Skin (5 page)

So now the models were telling her how to run her business. She slipped on her reading glasses and peered at him from above them. She was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Reese’s grin darted into her thoughts.
If you’re so smart, hire me.
She scowled and said, “As opposed to getting your cock up?”

His eyes widened.

Ignoring his surprise, Frankie stood and came around to the front of her desk. She leaned against it and spread her legs slightly, jutting out her substantial breasts. She could thank her Italian heritage for the breasts and her gypsy mother for her length of leg. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him.

He nodded and smiled, his face morphing into the sexy Latin lover milieu. “I am very good at what I do, sexy lady. Give me a chance to show you my work.”

He snapped at her, showing his big white teeth. She jumped, the edge of her desk cutting into her ass. She was going to be black and blue by the end of the day. “I find you hot,
mamacita. Mucho caliente.”

Oh, for crying out loud. And she thought she’d seen and heard it all.

Beyond bored, she dropped her gaze to his flaccid penis. “Too bad little Ricky doesn’t.” She unfolded herself, walked back to her desk, and sat down. “Zip up, Enrique. We’ll give you a call if we’re interested.”

As the door closed with a window-shaking slam, she clicked through the pictures she took of Reese. Her reaction was instant. Her skin came to life. Her earlier boredom dissipated. Damn,
he
was
mucho caliente.
The man wasn’t bashful and she felt proud that he came to attention so quickly for her. There was no doubting Reese’s sexuality.

Experience told her if she couldn’t get even a slight wave from a cock, the guy sporting it was either gay or on drugs. She’d learned the hard way that while gay models were the crème de la crème in the looks and physique department, if her readers suspected or knew outright the model was less than hetero, they didn’t buy. When it happened in the past, she’d received more than a few nasty letters and e-mails and even a few threats to sue her for false advertising. So now she went strictly with the real deal.

So, while she couldn’t outright ask a model if he was gay, she had her hetero-meter. Herself. Reese came right to attention. In fact, she couldn’t remember a cock saluting so nicely and so quickly. She clicked through the pictures again. Indecision flared again. Her instinct told her she was making a colossal mistake by letting Reese slip through her fingers. Her emotions told her to run as far away from him as possible.

She pounded her fists on her desktop and winced at the pain shooting up her arm.

How would her father make his decision? The answer was simple: with no emotion. Papa would do whatever was necessary to ensure
Skin
’s survival — even if that meant putting himself at risk, emotionally or financially.

Frankie unclenched her fists. What was best for
Skin
was a specific model who was guaranteed to be temperamental and manipulative, with the potential to disrupt her carefully controlled life. He was also one she couldn’t afford.

Her mood darkened at the implications of hiring Reese. A war waged inside of her. Her gut instincts
versus
fear.
“Go with your gut, Francesca,”
her father had drilled into her.
“Your intuition will never let you down.”

Her gut told her Reese was the man to garner her magazine much-needed respect. And with that respect, respect for her personally in the industry.

Her gut also marked him as trouble. Big, bad, expensive trouble.

Reese’s dark eyes making a statement words never could toyed with her. Was she woman enough to resist? To draw the line?

“Shit!” She stood.

“Tawny!” she called. “Get my banker on the phone.”

As soon as her conversation with the bank was over she called Tawny again.

“Yes, boss lady.” The perky little assistant poked her head into the office.

“Dig out Reese Barrett’s contact info. Then call him and tell him if he wants this job, he’d best be here by eight tomorrow morning to sign contracts. If he’s a minute late, we go to Plan B.”

Tawny grinned and snatched the file from her boss’s hand. “Gladly. And as your valued right arm, I expect to be in on the more candid shots.”

Frankie shook her head, her hair swirling around her shoulders. Irritated, she swooped it back away from her face. “Yeah, you and every other person in this building.”

Tawny clapped her hands like a three-year-old getting the biggest piece of cake. “I can’t wait!”

“Me either,” Frankie mumbled to herself, wondering why she wasn’t more excited.

Just as she was going through Reese’s pics again, Tawny knocked on the door and popped her head in. She was grinning ear to ear. Frankie cocked her right brow. “What?”

“Ah, yes, I just spoke to Mr. Barrett and he said he wouldn’t accept unless he heard the offer from your mouth.”

Frankie’s jaw dropped. The audacity of the man! “Tell him to” — she cut off the words — “shove it up his fine ass.”

Tawny squirmed and handed Frankie Reese’s file. “He said he has a meeting to go to and if he didn’t hear from you in the next five minutes, you were more than welcome to go to your Plan B and he would go to his.”

Rage infiltrated Frankie’s cells. The hell she would grovel. She didn’t need him
that
bad.

Jesus, yes, she did.

“Thank you, Tawny.”

The assistant appeared to deflate. “You’re going to call him, aren’t you?”

Slowly, Frankie shook her head.

“C’mon, Frankie, he’s the hottest thing to hit this town since, since, hell, ever!”

“No one tells me what to do. You of all people know that.”

Tawny entered the office and shut the door behind her. She lowered her voice to a high whisper. “I know you and Anthony don’t see eye to eye and I can understand why. He’s mean and you can’t trust him, but I happen to like my job and just because you’re being spiteful and, well, dumb, I’m in serious jeopardy of losing my job. If you can’t swallow your pride for yourself, think about the rest of us who depend on this magazine for a paycheck.”

Now it was Frankie’s turn to deflate. Tawny was right, and shame on her for jeopardizing her employees’ livelihoods because she was a pile of vindictive emotional mush right now. “I’ll call him.” Frankie plopped down into her chair and swung her legs up to the corner of her desk. She sat back and folded her hands behind her head just like she’d seen her father do before he inevitably screwed someone’s life up, including hers and her mother’s. “But on my time.”

Tawny threw her hands up into the air. “I’ll be clearing my desk.”

Frankie stared at the number on the piece of paper in her hand. Five minutes came and went, stretching into fifteen minutes. Her money was on Reese’s ego wanting the job as much as she wanted him to have it. Leisurely, she pressed the numbers on her telephone.

“You’ve reached Reese, leave a message at the beep — oh, and if this is Miss Donatello, your five minutes are up, and so is my price, but thanks for the call.”

Beep.

Frankie stared at her handset. What the hell? Who was this guy? She hung up. Then she hit Redial. After his smart-ass message and the beep she said, “Tag, Mr. Barrett, you’re it. My terms are the same. Either show up at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow for your original fee or we both go to Plan B.” She hung up. She’d show him. She’d learned from the master how to make people squirm. Telling her that her five minutes were up and his fee as well? She snorted.

This guy had no idea who he was tangling with. Five minutes are up, my ass.

She sat up straight in her chair. Shit, what if he meant it?

Reality set in. Just in case, she dug through the remaining portfolios on her desk and pulled two distant second-and third-place candidates. She studied the shots of two very attractive men. Even with their well-muscled, well-endowed, and well-oiled physiques, their sex appeal didn’t convey well from the photo. Not like Reese’s did. His charisma jumped off the page. She pulled a pic from his portfolio and studied it. No contest. Setting the other photos down, Frankie stared at Reese’s unsmiling face.

Odd, she thought as she looked into his deep blue eyes. He had no laugh lines around his eyes or mouth. For a man who seemed so comfortable with himself and with her, how strange he didn’t come off as the sexy smart aleck he did today. Was he naturally so serious but putting up a front to get this job? She looked harder at the hooded eyes. Dark secrets hid behind them. Suddenly she wanted to know what they were.

Reese sat in a dark van across the street from the corporate offices of the late Santini Donatello and his cohorts. The nondescript three-story yellow brick building looked like any other building in North Beach. The only deviation was La Trattoria, the little Italian restaurant that took up most of the first floor. It was also the congregating place for the Donatello network of made men all the way down to runners. Reese whistled. If those walls could talk, what a story they would tell. Too bad the warrant for the wiretap was being held up. They were missing out. By the time they got in there and set it up, Santini’s hit would be old news.

Old-man Donatello, known to his cronies as Santo Gabriel because of his uncanny ability to pounce on opportunity with no fear, was also the man the little people came to for protection. He never wavered in offering it, but always for a price. A price many ultimately paid for with their lives. There was nothing saintly about Sonny Donatello. He was a plague to society, and, Reese thought ruefully, his fruit did not fall far from the tree. While Santini had been old-school mob, his son, Anthony, was the new flash mob. A wiseguy with no rep except his father’s name to back him. Yet he knew Anthony was smart — but could his sister be smarter?

Reese popped a toothpick in his mouth and chewed it. Time would tell, and maybe they wouldn’t even have to make a move. The mob did a better job of cleaning up their messes than the cops ever could. They had no compunction when it came to taking out one of their own.

A chill swept across Reese’s skin. How far had Francesca fallen from the paternal tree? Was she part of the family business? If so, how deep was she in? It was common knowledge she and her father didn’t jibe. The word on the street was the powers that be were none too impressed with the son. The elder brother, Carmine Donatello, seemed the obvious choice to pick up Santini’s fallen reins. Carmine was smart, and patient. Anthony was the polar opposite. The combination should be interesting. Would Carmine mentor his nephew? Or take him out and pronounce himself Santini’s heir apparent? Or — Reese bit down on the toothpick, snapping it in half — if Anthony had given the word on his old man, would he do the same on his uncle?

Reese hunched down lower into the battered van. He jolted when his cell phone vibrated in his lap, then grinned when he saw the number that flashed across his LED. Frankie was calling. It took a fair amount of his willpower to resist answering the call.

He frowned when she didn’t leave a message. It was even harder to ignore the second call from her. But he grinned like an idiot when his voice mail beeped. He grinned wider when he listened to her message.

He liked her spunkiness, and the way her body reflected the emotion flashing across her face. Francesca Donatello might be a cagey businesswoman, and quite possibly a murderer, but she did a lousy job hiding her emotions. Reese’s happy face vanished into a scowl. Showing emotions was dangerous, especially in his line of work. He’d learned long ago it didn’t pay to play out feelings, no matter how deeply felt.

Old hurts welled up, and despite his best effort to stuff them back into the darkest corners of his mind as he had done for years, they erupted, unwilling to be denied. For the first time in more years than he could remember, Reese wondered if his parents were still alive, and felt surprised as pain stabbed at his heart. He winced when the vision of his little sister Missy’s smiling face flashed into his brain. She was riding June Bug, her prize pony, her face radiating happiness.

Reese’s hands clenched and unclenched, his teeth ground, the sound grating. It would be so easy to blame his mother for his sister’s death, but he knew it was he who was to blame. Even after all these years, the pain and guilt was as fresh as the day Missy died.

Anthony Donatello sauntered out of the building, and abruptly, Reese’s thoughts cleared. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. He bet sis was still holed up in her office, cursing him. He smiled. So long as she was thinking of him, he didn’t care how. A woman darted up the steps toward Anthony. The gangster feigned a smile. Reese knew it for what it was; after all, he’d mastered it. The woman looked familiar. She turned and snuggled into Anthony’s arm as he ushered her toward a waiting car. Tawny, Frankie’s assistant. Interesting. Only a few reasons for her to be hooking up with Donatello, and no matter which one he chose, it didn’t bode well for his soon-to-be boss lady. He followed the black town car.

F
rankie glanced at her watch. Seven thirty. She needed to get to Unk’s. Systematically, she shut down her computer, drew the window blinds, and threw a few things in her purse. For a long moment she stood at her desk, feeling like she was forgetting something. Reese’s face popped up in her mind and she smiled smugly. Impulsively, she grabbed a contract from a file drawer, then jotted Reese’s number down from the open file on her desk.

As she drove to her uncle’s she called Reese.

“Barrett.”

“It’s Francesca. I want you to meet me at nine tonight at La Trattoria on Columbus.”

“I have plans.”

“Change them. I want this contract signed tonight.”

“It can wait.”

“No, it can’t.”

There was a long pause, then Reese said, “Fine.”

She smiled and hung up.