Free Body of Work by Karla Doyle

couples. Her website’s gallery was full of commercial credits to go with the regular stuff. Corporate brochures, magazine ads, even some book covers. His girl had a hell of a lot of talent.
    His girl. He had no right thinking of Cassie that way, but he did. The feeling had been growing since he first laid eyes on the sexy little pixie, and last night had cemented it. If the Italian was here modeling for one of her jobs, caving his smiling face into a wall probably wouldn’t win Brian any points.
    Didn’t explain the box that had given him the smile, though. Could be a prop. Hell, if it was jewelry, it might even be the focal point of the picture, and the guy could be the prop. Now there was an image worth cracking a grin at. Still, he didn’t like the idea of Cassie alone in her basement with a half-naked man. She was fit, for sure, and strong for her size, but that size was damn tiny. No match for an average Joe, and the guy in the driveway had been pretty damn buff. Good-looking too, in that slick, European way women seemed to fall all over.
    Yeah, he had to get in the house, like, now.
    So he’d knock and interrupt her appointment. Hopefully she wouldn’t be more pissed at him. If he couldn’t charm his way into the house, he wasn’t above groveling. Whatever it took to make Cassie understand why he’d acted like a dick earlier, and keep her out of the Italian’s clutches.
    Noise from the basement drowned out the rap of his knuckles on the aluminum. A female cry of surprise made him grab the handle, ready to rip the door from its frame if necessary. Then a male voice and the unmistakable sound of moaning—very aroused, feminine moaning—drifted through the screen, knocking him back a good two feet. That’s all he needed to hear.
    Blood thrummed in his ears as he peeled from the curb. Had she jumped the first guy to cross her path because of the rejection at the gym, or was Cassie the type to bang two men within a twelve-hour period? Fifteen minutes ago, he wouldn’t have believed either option. Now he didn’t know what the fuck to think.
    So much for the special chemistry he thought they had. Chemistry, hell yeah. But special—not even a little. He could’ve sworn he saw disappointment and hurt in her eyes earlier. And the night they’d shared, damn. All bullshit and games. To her, anyway.
    * * * * *
     
    Saturday night television sucked. Cassie stabbed at the remote, turning the screen black and thrusting the room into darkness. Of course it sucked, Saturday nights weren’t meant for wallowing, holding down the couch while snarfing an entire bag of potato chips. God, how many calories and fat grams were in that bag, anyway? She turned on the table lamp and smoothed the empty wrapper. Oh crap. Twelve hundred fifty calories, sixty-five grams of fat. She could practically feel her backside expanding across the couch cushions. Good thing she had that appointment for Tuesday. Brian had been a bit of a jerk this afternoon, but he was still a great personal trainer. He’d have those chips off her butt in no time.
    Or, she could go to a club tonight and dance them off. Eleven thirty—early, by any decent Saturday’s standards. She could be primped, dressed and on her way before the clock rolled over to Sunday. At midnight, though, the lineups would be insane. Unless she went to a club where she knew one of the bouncers.
    Just because Brian didn’t want a repeat of last night—which was extremely, ridiculously disappointing—didn’t mean everything had changed between them. He’d casually dropped the offer to let her jump the line on more than one occasion. Time she finally took him up on that. And yes, if seeing her all clubbed-out caused him a twinge of regret for rejecting her earlier, that didn’t hurt, either.
    Forty minutes later, she was click-clacking across the jammed parking lot, trying not to twist her ankle—for the second time today. She turned the corner and found a mile-long line, as