She's Got It Bad

1

Twelve Years Later

LIAM FINGERED the single button on his jacket as he approached the well-lit entrance of Hartman’s Art Gallery. A woman in her thirties waited in the foyer, tall and elegant. Her platinum-blond bob swung around her jaw as she turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face.

“Liam. You came,” Jacinta Hartman said.

“Of course.”

Her smile faded as she registered his clothes.

“You’re not wearing the tie I bought you.”

“Nope.”

“Liam…”

He held out his arms to draw attention to the well-cut wool trousers, jacket and crisply tailored shirt he was wearing.

“Come on, cut me some slack here. Not an inch of denim or leather in sight,” he said.

“And you’re not wearing your beautiful new shoes, either,” she said, eyeing his favorite boots unhappily.

He slid an arm around her slim waist and pulled her close.

“I said you could try to civilize me. I didn’t say it would work,” he reminded her. He kissed her and she pulled back before he could smear her lipstick.

“Liam, people can see us,” she said.

Which made him laugh. Jacinta always made him laugh with all her prim little rules and guidelines. In public, that was. In private she was as dirty as the next woman—if the next woman had a penchant for hard, sweaty sex. They’d been friends for years now, lovers when the mood took them. When he’d built his new house near the St. Kilda shore six months ago, she’d volunteered to help him decorate it. The catch had been that she wanted to redecorate him—“civilize him,” as she put it—at the same time.

“I don’t know why you’re so resistant to the idea of stepping it up a notch,” Jacinta said. “If you had any idea how good you look in a suit, you wouldn’t think twice.”

“I’m a bike builder. I spend my days covered in grease,” he said.

“You’re a millionaire. You never have to get your hands dirty again if you don’t want to.”

“Babe, you have your world, I have mine. I’m not going to ask you to bend metal for me. And you’re not going to get me in a tie.”

She looked as though she was going to argue some more, then she shrugged. “Stubborn bastard. Come on, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve picked out for you,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him into the gallery itself.

A few heads turned as they walked the length of the space past asymmetrical sculptures and brightly hued canvases and jagged twists of metal. Five years ago Liam would have figured people were looking at him because he so clearly didn’t belong. His hair was too long, his walk had too much swagger to it, his hands were too rough and ready. Back then, he’d have stared every person down, maybe taken his attitude right up to a few of them to show them how much he didn’t care for their opinion of him. Now he ignored them because he knew he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, ever. He had the big house, the big car and the big bank account to prove it.

Jacinta stopped in front of a smooth obelisk of shiny white stone.

“I thought this would be nice on the balcony in the west corner,” she said.

He eyed it for a long beat, not saying a word. Jacinta slanted a look at him.

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“No,” he said. “It looks like a big stone dildo. Call me crazy, but no man wants something that big casting a shadow over his life.”

She sighed. “For a man who doesn’t know much about art, you certainly have strong opinions.”

“I want to see some craftsmanship, that’s all. Any of the fabricators at my workshop could make this before lunch,” he said.

“Lovely. Maybe we should ask them to whip up a few for us, then,” Jacinta said dryly.

He shrugged, unapologetic. She narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment then nodded decisively.

“Follow me. We’ve got a smaller collection in one of the side spaces. I have a feeling Paulo Gregorio’s work might be more up your alley,” she said.

Liam followed her across the polished concrete floor, admiring the sway of her hips. He wondered if she was wearing garters and stockings like she had been the last time she stayed the night. He loved a woman in red lace—it was one weakness he was more than happy to admit to.

“Okay, this artist is definitely more traditional. I think you’ll find all the craftsmanship you could possibly want in his work,” Jacinta said as they stepped into a smaller room.

Eight large canvases hung on the four walls. They were all portraits, all women in various stages of undress. Jacinta pointed to the first painting, a six-foot-by-six-foot canvas of a woman lying on a chaise lounge, a filmy negligee falling off her shoulders and tangling in her legs.

“Lots of color. Strong technique. And a subject that I know is very close to your heart,” Jacinta said.

He smiled at her dry humor as he studied the painting, noting the warm look in the woman’s eyes, the delicate way the artist had captured the texture of her clothing and the blush on her skin.

“Nice work,” he said.

“Nice work? It’s not one of your motorbikes, Liam.”

He checked the price list in her hand.

“You’re right. A custom Masters Mechanics bike is worth three times as much.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about this next one? I was thinking it would look great in your bathroom, above that huge Roman tub.”

Liam dutifully shifted his attention from the lounging woman to the next painting. This canvas was bigger, eight-by-ten, he estimated, and the subject was completely naked, lying sprawled on her back on a forest-green quilt. Her arms were spread wide and one knee was bent, the leg dropping out to the side. He followed the line of her calves to her thighs and the mysterious shadows between them. The artist had only hinted at what a man would be able to see in real life, but it was enough. More than enough.

If he had this painting in his bathroom, he’d be taking a cold shower every freaking day.

“I don’t suppose the artist hands out phone numbers with each painting?” he asked, only half joking.

Jacinta made an impatient noise. “Does that mean you like it?”

He dragged his gaze from the plump tips of the woman’s breasts and shifted his attention to her face.

Then he forgot to breathe.

Took a step backward.

Made a noise in the back of his throat that may or may not have been a four-letter word.

Green eyes. A dimpled chin. Long dark hair.

A face he remembered in his dreams. The most bittersweet memory of his life.

Zoe.

“Damn.”

Jacinta touched his arm. “Liam. What’s wrong?”

His gaze swept the painting again, looking for proof that he was wrong. Again he saw those open thighs, her hips, her breasts. And Zoe’s face. Indisputably Zoe’s face.

He stepped forward.

Why would she do this? Put herself on display like this? Little Zoe, spread across the wall for any man to stare at.

“Liam! What are you doing?” Jacinta demanded as he gripped the sides of the painting.

“Who else has seen this? How long has it been on dis play?” he asked.

“Liam, put that back. My God, what is wrong with you?”

He lifted the painting off its hook and turned it around. Only when it was leaning against the wall, face in, did he relax.

“Wrap it up. I don’t want anyone else looking at it.”

Jacinta planted both hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Would you mind putting the painting back, please?”

He pulled his checkbook out. “How much is it? I’m taking it with me.”

Jacinta stared at him for a long moment.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He waited for her to name the price.

“It’s fifteen thousand,” she finally said.

He wrote the check and tore it off. “I want to speak to this Paulo guy. Tonight.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

“I know her,” he said bluntly. “Or at least I used to know her. I don’t know what this guy offered her to sit for this painting, but she doesn’t belong up here.”

“For God’s sake, Liam, you sound like an outraged parent. This is art, not pornography.”

“Can you get me this guy’s number or not?”

Jacinta studied him, frowning.

“I don’t want you calling one of my artists and harassing him. What do you want to know? Her contact details, I suppose?”

“For starters.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Jacinta disappeared toward the rear of the gallery where he knew she had her office. Once he was alone he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He felt sick. Like someone had punched him in the guts.

This Paulo shithead must have offered her big money to pose for him. She must have been so desperate it seemed like a good deal. Damn, what the hell was Tom doing, letting his little sister get into this kind of trouble?

The tap of heels heralded Jacinta’s return. She handed over a scrap of paper.

“No home number, just her workplace. She’s very private, according to Paulo.”

He studied the address and phone number. The Blue Rose, on the western side of the city in Footscray. Not exactly the most up-and-coming area. He wondered what kind of business it was.

“Can you get someone to wrap the painting?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you would mind leaving it until the show is finished so I don’t have a dirty great gap in my display?” Jacinta countered.

“No.”

She sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

She headed off again, but stopped in the doorway.

“By the way, I asked what he paid her to sit for him.”

“And?”

“It was a freebie. No fee.”

He shook his head. He refused to believe it.

“No way.”

Jacinta simply raised her eyebrows before swiveling on her heel and continuing out the door.

Forty minutes later he pulled up in front of the address he’d been given. He leaned forward over the steering wheel to check the number above the shop door was correct.

The Blue Rose was a tattoo parlor.

It was the last thing he’d expected. He stared at the dingy front window for a long time before he threw his black SUV into gear and drove home. All the way, he thought about the Fords, felt again the mix of guilt and regret and gratitude that he always experienced when he remembered their kindness to him. Wondered where he would have wound up if it hadn’t been for them taking him in. In a state home, most probably. A problem teen no one wanted to take on.

But the Fords had. They’d supported him through his mom’s brief but brutal illness, then they’d asked him to live with them, offering him their backyard studio. They’d even renovated it for him—new paint, new carpet, insulation so he wouldn’t stew in his own juices in summer.

He and Tom had been best mates, a friendship that hadn’t come easily to Liam. He and his mom had been on the road, moving around for so long that he’d stopped bothering to make friends. He’d seen so much ugliness that it was hard for him to invest in the same things that other kids his age were into—music, cars, chicks. But Tom had made it easy, as had his family. And Zoe…

He could still remember the first time he’d seen her. Tom had brought Liam home after school, and they’d been standing at the open fridge door, drinking soda straight from the bottle when she came into the room. She’d been wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a tank top, her dark, straight hair in a ponytail. Her legs were long and slim, but she seemed uncertain of them, like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. The buds of her breasts pressed against her top, ripe and full of potential. And those eyes…those incredible green eyes.

He’d taken one look at her and choked on the mouthful of soda he’d been swallowing.

She was special. He’d known it the moment he saw her. Every second he spent with her afterward only confirmed it. Over the past twelve years, he’d wondered how she was, what she’d become. She’d be twenty-seven now. He’d always assumed she’d be married, maybe with kids of her own.

He dumped the painting in his empty dining room when he got home. He leaned it against the wall and stared at Zoe’s exposed body, the image blurred by bubble wrap.

This was not something he’d ever imagined for her.

He turned away. He wanted to look at her again, to tear off the bubble wrap and feast on her. Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to. He closed his eyes and forced himself to remember her laugh, the trust in her eyes when she used to look at him, the utter honesty and vulnerability in her face and body when she’d told him she loved him.

Zoe Ford deserved better than this painting and that tattoo shop. First thing tomorrow he was going to seek her out and do whatever it took to put things right in her world.

“HEY, HOW ARE WE this beautiful morning?” Zoe asked as she pushed through the back door into the Blue Rose’s workroom.

“Zoe! Man, I was starting to sweat about you,” Jake Lewis said, throwing her a frustrated look.

She made a big show of checking her watch.

“I’m right on time for my ten-thirty appointment, Jake,” she told her boss.

“Would it kill you to get here twenty minutes earlier?”

“You know I don’t need the prep time. It’s all up here, baby,” she said, tapping a forefinger against her temple.

She shrugged out of her denim jacket and threw it on a chair. Her cowboy boots thumped solidly on the concrete floor as she crossed to her workbench and began setting up for her client.

“Anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass, Ford?”

“Oh, yeah. First time today, though, so you get a prize.” She flipped her middle finger at him. As she’d hoped, he laughed.

She smoothed her hands down her lace-up jeans as she considered her workbench. Everything looked good—disposable ink cups, new needles ready to go.

“You still performing tonight?” Jake asked as she crossed to the autoclave to collect her sterilized gun.

“Nine o’clock. You going to be there? I’ll put your name on the door.”

“Don’t know if my blood pressure can take it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Pussy.”

Jake moved to the front of the shop and she tugged off the long-sleeved T-shirt she was wearing over a snug black tank. She always got warm when she worked, and she wasn’t about to stop in the middle of inking someone’s back to shrug off her clothes.

She heard the front bell sound and checked the clock. Her client was on time. She raised an eyebrow; she’d lost the bet she’d made with herself. This client had been so nervous when they discussed his appointment that she’d been sure he’d be a no-show, or as they called them, a B-back—the kind of customer who made some excuse to slip out just before the needle touched his skin, promising he’d “be back” but in reality never to be seen again.

She heard the low rumble of a man’s voice as she bagged her spray bottles to prevent cross-contamination.

“Sure, whatever, go through. She’s in the back,” she heard Jake say.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor as her customer approached. For some reason her stomach tightened and a shiver of something raced up her spine. Excitement? Fear? Premonition?

She had her back to the door when a deep male voice spoke.

“Zoe?”

All the little hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Slowly she turned around to confirm what her ears were telling her.

Liam. Standing there larger than life, bigger and taller than any of her memories of him. Her chest felt as though someone was sitting on it as she took in the messy dark hair brushing the collar of his leather jacket, the deep brown of his eyes, the crooked line of his nose. His jaw was still strong and stubborn-looking, his shoulders still wide. Some things had changed. His chest was deeper and broader than when he’d been seventeen, making his hips seem narrower, and his thighs were more muscled and bulky. The boy had become a man. A big, powerful man.

Of all the tattoo parlors in Melbourne, she couldn’t believe he had walked into hers. What were the odds?

Hard on the heels of shock at seeing him came a searing wash of anger. Twelve years of resentment and bitterness welled up inside her. The way he’d thrown what she offered him in her face. The way he’d left without a word. And what had happened afterward when she was too wild with grief at losing him to care about anything, especially herself.

“Masters,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. She was proud of how cool and unsurprised her voice sounded. “This is a surprise. Long time no see.”

He stared at her and she could see the shock and disbelief in his eyes as he surveyed her from head to toe, taking in her skintight jeans and tank, her breasts spilling over her neckline, the dark kohl on her eyes, the deep red on her lips.

“Jesus, Zoe,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He was surprised by the grown-up her—that much was obvious.

“What does it look like? I work here. If you’re after some ink, I’ve got an appointment right now. You’ll have to come back later.”

His gaze took in her workbench, the scuffed concrete floor, the curling corners on the many sheets of tattoo flash art stuck to the walls.

“Does Tom know about all this?” he asked.

He sounded grim. Disapproving.

“Excuse me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembered from all those years ago.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

She straightened, planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? What would you know, Liam? What the hell would you know about me?”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, then just as quickly came back to her face.

“I bought a painting last night. By Paulo Gregorio.”

She stared at him for a long beat. Then she laughed. He hadn’t just walked in off the street and coincidentally found her. He’d come looking for her.

“I get it. You bought Paulo’s painting and you decided to look me up. What’s wrong, Liam? Did you suddenly realize what you missed out on all those years ago?”

He frowned. “I wanted to find out what had gone wrong.”

Her chin came up and her eyes narrowed. “Wrong?”

“That you needed to do something like that.”

She shook her head, truly staggered by his arrogance.

“Wow. Haven’t you become the morals campaigner. Let me save you the bother of worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She laughed again, a sound totally without humor. “I don’t give a damn what you believe or don’t believe. Who the hell do you think you are, walking into my life and telling me I’m wrong and looking at me as though I just offered you a blow job for a tenner?”

“I was worried about you,” he said.

She swore and stared at the ceiling as she struggled to keep a grip on her temper. Her lips curled into a sneer when she looked at him again.

“Twelve years too late, baby,” she said. “Now, how about you get the hell out of my space?”

He stared at her.

“Go! I don’t want to see you or speak to you,” she said. To her great shame, hot tears burned at the back of her eyes. She held them there by sheer dint of will as they eyeballed each other.

“Fine. But this isn’t over,” he said.

She swore again, telling him exactly what she thought of him and where he could go, with bells on.

He gave her one last, long look before turning on his heel and exiting. She reached for the countertop behind her and grasped the edge to stop her rubbery knees from collapsing. Then a more urgent need gripped her. One hand pressed to her mouth, she just made it to the restroom before she lost her breakfast to the toilet bowl.

How she hated him. How she hated herself for still feeling anything for him after all these years.

She ducked her head over the sink and rinsed her mouth out. Her eyes were guarded as she surveyed herself in the chipped mirror above the sink.

For the first time in a long time, she felt a stab of the phantom pain that had haunted her for so long after the operation. She pressed a hand to her belly.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door.

“You in here, Zoe? Your tenderfoot’s arrived for his ten-thirty appointment,” Jake called.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said.

She rinsed her mouth again, then pressed her cool, wet hands against her cheeks.

Screw Liam Masters. She didn’t give a damn about him or what he thought of her. She exited the bathroom and put on her brightest, sassiest smile for the scared teenager standing uncertainly in the doorway of her workroom.

“Rodney. Great to see you. Let’s turn you into a piece of walking, talking art, baby,” she said.

LIAM THOUGHT ABOUT ZOE all day at work. He thought about the look in her eyes when she’d first seen him and recognized him. He thought about her attitude, all sharp edges and defenses. He thought about the length of her legs and the fullness of her breasts, every detail of both on display thanks to her painted-on clothes. He thought about the tattoo on her neck, a striking overblown rose in shades of black and gray.

Zoe. His Zoe, all grown up. And nothing like he’d ever imagined her. Certainly not happily married with kids.

He couldn’t reconcile the woman he’d met today with the girl he’d known twelve years ago. It didn’t seem possible that the pure, innocent, generous spirit that had been Zoe could grow up into a woman so hard and edgy.

He couldn’t afford to be this distracted right now. The workshop was operating at full capacity, and as always, there were fires to put out. Delays on the parts they’d ordered for a custom chopper that had a strict delivery date. Problems with the fit of the double-overhead engine one client had requested.

He discussed options and solutions with his chief designer and lead fabricator, Vinnie. He wrangled suppliers. He put a rocket up one of the assembly teams to ensure they kept to schedule. At a quarter to seven, he shrugged into his leather jacket and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Vinnie asked in surprise. It was a rare day when Liam wasn’t the last one to leave the workshop.

“There’s something I have to do.”

“I need to talk to you about this biker build-off comp. You still want to enter?”

Vinnie sounded doubtful. Liam gave him a cuff on the shoulder.

“I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but we have to keep pushing the PR.”

Vinnie’s disgust showed on his face. “What a load of BS. Why can’t we just make great bikes like we always have? That’s how we got to where we are today.”

“Don’t you listen to the marketing eggheads? We’re building a brand now, my friend,” Liam said on his way out the door. “I’ll sort out our entry first thing tomorrow. Make sure you reserve time in the production schedule so we can give it our best.”

He palmed his car keys as he crossed the parking lot. Masters Mechanics had taken on a life of its own over the past three years. Through word of mouth they’d doubled, then tripled in size. Turnover was in the millions. He had more than thirty staff working for him, including a marketing manager. The days of simply shutting himself in the workshop and bending metal until it looked good to him were over. He had responsibilities, commitments. And—even though it had always felt like a dirty word, given his background—ambitions. Not world domination, but definitely he wanted Masters Mechanics to be the go-to shop for custom motorbikes across Australia and New Zealand. Definitely.