Page 7 of Skin Deep

“Be with you in a moment!” The female voice was low and husky. Something in it caught his attention, snagged at his memory. Turning toward the back of the shop, he watched the hints of movement behind the latticed room divider. He took a step back, looking around the room at the range of art, which suddenly seemed familiar, too.

This couldn’t possibly be what his brain was suddenly insistent that it was. But then the woman came around the corner—a woman he’d never forget.

She blinked, and he saw what he was feeling reflected back at him from her face—for a moment, at least. Then her expression shuttered, and he was left reeling.

“You’re Amy Marchande?” He winced as he spoke—he sounded like an idiot. But his mind was whirling, past and present colliding in neon color...at least, until she spoke again.

“What are you doing here?” She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, taking a moment to look at her—just to look.

Her shop might look more like a spa than a tattoo parlor, but she fit his image of a stereotypical tattoo artist perfectly. She was tall and slender, with a slim waist and hips and breasts that he knew damn well fit perfectly in his palms. Her skin, naturally a pale white, was covered in ink, most of it black and white, with the exception of some watercolor flowers. More ink than he remembered.

The biggest difference from past to present was her hair. Last time he’d seen her, she’d worn it in inky-black curls that reached her waist. Now it was a golden color that he suspected was natural, loose curls that barely reached her chin, as though she was growing it out.

As he stared, he noticed two more things. One, she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her thin white cotton tank top. And two, she still had barbells pierced through her nipples. He had a bright flash of memory, of one of those decorations caught in his teeth as she writhed on top of him, and perspiration broke out along his hairline.

“Why are you here?” She arched a thin, groomed eyebrow. Her smirk told him she’d noticed his perusal of her body. He also noticed that she didn’t give him one in return. “How are you here? Five years is a bit long to wait before you start stalking somebody.”

Seeing her again was a vibrant, memory-drenched blow to his solar plexus. Seeing him again, though? She didn’t seem fazed at all. Irritated, if anything.

“Uh...” For a moment he was tongue-tied, swallowing against a suddenly dry mouth. He didn’t know what to do with himself, and that was unusual for him.

He couldn’t say that he cared for it, either.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a social call?” She cast him that challenging little curve of her lips again, the one that made him want to give her mouth something better to do.

“What do you mean?” He smiled at her assuredly, the same smile he used in the courtroom. As he did, he slipped the warning letter from Vaughan Enterprises into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He hadn’t felt great about delivering it before he’d walked in, and he’d be damned if he was going to be the one to give the bad news to the one woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since their one night together, five years ago.

He needed to think about this.

“It means that I highly doubt you’re here for anything I have to offer.” She laced her hands behind her back, then stretched, and it was difficult to keep his mind on the conversation, rather than her breasts and their naughty adornments.

“Why would you assume that?” He frowned, vaguely insulted. “Maybe I am here for a tattoo. Why else would I be here?”

She frowned slightly, and it was his turn to smirk—he’d stumped her. Then she shrugged and pointed at one of her walls with a graceful arm.

“That’s the inspiration wall.” She smiled benignly as she called his bluff. “Those are ink renderings of the best of the tattoos that I’ve done. Pick out a few you like and we’ll work out a design for you.”

“Ah...” He felt his eyes widen as he stumbled over his words. Damn it.

“Unless you already know what you want?” She cocked her head, studying him, clearly amused. She was enjoying this.

“Oh, I know what I want.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, then fixed his gaze on her. The cocky set of her lips faded, and unless he was very much mistaken, she exhaled slowly.

“Well, then.” She ran a tongue over those full lips, and he was again transported back in time. He remembered looking down at her as those petal-inked curves wrapped around his cock. “Why wait? Let’s get you in the chair and get started.”

“Don’t you already have someone back there?” He looked past Amy to the room divider, saw the movements of someone still back there.

“Oh, Sallie’s done for today.” Her smile was a swallowed-the-canary smirk. “Lucky for you.”

“You know, I need to think about my, ah, design a bit more.” He nodded, punctuating his words. Gone was the collected lawyer, the reserved man with roots dating back to the Mayflower, just at being around her. How was it that she could still do that?

“Sure you will.” She continued to watch him with that unnerving stare, and he felt himself respond, something sparking along his skin. He met her gaze, his own green eyes looking into her blue ones—a deep navy blue, startlingly dark against her porcelain skin.

He sucked in a breath. As he did, he thought he saw her do the same, and he understood. He hadn’t seen her—hadn’t touched her—in years, but that animal attraction they’d experienced on their first and only night together had transcended time. He wanted her again—still.

“I’ll be back,” he repeated firmly, and he knew that his meaning was clear. He’d be back not for a tattoo, but for her.

Thoroughly unsettled, he turned on his heel, heading for the door. His entire world had been turned upside down in the space of ten minutes, and he needed to go think on how the hell he was going to manage this.

---