Page 8 of Wicked Design
“If you want.”
“I’d like to see these first if you don’t mind.”
She could have set fire to the place and he wouldn’t have objected. Her smile turned his brain to mush. Burying his face in her neck and sniffing her fragrance seemed a reasonable way to spend the following hours. Except for the expected letdown, of course. Her being involved with someone else. Possibly another Impressionist jewelry designer who looked great, had loads of cash, and confidence to spare.
Every guy’s worst nightmare when it came to competing for a woman like Clover.
Van Gogh rolled his chair away, pulled on his top, and forced himself to work rather than lust for her. After too many minutes, he finally sketched a design for a returning client who wanted something spectacular on his back. What he came up with wasn’t his best work. Hunkered down, he focused. Other, and better, ideas came quickly. First, an open zipper that revealed a metal spine. Insects crawled around it and fed on the gore. Next, he sketched a zombie eating his way out of the client’s spinal cord. Then an Angelina Jolie lookalike clawing her way through his skin.
Clover sucked in a breath, her hand pressed to her chest.
She’d gravitated to his goriest designs. Huge spiders or scorpions crawled from guys’ mouths. Eyes decorated chins and foreheads, where nature had never intended them to be. Lips widened to touch the clients’ ears. Bald heads appeared split open, revealing brains, or in one instance, a tongue and teeth.
He tapped the binder. “Farther back are the nice ones.”
“I like these. I didn’t know you could tattoo eyeballs.”
“I make it a rule not to. That’s weird shit. You’d have to go to someone else here for that.”
“Oh, hey, I’m just saying. These are crazy good. I can’t get over the bloody eye on that one woman’s chest. And the nails in that guy’s shoulder. Ow. Or the one who looks like his throat was slit, revealing his spinal cord. You did those, right?”
He pushed back in his chair. “I know this is your decision, and I can’t stop you. But you really shouldn’t mess yourself up with that stuff.”
“Why not?”
“Your skin’s too nice.”
“It’s paler than a corpse.”
“Bull. It’s pretty, and that’s putting it mildly.” Even God descending from on high couldn’t capture his attention as her complexion did. “Since I’m not good with words, you’ll have to give me a couple of hours with a thesaurus so I can come up with something better and more descriptive.”
She hugged the binder to her chest. “What do you suggest I get? And please, not flowers, butterflies, or fairies. I want something unique.”
“Like what?”
“You’re the artist. You decide.” She paused. “Tell you what. Come to my place tonight. We can discuss it during dinner and after. All night if we have to.”
