In Manhattan’s glitzy gallery scene love and art are perilous games.
Will Sienna dare to play?
All too soon, artist Sienna Karr will graduate art school and be flung out into Manhattan’s glamorous but cutthroat gallery scene. Luckily, she’s just met Dave Hightower, heir to the hippest gallery ever. He’s asked her on a date, and offered to introduce her to the gallery owner, his intimidating aunt Lydia. Sienna’s excited! Now she’ll be able to climb the ranks and make those all-important art connections.
Trouble is, she’s falling hard for the sexy live drawing model, Erik, whose sizzling green eyes seem to pierce right into her soul. Dare she risk losing those potential art contacts for love? Erik insists that Sienna is a real talent and her painting stands out above all the others. But she worries that he whispers this come-on line to every pretty art student who flocks around him during breaks. And her friends worry, is Erik up to her pay grade? What kind of guy chooses modeling for a living? Who is he, really? Her choice may be her ruin—or not—but she must decide fast.
Everything in Sienna’s super-organized life is turning to terrifying yet sweet chaos.
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I don’t have high hopes for today’s model. The live models have been a motley crew: a guy in a clown suit and Medieval court jester’s hat, a dowdy lady in a diaphanous gown, and a skeletal girl in a bikini who bit her nails and paced during breaks. Where are all the sexy male muses?
I nod. Sounds off-putting. I prefer the order of photorealism and crisp digital art, but I keep my mouth shut. After all, it’s Dave Hightower. Anyone who has talent and ambition would kill for a solo show in Studio Hightower.
But it’s his eyes that strike me most; they’re emerald green with a slight upward slant toward each cheekbone, as if he hiked all the way here from a northern land of sun and wind. He arranges himself on a leopard-skin rug, wearing only a suede thong, and glances around at us artists.
I start to sweat because I know that the back room of any gallery is the private sanctum where the real action happens—the decisive phone calls, the interviews, the sales, and the important meetings of every stripe.
“You can paint me.” He leans in for an uninvited kiss. It’s a soft, sly kiss on my cheek that sneaks over to my lips. And he smells nice too—some classic cologne like Polo or Gucci. For a moment, I get into it, kissing back as I fantasize us restaurant-hopping and going to the theater and to openings at MOMA, him in a dashing tux and me in a sparkly gown.
“Women, the most beautiful things in the world,” he answers. As if it’s the only thing worth painting, as if everyone should aspire to it. Normally coming from a guy that answer would sound so incredibly skeezy—a greasy, obvious pick-up line. But something about this guy’s earnest tone tells me he means it.
There’s no way I could float someone else in this pricy city. I hate myself for thinking this way, but I need to be realistic. I can’t go back and live with my mother! Her mess and the chaos would drive me bananas.
“I’ve got a good idea,” Merry blurts as she takes another sip of wine and tries in vain not to spill any on the floor. A few drops splatter on the polished wood, but I’m too tipsy to care.
“Do tell,” says Harper.
“Let’s model our new Victoria’s Secret lingerie. We can help each other pick out the best outfit for each of our dates.”
“You’re mad,” I say affectionately.
Taffy bounds up to him and gives him a sloppy, drunken hug. “Oh my God, I knew your art would be awesome!” she gushes.
Bitch. How dare she intrude on our private moment!
I’m getting turned on for real from stroking on the creamy paint and layering the second denser areas of muscle. It’s as if every stroke of paint on canvas is really a stroke on his warm flesh. When I hit my twenties, I was supposed to have a tidy love life with predictable hugs and predictable orgasms achieved only in a neatly made bed of thousand-count Egyptian cotton. Not a near-climax in a paint-spattered chair in a studio full of earnest, disorderly artists, and not just by thinking about my guy.
My neck heats up. “Me? No, why?”
“Could’ve sworn it was you, dashing out. I called for you and…”
“Well, whoever it was kept on running.”
“See, it couldn’t have been me. I would’ve stopped if I heard you calling me. Must’ve been someone who looked like me.”
“But you—she—was wearing the same long red shirt I’ve seen you in.”
Which one makes you most curious about Model Position? Why?
About the Author
When Kitsy Clare isn’t creating romances on her Mac Air, she teaches writing workshops. She also loves to draw, travel, read spicy romance, sci-fi and all kinds of thrillers. She divides her time between New York City and her Catskills studio, where she enjoys the sounds of birds, bullfrogs and the random coyote.
She also writes young adult fiction as Catherine Stine. Her YA futuristic thriller, Fireseed One won finalist spots in both YA and Science Fiction in the 2013 USA Book News International Book Awards, and was an Indie Reader Approved notable book. Her YA Refugees, earned a New York Public Library Best Book. Ruby’s Fire, the new companion novel to Fireseed One, is receiving high praise from reviewers. She’s a member of RWA, SCBWI and SFWA. She loves her readers and enjoys hearing from them.
Kitsy Clare on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kitsy-Clare/1410387049200428
One Kindle with built in Wi-Fi plus 5W USB Charger (US/Can)
Ebook bundle of Ruby’s Fire and Fireseed One (INT)
$50 Amazon Gift Card (INT)
1 ebook of Model Position (INT)
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