Angela, Carla - Full Exposure (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (8 page)

Parked outside her front gate, the pair both sat in the car silently for a moment before Lake moved to go. It was so quiet Lake could hear her own heart beating. Like a drum.

Then Hunter suddenly looked at Lake with those aquamarine eyes, leaning toward her, inching ever closer. She drank in the blended aroma of chocolate fudge and cologne, like it was vital oxygen. Every part of her throbbed, her lips puckered.

She imagined him plunging his lips onto hers and then freeing her from her seatbelt and sliding her onto his lap, so that her chest jutted onto his, his hardness sliding into her wet heat, their bodies moving up and down, up and down…

Just as quickly though, Hunter’s hand came into view, flicking her lock free. Oh, that was it. Darn it.

‘Good luck with the exhibition launch,’ he said, looking deeply into her eyes. A little too deeply so that Lake felt pinned under his gaze like an insect on display.

‘Ah, thanks,’ Lake said, feeling intoxicated. Then, snapping to attention, she suddenly unbuckled her seatbelt, slid from the leather seat, and tugged the door open, falling out onto the sidewalk and into the cool air.

Hunter gave her one final penetrating glance before revving the Ferrari and roaring down the street, the car turning into a red dot on the horizon, leaving Lake trembling and alone.
 
 

Chapter Seven

Lake assessed her reflection critically in her bedroom mirror, her ginger cat brushing past her legs.

‘How do I look, Cupcakes?’ she asked, turning to hold out the knee-length, chiffon skirt part of her frock. The top section had fabric roses that trailed down from the thin straps, crisscrossing over her chest and down over her bare back. It was vastly different to the type of clothing she wore to the photography café or in the darkroom. Fenella had helped her pick it out. She said she needed to play up her role of the star of the night—the star
artiste.

It was definitely a much more feminine look than she was used to—pretty even—and decidedly less comfortable. Lake poked her feet out from under her frock, clad in red, satin heels, wondering how she was going to last the night in them. She’d even painted her toe nails fire-engine red, though she usually preferred to keep her nails bare. Finally, she looked back at Cupcakes.

The long-haired cat appeared to give her the once-over and then wandered over to a corner of the room and took a seat, closing his eyes. Perhaps he was just mad he wasn’t going to be accompanying her on her night of nights. That or he was just a sucker for the heater at the far end of the room.

Lake leant in closer to the mirror again, wondering if she’d put too much peach blusher on. She dragged a white tissue over her cheeks to pick up any excess, just in case.

She was starting to get really nervous. This was it. People were either going to love her artwork or absolutely hate it. The proof would be in the form of the tiny, red dot stickers stuck to the picture frames at the end of the night. Or the lack thereof. Still, there was nothing she could do about it. She just had to wait it out.

Giving herself another blast of floral-scented perfume, she dropped a gold tube of lipstick into her red satin clutch—another Fenella fashion idea—along with her mobile phone and snapped off the heater, while Cupcakes mewed in protest. Grabbing her set of silvery keys, Lake headed for the door. The less time she spent idling in her bedroom waiting for Fenella and Bert to show up, the less chance she had to ditch the red frock for a comfy top and a pair of jeans in a moment of panic.

Waiting on the porch, she checked the time on her mobile phone. She was still seven minutes earlier than Fenella and Bert were due to arrive as her transport, like a fairy-godmother-induced coach. Darn. The night air was growing decidedly chillier. She wished she’d grabbed at least her thin, black cardigan, although she knew she wouldn’t need it in the crowded gallery. Well, at least she hoped it would be crowded. She’d sent out enough invites.

Suddenly, Lake cocked her head. It sounded like a door was banging gently in the breeze. The sound was coming from out back. Where could it be coming from?
Oh, God!
It couldn’t be, could it?

Lake’s mind raced. The darkroom! Had she forgotten to lock it since Hunter had turned her into a hot mess, from her steamy dip in the bath to roaring along in his Ferrari? Darn. She was well and truly losing the plot right now. The sooner she put time between her and Hunter having met in the first place, the better.

Lake ran from the porch down to the side gate, unclipping it, and then along the concrete path, bordered by lawn, to the darkroom. Darn. She could see it from a few feet away. It was indeed the darkroom’s wooden door tapping against its frame in the breeze. Lake swore under her breath, just thankful the darkroom was out of sight from the main road and wouldn’t be too likely to attract curious strangers. And that the equipment inside wouldn’t be of much interest to the average burglar. But
still.

She pushed open the door, felt inside for the light switch, and flicked it on. The tiny room was immediately flooded in light. Lake breathed a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be in place. The enlarger, the trays, the light-proof, black plastic bags of photographic paper…
Hang on a sec
. There was something resting on the projector-style enlarger. A single piece of paper. Had she left it there absent-mindedly? Or—oh, God—had someone else?

She took a few tentative steps forward, swiping at the paper fearfully, afraid of what she might discover.

Her eyes squinted at the glossy whiteness, finding an unfamiliar, darkened image at its centre. Oh, God… Suddenly, the paper felt too hot to touch and slipped from her fingers. She must have imagined it. It couldn’t have been! She was going crazy. She had to be. Still, she licked her lips subconsciously, her downstairs area already pulsing.

Shaking herself, she bent to scoop up the piece of photographic paper again and held it up in the light.
Oh, God, oh, God
, which she may have actually just said out loud. At the top of her voice. The image was exactly how she’d just imagined it seconds earlier. It was real.

It was the darkened outline of a perfect, thick, totally suck-able penis.

For the image to have been created, someone—a
man
—would have had to have unzipped his pants, put his crown jewels on the photographic paper under the enlarger, and shined the light on it, exposing it to leave this naughty silhouette. The person would have had to have known more about the craft of making a photo from film than they’d let on.

Hunter. It had to be. Could he actually be
interested
in her? Or was he just playing games with her mind?

‘Lake? Are you there?’

Lake closed her eyes. It was just Fenella calling out to her, not Hunter.
Phew.
Fenella was likely wondering why the darkroom’s light was on at this hour, before her exhibition.

Without thinking, Lake suddenly kissed the very tip of the darkened penis pictured on paper before placing it upside down on her workbench, slightly annoyed that the image wouldn’t fit in her purse without folding it. She would have liked to have had it near her. A security blanket of sorts for her for the night. A very naughty one. Even if she wasn’t exactly sure what message the “gift” was meant to convey, even if he was just teasing, the thought of it still warmed her.

‘On my way!’ Lake lied, calling out in Fenella’s direction. ‘Just checking a few last things.’

Then, exhaling a few times and fanning her cheeks, Lake opened the darkroom door and shut it behind her again, making sure this time to turn around and lock it tight.

Fenella was waiting near the side gate, looking ubergorgeous, as always, in a body-hugging, strapless, jade-green number. She flashed her pearly whites at Lake and then whistled teasingly. ‘Looking hot, sista!’

‘All thanks to you and your styling work. You’re not looking so bad yourself.’

Fenella gave her a wink from beneath her heavy fringe before linking her elbow through Lake’s, who was now at her side. ‘Got to keep Bert on his toes. Hey, you’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight, I tell you!’

Lake looked back at her best friend. ‘Let’s hope so,’ she said, grinning. She was still unable to shake the dirty, silhouetted image from her mind, nor did she really want to.

* * * *

The exhibition opening night so far appeared exactly how Lake had dreamed it would be—and that was just from her stance in the doorway. The space, which earlier in the day had seemed empty and cavernous, was now jam-packed from wall to wall with people. Like sardines. People with a passion for art. People with
money.

And there was her photography, dotting the walls, glistening under the lights. The naked, feminine images portrayed as raw and exposed, as she herself felt right now, set to be judged by the art world. Like a gladiator entering the ring. Tonight, she’d either be torn apart or victorious.

As soon as she stepped over the threshold, the people seemed to swoop. First the gallery director in a navy, pinstriped suit, with gelled-back, black hair, which looked even glossier under all the lights, and a whiter-than-white smile. He took her hand in his in a warm, bear-like grip. ‘Fabulous, darling! Such a creative eye. Such talent. Well done!’ Then he wet her cheek with a smacking kiss.

Then a beret-wearing critic with a thin, porn-star-like moustache, who she recognized from a local art magazine, wanted to know all about how she’d come up with the vision for the exhibition’s theme, how she’d got the lighting just right, and who her mysterious subject was. The latter she had kept mum about and wanted to continue to do so, so she put him off the scent by giving the vague—she hoped
elusive
—response of, ‘Unfortunately, that I have agreed to keep between me and the subject herself,’ offering just the merest arch of an eyebrow. Thankfully, the critic had just scribbled furiously in his notepad some more and not probed any further.

Finally she got a chance for a breather when Fenella, in tune to when she needed an ‘out’ as her best friend, grabbed her by the elbow and herded her toward the bar, agreeable Bert trailing behind them.

‘Champagne?’ Fenella asked Lake lightly.

Lake nodded, trying to catch her breath. The excitement of it all—her exhibition finally happening—was just too much to take in. It all seemed to be going swimmingly. Perfectly. She’d even spied a blur of red stickers dotted about the frames. Her artwork was about to adorn the walls of other people’s homes. Providing them with life-long, artistic pleasure. It was such a thrill. A joy.

Yet her mind also kept jumping somewhere else. To that darkened silhouette captured on photographic paper. Of Hunter’s member, undoubtedly. Exactly what it could mean—

‘Earth to Lake!’

Lake jolted back to the present as Fenella’s hand waved before her face. Fenella then reached for a glass of champagne on the wooden bar and handed it to Lake, advising her to ‘Put this down your hatch. Should help take the edge off!’

‘Uh, okay,’ Lake responded, clutching the thin stem, her cheeks warming again at the memory of what she’d just discovered in the darkroom. She tipped her head back and let the fizzy, golden liquid tickle her throat, bubbling in her nostrils.
Mmmm…
It tasted divine—expensive—and it was like an instant relaxant. She could feel her limbs loosening up and her mind freeing. She took a few more hearty gulps, barely noticing Fenella raising an eyebrow at her.

Lake put the champagne glass back down on the bar, now finished, and Fenella reached over to squeeze her hand. ‘It’s all going excellently. You’re going to be a star of the art world—I can just feel it! Don’t fret, like you always do, and just enjoy the moment, okay?’

Lake grinned back at her. ‘It is going kind of well, isn’t it? Who would have thought?’ she squealed, squeezing Fenella’s fingers in return.

‘And you of all people deserve it,’ Fenella responded. She arched an eyebrow. ‘If only Chase could see you now. He would be kicking his own sorry arse!’

Lake smiled. ‘And you know what the best news is? I think with all of this’—she spread out her arms wide—‘using my pain for art, I’m finally over him.’