Yes, Master, page 2
“How long will that be?” I asked as I stretched to loosen my arms, legs, and neck.
“A half hour.”
“No, I’m good.” Better to get the session done and over with.
“Great. Then let’s begin.” He flipped his page in his sketchbook. “This time, I need you to take a pose you can hold for longer. You don’t have to stand. You can sit or lie down.”
“Okay.” I sat on the floor, took a pose that I hoped would be interesting, back arched, head tipped back like I was leaping through the air, and just for kicks, I wrapped the belt of my robe around my wrists. I asked, “How’s this?”
“Gorgeous.”
I stared up at the high loft ceiling, following the grid of iron beams holding it up, wondering how old the building was, what it might have been when it was first built. A door squeaked. My first instinct was to turn my head to see if someone had come in. I didn’t. But I did slant my eyes in that direction.
And I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Who is that?
My whole body went warm.
Then it went cold.
My heart hopped once, twice, as soft footsteps tap, tap, tapped across the polished concrete floor.
A man who looked like a god was coming my way. His gaze flicked to me for an instant, then jerked back to Estefan. He went to Estefan, whispered something to him, Estefan responded, then the god glanced at me again. This time his gaze was a little longer.
Once more I felt my skin warm, little prickles tingled all over, my stomach, my arms, my back. His lips pursed ever so slightly then he focused on the exit and started walking. I lost sight of him just before he reached the door. I didn’t hear him leave. I didn’t hear the door open or the echo of it slamming shut. Had he left? Or was he watching? Was that gorgeous man looking at me? Naked me?
My heart thundered in my chest.
Who was he?
“Would you like some music?” Estefan asked, his voice startling me a little.
“Sure. Thanks.”
The sound of classical music filled the space. Tchaikovsky. “Dance of the Swans.” Instantly, I felt more at ease as the familiar melody vibrated through my body. What felt like ten minutes later, he said, “That’s it. I’m finished.”
I looked at the door first. Why, I don’t know. Okay, I did know.
Stupid.
Of course, the man was gone. He’d probably left right away.
“His name is Stark. Tristan Stark,” Estefan said.
“Oh.” My gaze snapped to him. I grabbed my robe, wrapped it around myself. “I was just—”
“Curious. I know. All the models are.” His smile was rueful. “Don’t worry. You aren’t insulting me. I think he is a beautiful man too. He is my . . . would you say, benefactor? I was selling my work to tourists on street corners in Rio de Janeiro a year ago. Now, I am here, working in a studio larger than my family’s home, receiving commissions for thousands of dollars per painting.”
I tied the belt, tugging the bottom of the robe to cover my thighs. “That’s wonderful, that you were able to find someone both willing and able to help you.”
“Mr. Stark has helped more than me. I’ve been sending money home every month. Mr. Stark has changed the lives of dozens of people. My family. My family’s friends.”
My gaze wandered back to the door. “He’s a good man, then?”
“Good, yes. Demanding, but fair. And generous, but strict.” He went to a shelf, grabbed something, and returned. He handed me an envelope. “You are an excellent model. I have received a commission for a painting and would like to use you. It would pay more than this. I would need at least four hours.”
I fingered the top of the envelope as I considered his offer. “That sounds . . . great. Thank you.”
“You should know, the client has particular taste.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Okay.”
“Come. Let me show you.” He motioned me toward a small desk tucked into a corner. I tugged on the back of my robe as I followed. He pointed to the chair. “Sit. I will show you.”
I sat. He reached around me, waking the Macintosh in front of me with a wiggle of the mouse. An image of a young woman lying on a silky white sheet filled the screen. Her arms were stretched up, wrists bound, legs stretched long, ankles bound too. “This is a photo of my last painting for him. He wishes to have another, similar.”
It was . . . kinky. It was sexy. It was basically bondage porn.
A huge wad of something wedged in my throat. “I see. I’ll . . .”
“It’s too sexy? You feel uncomfortable?” he asked.
“A little.”
“You think about it. Call me.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
He nodded, extended a hand. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
We shook hands and then I took my little white envelope back to the dressing room. I shoved it into my purse and changed my clothes. When I exited, he was busy working. I quietly tip-tapped out into the hall, hit the elevator button, and waited. The bell chimed, the door rolled open, and . . .
He was there, in the elevator car. Tristan Stark.
His gaze flicked to my face. His lips curved slightly. It wasn’t a smile. But it was a semi-friendly expression. He motioned me in. “Miss Barlow.”
2
Tristan Stark knew my name?
Of course, he knew my name.
He’d probably written my check.
“Mr. Stark.”
The door rolled shut, closing us in. I stood facing it, prickles of awkward awareness creeping up and down my spine.
My skin felt warm and cold at the same time. Crazy. I had no idea why this man made me feel so uncomfortable. Maybe it was because I found him so incredibly good-looking. Maybe it was because of the sharpness of his gaze. Or the way he stood silent behind me. Silent and strong.
All I knew was I’d had my share of boyfriends, and secret crushes. I’d never felt this way about any man. Especially a man I had just met.
The car jerked suddenly, dropping out from under my feet. I lost my balance, falling backward. Strong hands caught my waist, steadied me.
The lights cut out.
“Damn.” That was Tristan Stark. His breath puffed on my neck. My skin erupted in goose bumps.
The craziest impulse flashed through me. I wanted to lean back, to get closer to this mysterious, sexy man. A lot closer. “We stopped. Should I be worried?”
“We’ve had some problems with this elevator,” he said, still holding my waist. “I’ve had it serviced twice this week.”
“Oh.”
His fingers tightened on me. A zing of heat blazed through my body. “I’m going to help you sit. It can get extremely disorienting, being in complete darkness.”
“I’m okay.” I eased down, reaching one hand to find the floor. When he released me, I regretted refusing his help. I sat, then scooted on my butt until my shoulder nudged the wall.
The wall moved.
I was guessing that wasn’t the wall. It was a man. Him.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Not a problem.” He was sitting too. I could tell by how close his voice sounded. Another wave of heat vibrated through me and my face warmed.
I was blushing like a silly little girl. It was so good he couldn’t see me right now.
He sighed. The first sign of any emotion I’d seen thus far.
“Should we be pushing a special button? Calling for help?” I asked.
“No, the power cut out. The button doesn’t work without power. And my cell phone doesn’t get a signal in this building.”
Blind, I fished in my purse, found my phone. I pushed the button, powering up the full color touch screen, and blinked and squinted. The brilliant light scorched my retinas. I checked my reception. Zero bars. “Nothing here either.”
“It’s okay. My assistant will realize I’m missing soon, will figure out what’s happened and call the service company again. Of course, it’ll take some time before they can get out here. It could take a half hour or so. I hope that isn’t too great an inconvenience—”
“A half hour is no problem,” I reassured him. Secretly, I wasn’t terribly disappointed, being shut in an elevator with Tristan Stark.
“Good.”
Silence.
It would seem Tristan Stark wasn’t the type to make small talk, so I decided to get things rolling. “Estefan seems to have a very special gift.”
“His talent is evident. How was your session? He was quite pleased with your poses. He told me you are a dancer.”
“Was a dancer,” I corrected, wishing the lights hadn’t cut out. It would be so much nicer, having Tristan’s face to look at as we talked, rather than thick black nothingness. “I haven’t danced in years. The session was good, thanks.” I added, for some reason, “My first.”
“You’ve never modeled before?”
“No.” I felt myself blushing yet again. I felt like he was expecting an explanation. Why, I couldn’t say. “My roommate and I are graduating, moving into our first apartment. We saw the ad in the paper. The pay was pretty good.”
“Graduating?”
“Barnard College. Accounting.”
“Hmm.”
“Summa cum laude,” I added. Why did I feel this overwhelming need to impress this man? He probably could care less what I studied, or how well I’d done.
“Interesting, accounting. Do you have a résumé?”
“I do. At home.” Would I get a job referral out of this situation? Wouldn’t that be great?
He said, “If you’re looking for a position, I might know someone who is hiring. I could pass your résumé on to him.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“Then again”—his voice sounded different, a little looser—“Estefan would probably kill me, for stealing you away from him.”
“I promise, I won’t tell if you won’t.”
The lights flickered then illuminated, and my gaze jerked up to the lights then dropped to Tristan as the car jerked then started, once again, its downward descent. He was sitting on the floor next to me, very close. And his expression was much more relaxed and friendly than it had been when I first stepped into the car.
He pushed to his feet faster than I did, offering a helping hand as he straightened. I accepted. Our eyes met, and a jolt of heat blazed through me. It didn’t take me entirely by surprise.
“Thank you,” I said. “This has been the most pleasant elevator stranding of my life.” I didn’t mention the fact that it had been the only elevator stranding of my life.
His eyes glittered a little as he chuckled. “Mine too.”
At the ground floor, the door slid open. He motioned for me to exit first. I stepped out into the lobby, a warm sensation vibrating up and down my spine. For some reason, I felt as if he were watching me. I glanced over my shoulder.
Our eyes met.
He had been watching me.
Inside, I gave a silent whoop. Outside, I smiled, waved. He acknowledged me with a slight nod.
I called Jenn the minute I was outside the building.
“That was a long time!” she practically screeched. “Don’t ever do that to me again! I called you five times. Five.”
“Easy, Mom,” I joked as I strolled to my car. “I got stuck in the elevator on the way out.”
“Oh. That sucks! You were stuck in an elevator? For how long?”
“I don’t know. Five, ten minutes maybe. It wasn’t such a bad thing. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.” About halfway to my car, I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if he was still watching me. Somewhere, in there. Maybe through those windows there, the ones that were tinted.
“Oooh! What happened? You have to tell me now. That’s just mean, making me wait.”
I laughed. Having reached my car, I remoted open the door locks. “You are such a child sometimes.” I could visualize her pouting right now, arms folded over her chest.
“Am not,” she snapped. Then she laughed too. “I’ll be waiting on pins and needles until you get home.”
“Hmmm . . . You’re running low on boxes. Maybe I should make a stop at—”
“Don’t you dare! You come straight home, young lady.”
“Okay, okay. See you soon.” I clicked off, flopped into my car, and cranked the motor. The image of Tristan Stark’s eyes as he’d reached for my hand flashed through my mind. My insides hopped around like scared rabbits.
Who would’ve thought getting stuck in an elevator could be such a thrill?
My roommate, Jennifer Nicole Wendell, aka Jenn, was sweet, and smart, and thoughtful, all good traits for a roommate to have. But one thing Jenn wasn’t was patient. The second I stepped into our dorm room, she assaulted me with at least a dozen questions.
What happened?
Are you okay?
Did someone offer you a job?
Did you go through with the modeling?
Why aren’t you saying anything?
Probably grinning like a complete dork, I stood mute, waiting for the verbal onslaught to stop. It didn’t take Jenn long to get the message.
“Fine. I get the hint.” She paused. “I’m being quiet so you can talk.”
“Hmmm. Which question should I answer first?”
My roommate visibly bit her tongue. Her neck turned an interesting shade of pink.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Okay, I’ve tortured you enough.” We made ourselves comfortable on our little couch, sitting under the massive wood loft we’d built to hold our beds. I hugged a pillow to my chest. Jenn mirrored me. “I met someone.”
Jenn’s eyes bugged. “When?”
“After I finished with Estefan—who, by the way, has the most adorable accent ever—”
“I know! So sexy, isn’t he?” Jenn’s eyes sparkled. I’d seen those sparkles before. She was attracted to Estefan.
I hadn’t thought he was sexy. But if Jenn thought so, who was I to argue?
“Sure, he is,” I said. “Anyway, after I was finished, I met a man named Tristan Stark in the hallway outside of Estefan’s loft. He’s Estefan’s host, discovered him in Rio de Janeiro, and has been helping him get started here in the States. There’s something about him. He’s really good-looking. Like, model good-looking. And . . . intense. He makes me a little nervous. We got in the elevator together and all of a sudden it stopped and the lights cut off.”
“Oh God.” Jenn leaned forward. “What happened? Did he kiss you?”
My cheeks got a little warm as I imagined him leaning in, brushing those oh-so-perfect lips of his over mine. “No, he didn’t kiss me.”
“Did he touch you? Or ask you out?”
“Um, no. Nothing like . . . that. We talked.”
“Talked?” Her voice was flat.
“About school, about my résumé, which I need to send him.”
“So he’s helping you find a job?” At my nod, she said, “Ooookay.” Clearly, she’d expected to hear something else.
“Yes, I think he is helping me find a job. But, even though it doesn’t sound like it, I felt like we made some kind of connection. On a deeper level.”
Jenn shook her head. “Honey, that’s what you said about Ryan Maroney.”
I had said that about Ryan Maroney. And I’d been wrong. The connection I’d felt only went one way. But now I could see the difference. I’d wasted so much time chasing a man who had absolutely no interest in dating me. Over two years. “This time, I’m right.”
“Did this Tristan guy ask for your number?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to get in touch with him?”
“No. Well, except to say I could give him my résumé and he’d pass it on.”
Jenn lifted one you-see-what-I’m-getting-at brow.
“It was the way he looked at me,” I reasoned. “It wasn’t a friendly look. It wasn’t an I’ll-pass-on-your-résumé look either. It was an I-want-you look.”
Jenn pursed her lips. “Okay, if you think so, then who am I to say it isn’t true? I wasn’t there. How did the modeling session go?”
Relief. I was glad to have the inquisition over. “Good, I guess. Estefan asked me to model for a special project. And it pays more.”
“Awesome!” Jenn gave me a quick hug. “See, didn’t I tell you it wasn’t so bad?”
“You were right. Though I kind of slowly worked up to going completely nude. And then I avoided looking at Estefan to keep from dying of humiliation. At least the time went pretty quickly.”
My cell phone rang, and I checked the screen. “Speak of the devil.” I answered, “Hello, Estefan.”
“Hello, Alice. I’m calling to ask you a question.”
“Sure, shoot.”
Jenn gave me a what-does-he-want look, and I shrugged.
“You remember Tristan Stark, the man who came into the loft during our session?”
My cheeks started burning. “Sure.”
“He called me, asking for your phone number and address. I thought I’d better ask your permission first before giving it to him.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Thanks! He’s helping me find a job. A permanent job. Don’t worry, I’ll still work with you on your special project.”
“Thank you. That’s all I needed to know. As far as the next session goes, how about Thursday?”
“Thursday’s fine. See you then.”
“Bye.”
I clicked off, gave Jenn a smug grin. “Estefan asked if he could give Tristan Stark my phone number.”
Jenn lifted both brows this time. “Okay. We’ll see what happens next. Just do me a favor. Don’t let this guy hurt you.”
“I promise, I won’t. I have my eyes wide open, and I’ve packed away the rose-colored glasses for good.”
3
The limo pulled up in front of our dorm building at exactly 6 P.M. on Saturday night, the exact time, to the minute, that Tristan had said he would pick me up for our dinner. As it turned out, the phone call hadn’t gone exactly as I had expected. While the purpose for our meeting was still professional—I was going to give him a handful of copies of my résumé—he’d suggested we have dinner too. I was all too happy to have a chance to spend some one-on-one time with the fascinating man in a place that was fully illuminated.
