3. Drew
Chapter Three
DREW
I knew she wouldn’t come back. “Just Kate” is not the private-party-with-strangers type. I waited anyway. Waited. And waited. And waited for the chance to listen to her pretty voice and, if I was lucky, feel her body intertwined with mine. That girl was gorgeous with the sexiest pair of legs I’ve ever seen. And those lips . . .
The zip on her pink dress would’ve come down so easily. And what else would’ve come undone? I like the idea of seeing her vixen side. But who am I kidding? Good girls like her don’t go for guys like me. Too bad she wasn’t feeling rebellious last night.
It would’ve been a perfect situation. Girl takes a trip to London, has a fling with some Brit she can brag about to all of her American girlfriends, then goes home, never expecting anything more than what she got. That’s all I really offer anyway.
I’m not the kind of lad that gets attached. And I haven’t been someone’s boyfriend since secondary school. I’m more of the lone, wild horse variety. At least that’s how I feel now, cruising along the M25 on my vintage Triumph motorbike I’ve dubbed Black Jack. Yes, Black Jack is one of my first bikes. Probably the only thing I’m truly loyal to. Gripping the handlebars and weaving through traffic, the open air gives me a rush of freedom that never gets old.
This morning, I’m heading to a photo shoot for Lux Magazine . Some boudoir-style, lingerie thing that Nina Savoy requested of me. After the other night, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. A sexy model in a lacy bra is exactly what I need to brush off Kate and her olive-colored eyes.
I park Black Jack near the three-story studio building in Soho, double-checking the address on my phone. This place just opened up a few weeks ago. Lifting my helmet off my head, I smooth back my hair, then grab all of my equipment. I ride the lift to the third floor and follow the chatter to a studio at the end of the hall. Two ladies surround an empty makeup chair. One guy adjusts the white canopy curtains around the four-poster bed, while another levels out the white sheets. The rest of the crew’s scattered about the room. Rays of sunlight stream in through the window, hitting the bed perfectly. We only have about an hour to get the shot before the light changes.
“There you are.” Francesca’s steps echo over the studio’s bare walls as she approaches and adjusts her blue-framed glasses. Her black bun is perfectly balanced atop her head.
She’s Lux Magazine’s production director, who I’ve worked with many times. Just work, no play. Francesca’s married to some finance fellow from Sussex. I may live on the edge, but I’d never mess around with a married woman. Even one with cat-shaped eyes like hers.
“You’re looking beautiful today, as always,” I say, pecking a kiss on each of her cheeks.
“Thanks, babe.” Francesca glances behind me. “Where’s your assistant?”
“He quit.” I set my helmet and bag down near my feet.
She holds her hand to her mouth with a slight chuckle. “Isn’t that like the fourth assistant this year?”
“Something like that. I can’t keep track. These wankers don’t know anything about paying their dues.”
“And you do?” She folds her arms, giving me a square look.
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, I do.”
It’s not the first time someone’s assumed I’ve had everything handed to me. In fact, it’s not at all uncommon. Even though I go by Drew Blake, every Londoner knows I’m a Bonnaire—from one of the most prominent families in England. Hell, the Queen knighted my father.
Yeah, I grew up privileged, with more than enough money in my trust fund to never need to take another job. There’s even more waiting for me upon my marriage, which I’ll never get because the idea of sleeping with one woman for the rest of my life feels just short of castration.
Don’t get me wrong, being a Bonnaire has its perks. It definitely helped me land an apprenticeship with Ferguson Burke, one of the world’s most acclaimed modern photographers. Being Sir Dean Bonnaire’s son may have gotten me in the door but once I was in, Burke didn’t give a shit who I was. With the way he treated me, I might as well have been some poor kid from Hackney.
Burke’s a true artist. Apprenticing with him was like learning from Leonardo Da Vinci. And he taught me everything he knew because I kept my head down, did what he wanted, and didn’t ask questions. Of course, he’s told me it was a waste since I went into fashion photography. But in my opinion, it’s the only style that’s the best use of my talents. All of my talents . . .
Now, I’m the most in-demand photographer in London, earning the respect of my peers and industry professionals. Too bad it’s still not enough to earn my father’s respect—and it never will be. He gave up on me a long time ago.
“Our model should be out of the dressing room anytime now. So you can get set up,” Francesca says.
“Good, I have time to use the toilet. Where is it?”
She nods down the hall. “On the right.”
I leave the studio and find myself faced with two doors on the right. I push the door all the way open. A set of garment racks stands in the middle. Lacy lingerie dangles from the satin hangers. This definitely isn’t the bathroom.
“Garret, I told you I’d be out in a minute!” a woman yells. She scrambles to cover herself with a black silk robe, but the curve of her bare hip peeks out of the side. Her ankle wobbles in her ebony stilettos, and she clutches the robe as she loses the fight with gravity. “Whoa!” she yowls and falls to the floor.
I lunge for her. “Are you all right?”
Her sexy, lipsticked mouth hangs open. She glances up at me, her wide green eyes meeting mine for the first time. I freeze, too stunned for manners—like helping a fallen damsel to her feet.
It’s Kate.
She gasps. “You!”
“You?” I cock my head.
“What are you doing here?” Kate struggles to her feet, wrapping the silk tighter around her body. I almost don’t recognize her dark wavy hair, spiraling over her shoulders and bold eye makeup. Mascara is so sexy. Or is it eye shadow? I don’t know what it’s called, but I like it.
“I’m the photographer.”
Kate flares her delicate nostrils, clenching the fabric in her fist against her chest. “You’re Drew Blake?”
“That’s right. And you said you weren’t a model.”
“I’m not a model,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m a designer.”
“I don’t know how they do things in America, but I’ve never seen a designer get naked before a photo shoot.” Not that I’m complaining.
“Nina Savoy wanted me to model my own designs for this shoot.”
I let out a laugh. How did I not put this together? “Oh, my God. You’re Kate Golden?” I smack my palm against my forehead.
“Why are you laughing?” By the look on her face, she’s not at all amused.
“Come on. It’s pretty damn hilarious, isn’t it? First, I save you from losing your dress at the party, and then I catch you in your knickers anyway.” Not to mention she left me high and dry. They say what goes around comes around. And I wouldn’t mind her coming around me.
Kate rolls her eyes and stomps her now bare foot. “No, I am not doing this shoot with you !”
My laugh slows, and I catch my breath. “Sorry, love. You’re stuck with me. And if you want any decent shots for this spread, you’d better hurry up and get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
“But—”
“Nice to see you again, by the way. All of you,” I say, backing out of the small dressing room and shutting the door behind me. Oh man, the look on her face? Classic. Of all the women I could’ve walked in on, it had to be her. I chuckle again at the coincidence and finally find the loo.
When I return to the set, Kate still hasn’t stepped out, and I half wonder if she’s run away again. I unload my camera and lenses onto a table near the cloudlike bed. A man, wearing too much aftershave, steps over in his snakeskin loafers. I glance up, recognizing the guy from the Lux party. It’s Kate’s friend. He looks almost as surprised to see me as Kate.
“ You’re the photographer?” he asks with a slack jaw.
“Indeed.” I return my focus to the camera.
The guy crosses his arms, cocking his head to the side. “Does Kate know you’re here?”
“Oh, yeah.” I raise my brow and huff a laugh. “She knows.”
He turns away, muttering, “This should be interesting,” before walking off.
I take a few test shots of the set, checking my watch every few minutes. How long does it take to put on lingerie? Maybe she’s one of those corset designers or something? Those are kind of sexy. Not that I’m picky about lacy underpants. They’re all exciting in their own way.
The room chatter goes quiet. Kate steps in wearing her short satin robe, tall stilettos, and thigh-high stockings with a lace top. My eyes bulge from their sockets, and my pulse goes full throttle.
Bloody hell. Stockings are my kryptonite.
I turn away, taking a deep breath. It’s going to take every bit of focus and restraint I have to get through the shoot with her in stockings .
“Where should I go?” she asks Francesca with a meek voice.
She directs Kate to the bed, and the designer-slash-model walks gingerly over and sits on the edge of the mattress with her hands tucked underneath her bottom. I almost feel bad for her, looking as nervous as she does.
“Go on, drop your robe,” Francesca says.
Kate’s expression tenses, and she lowers her eyes, pulling on the satin strap. The curtain falls open. Her breasts swell in a black bra, and the outline of her pink nipple peeks through the lace as if shyly greeting me. And her thong . . . well, it leaves very little to the imagination.
She may be a designer, but her body is as fit as the models I photograph all the time. Better even, as she’s not rail thin with no bust or behind. What I wouldn’t give to slide my tongue from her waist up to those beautiful breasts.
She hugs her body tight enough to create a perfect line of cleavage. An inspired tingle in my underpants causes me to clench my thighs. I’m a professional, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get turned on by the women I’m photographing from time to time.
But this . . . her. She’s something else.
Francesca sits on the bed, demonstrating a pose for Kate. While beautiful, Francesca’s not a model and doesn’t realize that there’s more to it than lying on a bed, looking pretty. At least, that’s what models have told me over wine on my penthouse terrace.
Kate sits on her hip, propping herself up with her arm. Francesca pulls a ringlet from her hair and lays it over the front of her shoulder, then positions her feet.
“That’s good, don’t you think?” Francesca asks, rubbing her chin with her finger.
I stare at Kate and clear my throat, tucking my tongue inside my mouth. If I don’t keep my lips closed, my licker will hit the floor like one of those old-fashioned cartoons. “It’s fine. Shall we get started?”
Francesca scoots off the set, and I snap a few shots. Through the lens, I can see Kate’s trembling lips.
“Try to relax, Kate,” I say, somewhat softly. “You look beautiful.”
Kate pulls her mouth back in an exaggerated smile. “Okay.”
“Honey, relax your face,” Kate’s friend calls out.
She pushes a breath out, flapping her lips. “I’m trying, Garret.”
“You look hot!” he shouts. “Just pretend you’re seducing the sexiest man alive.”
Kate flickers her jade eyes at me. Her cheeks flush with a warm glow before she drops her gaze.
I shoot that Garret git a look. “You’re not helping.”
Garret shrugs and pulls out his phone, turning on his heel. “Whatever . . .”
“Can we get some music going?” I call out. “Kate, what would you like to listen to?”
“I don’t know. What do you have?” she asks with hunched shoulders. Why is she not more comfortable in her knickers? She’s the one who created them.
I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through a music app for a sultry, electronic R&B artist, whose music makes women’s hips sway. “Put this on,” I say, handing my phone to one of the production assistants. Soon, the saxophone sounds with a cool, finger-snapping beat keeping the rhythm. “Is this all right?”
“Sure,” she says, though her body remains unbending. Too bad there isn’t time for a couple of brandies. That would loosen her right up. If she doesn’t relax soon, we’ll lose the light.
The crew stands around, chatting, and scrutinizing Kate’s rigid poses. If I can feel their judgments, I know Kate can too. And it’s not making things any easier for our model-slash-designer.
Two songs later, she’s still stiffer than the hard-on she left me with last night. This isn’t working. I’ve got a dangerous idea, but it may be the only way to get the job done. “Okay, everyone out!” I call, lowering my camera and glaring at the crew.
They all freeze and fall silent, staring at me with half-smiles as if I’m cracking a joke. “I’m serious, piss off.”
“You heard the man. Let’s go!” Francesca demands, and the crew slowly shuffles out. I send Francesca an appreciative nod and wait until the last person is out and the door is shut before turning back to the designer-model.
Kate stares wide-eyed at the closed studio doors, and her cheeks lose their pink glow. Now we’re alone.