“You know where I am, sweetheart. You’ve got the key.”
“Bye, Wes.” I hung up before I could hear his reply. Hearing it would make me want to jump through the phone and kiss him, soothe him, make him better. Make me better. At least he did what he did to help and truly didn’t realize what message he’d sent to me.
I am no man’s whore.
Time to deal with Alec.
***
“Ma jolie! I am ready for you. We must do stills for “Selfish Love,” Alec bustled the moment I entered the loft warehouse. He ushered me to the white sheet that had been spread over padding. “Clothes off, we mustn’t waste any time.”
Before I could express the rage simmering within me about the money, he’d whipped my top over my head and was undoing my pants. Instantly, the space between my thighs heated at his insistent caresses. Traitorous body.
“Frenchie, stop! I need to talk to you.”
“Non. Remove your clothes, but leave your lingerie on.” He moved from me to the ladder. His movements were quick, precise and not helping the situation. Alec was knee-deep into his creative headspace—that place where he’d stare blankly or paint incredibly fast, seemingly without seeing what he was doing. It was downright strange.
“Alec, I need to speak to you,” I tried again as one of his attendants tugged at my feet trying to get me to remove my jeans. I did what they wanted, preferring to get this part over with. When I was left standing in a standard white t-shirt bra and matching simple bikini briefs, the attendant helped get me settled. The hair chick Alec hired to be on hand started fussing with my hair, making it sweep out as if I’d lain down, yet my hair was perfectly sprawled out.
Then one of them came forward with the red paint. “No!” I pushed a hand out. “I told you, Alec. I needed to speak to you. About the money that appeared in my account yesterday?” I gritted my teeth and waited for him to look at me. He didn’t. Instead, he fussed with his camera, the lighting, yelled out commands until finally he answered me.
“Oui, I had it done yesterday,” he said absently while looking through the lens of his camera.
“Why?”
“Place your hand into your panties, close your eyes and pretend you’re having fun with yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
Alec sighed and his jaw clenched tight, the muscle at the corner beating a rapid tempo. “Pay attention, Mia. We have…”
“We have much to do, yeah I know,” I growled in response. “I’ve heard that a time or two before.”
His gaze flicked to mine like a bullet from a rifle, his eyes narrowing. “Then you know I am on a short deadline. The exhibit is in one week, there are two more paintings to be done. This one and one more I have yet to visualize. Now what is your problem? I sent the money, you received it, oui?”
“Yes, Alec, but…” I looked around. There were at least ten people hanging around, which was unusual for a racy photo day. He usually did those in private. “I want to talk to you alone.”
“And we will, once these photos are done.”
With a sigh of resignation I nodded and did what he said. Only the pictures weren’t working, which made him a bear to deal with. Eventually, he kicked the staff out.
“Today has been a waste,” he said, anger dripping from his lips. His long artist’s fingers went into his hair and he tugged at the tie that held the massive mane of hair back, allowing it to fall forward. Alec paced and mumbled in French.
“Well what did you expect? You want me to finger myself in front of a room full of people, not to mention while I’m pissed at you?”
He stopped pacing, his head jutting back, his hands going to his hips. Almost reminded me of a chick. A hot, manly chick, but the hands-on-hips thing was a total girl move.
“And what have you got to be mad about?” His tone was laced with piss and vinegar. It ruffled my feathers just enough to rekindle the fire that I’d kept banked for the last couple hours.
I leaned up and crossed my legs. “You paid me for sex, that’s the problem!”
He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And you’re upset with this? Why?”
“I’m not you’re whore! That’s twice today a man has treated me like I was their fucking whore. I didn’t have sex with you because of the money! Jesus Christ, why are men so dense?!” I screamed into the open room. The sound echoed off the walls louder than I intended. He cringed.
“We had sex. Your contract states you are to receive twenty percent more for taking off your clothes, and/or having sex.”
Groaning, I stood up and walked right up to him. “I thought you were making love to me?” I spat.
“I did. We were. Unfortunately, the eyes of the law might not see it that way.”