his slippery fingers. Thank God he didn’t grin or tease, just handed the bottle over and waited. Allison poured oil into her palm, thinking: This is how it all started with Jason.

She went at it energetically to hide the fact that her hand shook when she touched Rick’s bare skin for the first time. She was unaware of how she glowered or that behind closed lips she held the tip of her tongue tightly between her teeth. Sensations of touch came flooding
back to her, filling her memory and her body at this first touch of a man’s flesh since Jason’s. How many times had she done this for him? How many times had he done this to her? How many times had their oiled skins delighted each other?

Don’t think about Jason. Don’t think about the fragrance of the oil. Don’t think about all the times he was sleek and slippery and seductive.

But Rick’s flesh beneath Allison’s hand was warm and firm, and her palm slipped over it, conforming to its strong, sleek lines. The shoulder was tough, the shoulder blade hard, the neck unyielding with a tensile strength. Her fingertips inadvertently touched Rick’s hair and learned its fine softness, so different from the hardness of his muscles. The contrast jolted her, and she raised her eyes to the mirror to find Rick studying her solemnly.