Wicked Seduction
by Tina Donahue
Copyright © 2017 by Tina Donahue. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Talk about being treated like a rock star. Hector Avana, affectionately known as “Tor” to family, friends, and now his “fans,” smiled good-naturedly at the women gathered outside Wicked Brand. Thanks to local press, the tattoo parlor was a popular stop in Northwood Village, a historic and touristy locale in West Palm Beach, Florida.
He inked a biker in the front window. Trained to be a traditional artist, this wasn’t what he’d planned to do with his talent, but things could be much worse, like starving for his craft or, God forbid, working a nine-to-five job in a cubicle to pay bills. The thought made his stomach churn. This was definitely better, even with spectators watching his every move like judges in a beauty contest. On the other side of the window, older ladies took pictures with their smartphones. Two twentysomethings turned their backs to Tor and posed for selfies, presumably with him in the background.
He tried not to stare at their sweet asses, plump with youth, their cheeks barely covered by cutoffs.
Okay, he gaped a little. What sane man wouldn’t? Denim strings dangled over their silky thighs, their skin bronzed from days in the sun.
“Hey, Tor,” a leggy blonde shouted through the glass as she held up her phone for another shot. “Blow us a kiss.”
A brunette waved her hand dismissively. “Forget the kiss.” She gave him a seductive smile. “Lose the tank top, baby. Take. It. Off.”
The other ladies laughed and offered thumbs-up.
His face warmed. During high school and college, this would have been a dream come true, something to brag about to the guys. Now though… He finally understood why females complained about not being taken seriously.
He wasn’t shy by any means and was as susceptible to praise as the next guy, but he did have a job to do. He cupped his mouth to amplify his voice over Marc Anthony’s “Vivir Mi Vida” pouring from the sound system. “Ladies, please. I’m trying to work here.”
His client twisted to see what went on behind him. “You call this work? Where do I sign up for— Jesus, look at the rack on the redhead.”
The young woman’s boobs spilled out of her microscopic bikini top. Large Band-Aids would have provided better coverage.
Tor turned the biker around so the guy’s meaty arms rested on the leather chair he straddled. “Keep squirming and your ink’s not gonna be pretty.”
The man craned his neck to peer over his shoulder. “How’s my tat coming?”
Slowly…given the distractions and the intricate design depicting a Spartan’s upper face. The warrior’s eyes were startling blue and world-weary. Deep lines creased the area above his cheeks. His iron helmet seemed to cast shadows, providing a 3-D effect. The image was only half finished but breathtakingly real and fucking hard to pull off.
“You need to keep still.” Tor added white to the left eye so the iris appeared to reflect light. Finished, he swiped a cloth over the area.
Lauren watched from the front counter, advertising handouts cradled in her arm. She gave Tor a thumbs-up similar to what the ladies outside had done.
He wasn’t certain if her praise was because he’d reined in the biker or because there were groupies outside who might become potential clients.
Lauren joined him. “We should sell refreshments outside. Maybe set up a juice bar and a few tables with umbrellas and chairs. What do you think?”
He was way past offering his opinion. She was the whiz at marketing. With her idea to have the tattoo artists ink customers in the window, the parlor’s walk-ins had increased 50 percent and were still climbing.
Things hadn’t always been so rosy here.
When Lauren had inherited Wicked Brand from her dad, who had abandoned her and her mom when she was five, the shop was doing okay but not turning much of a profit. She’d arrived here with no illusions about a man she hadn’t seen in twenty-two years and wanted his parlor as much as one would an IRS audit. She’d meant to dump the place fast. But falling in love with Tor’s older brother, Dante, had changed everything. At the time, Dante inked clients here but had since returned to his career as a product liability attorney. This time, unlike the last, he litigated for real victims rather than greedy corporations. He and Lauren planned to get married in the winter when his workload slowed.
The biker waved, calling for Lauren’s attention. “You should sell booze. Brings in more bucks.”
“Too much trouble with the liquor license and everything else involved.” She leaned toward Tor. “If your fans start to get rowdy, give me a holler.”
“What about Jasmina?” He’d spoken as softly as Lauren had. Although only in her early twenties, Jasmina had helped turn the business around, bringing in clients from her former high school and current college, where she was nearly finished with her business degree. Months back, Lauren had made her the manager and rightfully so. However, rather than taking care of things in here and outside, she now stood at the front counter and stared into space, her work forgotten. “Is she having another bad day?”
“Hey.” Lauren frowned, her eyes almost as steely blue as the Spartan’s. “That jerk hurt her bad. She needs time to heal.”
Tor wasn’t about to argue. The jerk in question was Brad, Jasmina’s ex-boyfriend. They’d once planned to own ten McDonald’s franchises so they could live large. Unfortunately for Jasmina, Brad had already begun to have his own good time, cheating on her with several young women. She’d found out six weeks ago and had dumped him fast. Since then, she’d lost her drive and sunny disposition. “Maybe I should offer her another tat.”
He’d inked her left ankle with a cute 3-D design depicting a red ribbon tied in a bow. The ends trailed over her foot.
“A hit on Brad would probably work better.”
The biker tapped Lauren’s hand. “I know people who can rough him up, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
Tor clamped the guy’s shoulders. “She was kidding. I’m not. Don’t move unless you want your Spartan to look like Winnie the Pooh.”
“Sorry, man.” He froze and scarcely breathed.
Lauren joined the group outside, greeted everyone with a smile, and handed out her flyers.
Tor shook off the distractions and got in the zone. Clients arrived and departed. Van Gogh, another tattoo artist, discussed designs with customers in his usual glum manner that everyone overlooked because of his amazing talent. Muted conversations sounded from outside.
Thankfully, no one else shouted for Tor to strip. He didn’t mind being popular, but recognition as an artist in the classic sense was his ultimate goal. The same as Van Gogh. Neither of them had been able to support their passion without a day job. Tor’s sketches and Van Gogh’s paintings hung in the parlor in between photos of tats, T-shirts, and other touristy stuff for sale. Little by little, their art sold, which was pretty damn sweet.
He switched to the biker’s other side.
Outside on the walkway, women fanned themselves with Lauren’s flyers. Those with pasty complexions were undoubtedly tourists. The locals usually sported tans and wore far less clothing, combining sports bras or bikini tops with their skimpy cutoffs. Small wonder. The August afternoon couldn’t have been steamier, the sky iron gray, the cloud cover thick. A heavy metallic scent predicted rain, not unusual this time of summer.
Tor wiped away black ink he’d used on the Spartan’s helmet.
Women outside continued to lift their smartphones to take his picture as they would with an A-list celebrity.
A platinum blonde shifted. Her move opened a space in the crowd, and his eyes were drawn to a young woman on the periphery.
She stared at him.
He held her gaze.
Hers eyes were soft brown, lushly lashed, expressive and yearning.
Warmth coursed through him, along with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Not exactly recognition, but a sense of comfort. Like they knew each other despite being strangers.
In her mid-to-late twenties, she wore her chestnut hair parted on the side. The ends curled slightly above her breasts. Her features were naturally sultry even without makeup, her skin tawny, her heritage most likely Cuban, the same as him.
His cock stiffened, balls grew tight. He stepped closer to the window, surprised by her long-sleeve peasant blouse and white jeans. A fucking lot of clothes in the ungodly temperature.
The fabric didn’t hide her luscious breasts and hips, though. An outstanding figure a man could hold on to during a wild ride, his rod buried in her snug depths, comforted by her warm, giving flesh.
Nice. Definitely a woman he’d like to get to know. Hopefully, she’d still be there when he finished this tat. With any luck, she was a local who lived or worked close by.
The redhead with the great rack moved and blocked his view.
Tor rounded the biker for a better perspective.
The ladies in front glanced where he did.
The young woman didn’t appear to notice them. Her gaze remained on him, but her longing expression faded, replaced by something else. Possibly anxiety.
He killed his grin and lifted his hand to gesture her inside so they could meet and talk.
She left.
Surprised, Tor strode to the front door to follow.
“Hey.” The biker pushed up. “Where are you going?”
Tor stopped, torn between inking his client, as he should, and racing outside to ask the young woman to return.
He dragged back to the biker and called across the space. “Jasmina, got a sec?”
She still stood at the counter, taking inventory of items in the front case. “What do you need?”
He didn’t have an easy answer. He never chased after women, at least in the literal sense. He never had to. They always came on strong. The majority wore ample makeup and scant clothing, promising an effortless good time.
The young woman he’d seen wasn’t his usual type, yet she left him edgy and wanting. “I saw a woman outside.”
Jasmina stared at him blankly and then looked at the crowd. All female.
“What I meant is the one I saw left. Can you run out and catch up with her? She’s wearing a long-sleeve blouse and white jeans. Has brown hair about your length. Maybe a bit longer.”
“Did she lose something?”
“No. She just took off.”
Jasmina made a face.
Before her breakup with Brad, she would have reacted to Tor’s comment with unwavering optimism and good humor.
How Brad could have cheated on her and killed Jasmina’s trust in guys mystified him. Not only had she been loyal to a fault, she was fucking gorgeous. Also of Cuban descent, she had long auburn hair, a rich complexion, and outstanding breasts. And legs longer than the law should have allowed. Today, she wore what she usually did: a tank top, cutoffs, and sneakers.
She returned to her work. “She’s allowed to go if she wants.”
Tor rolled his eyes. “Are we trying to lose customers now? You could go out there and show her your tat. She couldn’t have gone too far—she wasn’t walking that fast. Maybe she’d like a bow on her ankle like you have. Come on, you’re not doing anything.”
She arched one eyebrow.
He raised his gloved hands in surrender. “I meant anything you can’t do later.”
Jasmina regarded him intently.
He wanted to run but didn’t budge. “What?”
“If I do catch up and stop her, what if she’s not interested in my tat?”
He hadn’t thought about particulars beyond stopping her. “Tell her we have lots of other ones.” He gestured to the walls, the numerous pictures of past clients.
Jasmina gave him a sad smile. “Better to let people go who don’t want you.”
The young woman had, though. He’d sensed her desire and couldn’t recall another female affecting him in the same way. Sure, lust was involved, but also something else, a connection, something deeper.
Jasmina keyed an item into the computer.
Frustrated, Tor returned to work and wondered whether he’d see the young woman again—what her smile would be like, her voice and scent, her hands gliding over him, making him hungry for whatever she had to give—and what her name might be.
…
Marnie Cruz wove through passersby, no closer to her goal than when she’d left work.
Now wasn’t the time to be bold, though it would come. A promise she’d made herself and kept, somewhat, by checking out Wicked Brand. Simply going there today had taken enormous effort, leaving her wrung out and tired. Sweaty, too. The punishing heat hadn’t helped nor had her clothes. Given what her blouse and jeans hid, she had little choice except to cover up.
She walked faster. Too bad distance and speed couldn’t help her outrun bad history. Her past always returned to haunt her at the worst possible times, like when she’d met Tor Avana’s gaze.
Her belly fluttered.
He’d looked better in person than he had in those news articles about him. His easy smile had delighted her, and the warmth in his eyes enhanced his effortless charm.
No wonder his personality attracted women, while his looks…
Easily six-three, he was a big man who wore his size well, his muscles sculpted. His black tank top hugged his beautifully defined pecs and abs. Worn jeans rode low on his lean hips. In last week’s edition of the local entertainment magazine, she’d admired the gladiator tattoo that covered his left shoulder, biceps, and arm. The 3-D design boasted brown and black in varying shades and detailed the armor warriors owned in times past: braided leather edged the metal plates that showed a lion’s head with a ring through its nose. Shadows and depth made the artwork appear amazingly real. After seeing him in person, she marveled at how the design fit him perfectly.
Tor himself was no less impressive, his features strong and virile. At age thirty or so, he had masculine beauty that dazzled. His eyes seemed closer to black than brown, his skin bronze, his upper lip, cheeks, and chin bristly. He wore his dark-brown hair short on the sides, the thick locks fuller and longer on top, begging a woman to run her fingers through it.
Marnie trembled with desire.
She wished she’d been braver, but when their eyes met, the feelings he generated overwhelmed her. His warm gaze and dimples had tempted her in ways she hadn’t known for far too long. Yearning had consumed her, and she’d fled, uncertain if she could handle her emotions around him…or if she could ever risk vulnerability or intimacy again.
Her breathing picked up.
He spoke to everything she’d longed for in a partner but never had. A man who smiled often, who wasn’t mean, controlling, or dangerous. How to be certain about him, though? A few exchanged glances or even an initial conversation wasn’t absolute proof a guy was good.
She shouldn’t be thinking about this.
Looking for a hookup or a lasting relationship with any man wasn’t something she could enjoy at this point. Sure, she was lonely, but her future mattered most, along with going through with what she’d planned to do today.
This time, she’d only managed to get as far as the front walk outside Wicked Brand. Finding enough guts to go inside and ask for what she needed, especially from a gorgeous guy like Tor, was like being the ultimate loser in high school and displaying every flaw and each deficiency to the pretty girls who had everything.
Tor was just about perfect physically, while Marnie wasn’t even close. Hell, she wasn’t even normal any longer given her scars.
She massaged her neck and reached Alice’s Wonderland, the high-end gift shop where she worked. Marnie opened the door, and the front bells jingled. Icy air washed over her, cooling her sticky skin.
Alice Peters, the owner, glanced up. Well into her sixties, Alice wore her gray hair shorter than most men. Elaborate, beaded earrings hung nearly to her shoulders. Their bright purple matched her cat-eye glasses. Her vintage top and skirt were a blast from her hippie past, both garments in black with sparkly silver embroidery.
Two elderly couples roamed the shop, glancing at imitation Tiffany shades, wrought-iron and crystal chandeliers, elaborate candelabras, and other funky stuff, each piece as unique as Alice.
She smiled broadly and gestured Marnie to the stock room door.
Marnie pointed over her shoulder at the couples and mouthed, “Shouldn’t I wait on them?”
Alice shook her head and waved her closer.
The older woman smelled sweet and powdery, the way a mom should, at least in Marnie’s opinion. Since losing her mother nearly two years ago, she appreciated Alice easing her loneliness.
Alice leaned in. “Did you talk to Tor?” She spoke quietly. “What did he say?”
Now Marnie felt foolish for not having done what she’d planned despite her hesitation about talking to him. She wasn’t helpless, never had been, and she should start behaving like the woman she’d always wanted to be. She’d been in therapy for nearly a year, grateful it was helping her resolve the past and move into the future. Her next step was getting tattooed to hide her scars so she wouldn’t have to explain how they’d happened and she’d feel pretty again. Eventually, she’d be ready to have a healthy and fun relationship with a man, but only when she met the right one.
Unbidden, Tor came to mind. Her skin tingled. She pushed her unruly emotions away. “Nothing. He was busy tattooing a guy in the front window. I didn’t want to disturb him.”
Alice squeezed Marnie’s fingers. “No biggie if you didn’t go in. These things take time.”
“I’m twenty-seven. I should be able to go into a tattoo parlor without too much thought. I mean, other people have it far worse than I do. At least I can hide my flaws when I’m in public.”
“You’ll go in there when you’re ready.” Alice cradled Marnie’s cheek, her touch light and loving. “Quit being so hard on yourself. Small steps, remember?”
The same advice Marnie’s therapist, Dr. Foster, offered, stating there were no defeats unless she gave up. That wasn’t something she’d ever do. However, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t find an easier way to get through the day, if one existed. “I don’t know if I can go to Tor for what I want or even if I should. Maybe I should talk to one of the other tattoo artists there.”
“Why? Does Tor remind you of…ah…someone else?”
Alice couldn’t say Ethan’s name.
Marnie couldn’t, either. “No. He seems laid back…nice. One of the women outside hollered for him to take off his tank top even though he was working. He didn’t yell or even frown. He saw me in the crowd. We looked at each other for a really long time.” Heat flooded her. “Everything seemed to stop.”
“In a good way?”
Far better than she’d expected. “It felt good. Probably more than it should have given what a lousy judge I’ve been when it comes to guys.” She’d been clueless about cruel men and the harm they did to women who didn’t stand up for themselves, demanding respect and safety. This, despite what had happened to her mother. A lesson Marnie had lived and should have heeded in her own life.
“That’s a good sign.”
Marnie wasn’t following. “What is?”
“The way you guys looked at each other. Not that I can blame him. You’re beautiful.”
She shook her head.
“You are.”
“You didn’t see the other women there.” All dressed scantily, their skin flawless.
“Did he stare at them?”
He hadn’t. He’d glanced at the others but hadn’t focused on anyone at length except her…ogling him.
No wonder he’d reacted as he had. She’d behaved worse than the others. She covered her face.
Alice eased Marnie’s hand down. “What?”
“He kind of froze when he saw me gawking at him. God, I acted like an idiot.”
“By simply looking at him like the other girls were?”
“They were horsing around. I was doing some heavy-duty staring, like a stalker or something.”
Alice gestured dismissively. “I doubt that. What’s he look like in real life?”
Amazing. “Let’s just say his pictures in the paper don’t do him justice. He has really deep dimples.”
“Yeah? Maybe that’s because he smiles so much. From what I’ve read about him and seen on TV, he does seem like a nice guy, like you said.”
Marnie’s stomach rolled. An instinctive reaction. “Maybe.”
“Sweetie, there are good men out there. I was married to one for forty years before the bum died on me.”
She laughed, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m not making light of your loss.”
“I know.” Alice hugged her. “You’re too serious, though. You need to loosen up, have some fun, and start trusting.”
“I’m trying.”
“That’s all anyone asks.” Alice slipped her arm around Marnie’s waist and led her to the checkout desk. “During lunch tomorrow, you can try again. Or call the parlor now and make an appointment with him.” She lifted the receiver on the landline phone.
Marnie eased it back. “I need to do this in person.”
As soon as she got the nerve.
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