Off Limits(71)

What Alix didn’t know, or perhaps had suppressed in her head, was that Paris Nova was a bastard of the highest order. A sadistic abuser, he’d broken Layla’s arm once and orbital bone twice before she worked up the courage to leave, according to court documents, when he threatened to go after their six-year-old daughter. In an attempt to save her daughter from mental trauma, Layla never told Alix about any of the injuries she suffered at the hands of her father.

Unfortunately, this meant that Alix bore Layla and my father an ill will. Thinking her mother a gold digger who left her father when she was little and kept her from seeing her Daddy, she cast Layla as the villain in her life and Paris as the hero. The reality was a lot grittier, as Paris Nova was arrested in Singapore when Alix was seven for beating a call-girl while being high on cocaine, crippling and blinding her for life. The resultant room search discovered nearly half a pound of uncut coke in his bags, and he was sentenced to death under the country’s draconian drug laws. While I’m normally one who favors a libertarian view in terms of the War on Drugs, it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.

Alix didn’t know, and ever since Layla had started dating Dad, she had acted like a total bitch to both of them. More than once, I’d been tempted to shatter her little fantasy world, but each time a look from Dad stayed my tongue. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep my words in check.

So I had a stepsister who was tall, beautiful, a perfect physical specimen, and who, other than that one area, was a wonderful person . . . but one who deserved a spanking. A naughty girl who so deliciously deserved a spanking. The thought circled around and around in my head as I walked along the Willamette River, and I could feel the blood rushing down below. Groaning in frustration, I adjusted myself and carried on.

There was no way I’d give in to my desires.

I was in control.





Chapter 3





Alix





Two weeks after breaking up with Sydney, life was still miserable. I was sleeping badly, and I knew it was because I’d never been cheated on before. I’d had boyfriends, and even though I’d fallen in love once or twice, in every instance we broke up amicably, or at least before any cheating happened. Sydney’s cheating shook me to my core. Things were compounded when I got a phone call from my agent.

“Hey Alix,” she said, her normal bitchy perky self. The fashion industry has a lot of people like that. “I’ve got a job for you. High profile too.”

“What is it?” I asked, thinking that perhaps doing some work would help. The weather was great, and an outdoor shoot by the ocean or up in the mountains would be just the sort of thing to clear my head.

“Men’s Health,” my agent said. “Uh, there’s one catch though. Karla’s in the shoot as well. Think you two can get along?”

“Sure, why not?” I said. Karla McDonald and I were rivals, and perhaps could be called frenemies. An Australian girl who used to play volleyball down under, she and I were similar in body size and type. She was a bit bigger in the butt, I was a bit bigger up top, but both of us could wear the same clothes by the same designer and do a good shoot. Because of that, we were often in competition for the same contracts.

Sometimes we ended up doing the same shoots when the client wanted to do the whole “angel and the devil” sort of vibe. I’m a blonde while Karla is a very dark brunette. Despite the tenseness of competition, we had great on-camera chemistry, and quite a few clients insisted we did themed shoots together, which was definitely profitable. It was certainly a strange relationship in my life.

“Great,” my agent told me, “the shoot’s on Friday. Think you can be in tip-top bikini shape by then?”

“I didn’t think Men’s Health did bikini shoots,” I replied, curious. “What’s the shoot about?”

“Sex and exercise, what else? I said bikini because according to what they’re looking for, there’s two sets that will be shot with the same male model. In one you’re in the gym with him, wearing skimpy exercise clothes, and in the other you’ll be in lingerie doing foreplay. Think you can handle it?”

“I guess,” I replied. I’d done lingerie and sexy shoots before; they weren’t all that different from a normal shoot once you got past the fact that I was mostly naked. While I might have a man’s hand on my waist or hip, sometimes on my arm or shoulder, that was usually it. If a guy got aroused, I was supposed to just deal with it, and he was normally wearing shorts under the ever-present sheet around his waist. It was easier with the gay models—it was kind of like playing pretend. “I mean, of course. I’ll be ready. Thanks for the heads-up.”



* * *



The next day, I was working through my daily yoga and exercise routine when my cellphone rang. I was on the recumbent bike, just cooling down, so I picked up. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie.”

I inwardly grimaced. I was twenty-one, for God’s sake, and yet my mother insisted on calling me sweetie like she did when I was in preschool. “Hello, Mom.”

I knew my mom didn’t like calling me, and I really wasn’t trying to be a bitch. But ever since she married Derek Prescott, I had a hard time keeping my temper around either of them. It wasn’t like Derek was a bad guy, but he wasn’t my Daddy. “Did I call at a bad time? I was kind of hoping I wasn’t interrupting anything.”