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look glamorous? Turn this way or arch that
way? Who’s going to see these photos? People they know? People they don’t know,
and what will strangers think of them? Who will all those people imagine them
to be? What if it’s all too overwhelming? What if they get in front of the
camera and freeze?” Her eyelids had dipped low over the glistening brown
pupils, as my voice lulled her. “ Will
they be able to give me what I want ?”
    She blinked several
times, coming awake from her daze as the subtext of the conversation hit,
penetrating her thoughts, penetrating her body at gut-level and from the
juncture of those curvy thighs. If my aim was true, anyway. She’d have been
realizing right about now how loaded a question she had asked me—never should
have asked me.
    Then I brought my head
back to tilt it the other way and look Iva Moreau squarely in the face. “You
want to be mad at me. You want to berate me for the way you think I’m harming
someone you care about. But your blood is coursing in the same rhythm as the
music now, and you can’t tear your eyes or your imagination away from all the
clothes and the beautiful people with their bodies oiled or powdered or cinched
into tight corsets for display. You’re fascinated by the very thing you want to
keep your sister from experiencing.”
    The upright Miss Moreau
opened her mouth, but I wouldn’t give her the chance to deny my charges.
Instead, I continued, “But the really uncomfortable part, the really hard part,
is having to pretend you’re so far above this hedonistic artist’s lifestyle, so
offended by it, when you are obvious so intimately familiar with it.”
    Now Iva’s mouth hung
open with a gape. I struck while she was still formulating a response—maybe one
of feigned ignorance and innocence or a distracting display of outrage at the
suggestion. With my head bent over hers, my lips almost brushing the bridge of
her nose, I asked, “Or is that reaction just your fascination with photos of
women being dominated sexually? Because I’d happily help you explore the
attraction.”
    The next moment
stretched out for several hard heartbeats, while I lingered so close I could
have sworn I felt the flutter of her eyelashes, and while I let myself fully
experience the groin-deep hunger to kiss this woman. Then Stan snickered, and
the moment popped like a soap bubble in a bath suddenly turned lukewarm. Iva
turned to glare at him while I aimed my grimace over the top of her head.
    Stan made a show of
sniffling. “Oh, sorry. Allergies. Don’t mind me.” He shook his head and put a finger
up to his lips.
    When Iva turned back to
face me, her expression was stricken. “Just tell me what you want for Cheri’s
release.”
    I took a step back. It
was only fair to give her the space to think, considering the way I’d just
rattled her. Considering what I was about to say.
    “I want you to model
for me.”
    Both Iva and Stan
blurted out, “What?”
    “Model for me, and I’ll
hand over Cheri’s release. You can tear it up in front of me, if you like.”
    Stan stepped forward,
hands held up to stop me. “Whoa there. No, no. That can’t happen. Nolan, we
need Cheri’s shots for the Odyssey exhibition. Those are some of your main
showpieces. Without them, that makes for a pretty anemic offering in a one-man
exhibit.”
    For her part, Iva
argued, talking over Stan, “You think I’m going to be part of your show? I
wouldn’t sign a model release if you held a gun to my head.”
    I felt the briefest
twinge of guilt knowing I was fairly close to figuratively holding a gun to
Cheri’s head, as far as Iva was concerned. But I also knew what I knew. That
right now, Iva Moreau’s pulse was racing with excitement, fluttering madly at
the base of her throat. That she was exhilarated by the energy of the studio.
That she was no stranger to that energy. That a very basic, true part of her
craved it. I wondered, not so absently, if that yearning also involved a