Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian by Logan Belle Page A

mouthed, O-M-G.
    â€œTell him I need a few minutes,” Regina said, her heart beating wildly. She was already rushing to her room, and she closed her door after she heard Carly relay her message.
    If life was, as Carly said, all about “making it happen,” then this was her chance—her second chance. And maybe her last.
    Now, where the hell was that lingerie?

CHAPTER 16
    Sebastian tossed his keys on a glass table and took her umbrella from her hands.
    Despite the relentless rain, Regina was completely dry. Sebastian had parked his car in a garage that led right into his building. They took an elevator to the top floor, and the elevator opened directly into an enormous loft.
    The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. The sheer openness and size of the space was enough to amaze her, but the interior was visually stunning, a dramatic mix of dark woods and marble. The rooms were sparsely furnished, but the few pieces he did have served the space like art. The white walls were filled with photographs in black frames.
    â€œWhat’s so important that you had to bring me here in the middle of a monsoon?” she asked.
    â€œYou said you were uncomfortable at work. So now we’re here. No more excuses,” he said. “I’m having a glass of wine. Would you like one?” He walked into the black marble kitchen.
    â€œOkay,” she said nervously, walking closer to the first wall of photographs. Even from somewhat of a distance, she could see they were fashion shots like the ones she’d seen in Carly’s magazine. They were more polished than the raw style he used for the Astrid Lindall shots. But here, too, she recognized many of the models, having seen them on magazine covers, in window-size glossy shots in store windows on Fifth Avenue, and on ads on the sides of buses.
    She walked slowly from one end of the wall toward the other, pausing every half foot to examine the shots. She didn’t know very much about photography, but she was drawn to the images on a gut level, the way she might respond to a certain song on the radio or to the great opening lines of a novel.
    â€œThese aren’t the ones I brought you here to see,” Sebastian said suddenly from behind her. She jumped slightly, then recovered. He reached his arm around in front of her, pressing a glass of white wine into her hand.
    â€œWhat did you bring me to see?” she asked, taking a sip.
    â€œI told you at dinner that the fashion photography was not my favorite work, remember?”
    â€œYes,” she said. She felt his body press against hers, though his arms and hands did not touch her. This alone was enough to make her heart pound. She took another sip of the wine. It was light and crisp, and she had to remind herself to nurse it.
    â€œFollow me,” he said quietly.
    He took her by her free hand and led her toward the back of the loft. His grip was firm and commanding, even in that simple contact. She wanted to assert herself in some way, to say that she wasn’t done looking at the photographs in the living room area, thank you very much. But she knew all such protests would be futile. He knew, and she knew, that from the moment she’d left her own apartment, she was along for the ride.
    The loft space turned at a sharp angle, the walls narrowing to create a long hallway. Sebastian guided her through the semidarkness until he hit the switch that illuminated the corridor. And she realized she was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling photographs, all black and white, and all of scantily clad, outrageously beautiful women.
    The women were all bare breasted, some completely nude. They wore garter belts, high heels, sheer black dresses open at the chest. They had skin like fresh cream, some covered in tattoos, some pure like a blanket of snow. Their big eyes—heavily made up, seductive, sleepy, wanton, angry—told her a thousand stories.
    She kept walking