Wicked Grind Read online

  "Kelsey?"

  I turn back, forcing a smile, hoping he can't see what I've been thinking. "It's wonderful. Truly. These images--I already told you how incredible the three I saw earlier are. Now that I've seen more, I'm even more impressed." I want to kick myself. I sound so formal. But I can't do what I want, which is to go to him and hold his hands and let him feel the truth inside me.

  "I've grown up around some incredible women. And I've known women who melted my heart with a combination of sweetness and sensuality," he adds, turning away from the canvases to look at me. "I want to celebrate that. But the show's got an edge, too. I want to take the audience full circle. Because there are women who use sex as a weapon. And I want to show that, as well. Ultimately, it's all about the power of allure and seduction." His mouth tilts up into a smile. "I want to seduce the audience, Kelsey. And to do that right, I need you."

  I nod. "That's what you keep saying. But, well--"

  I lick my lips and try again. "How?" I ask, then cringe, realizing as the word passes my lips that I'm afraid he's going to answer in detailed, intimate fashion.

  Wyatt, however, is in pure business mode as he indicates the photos on the walls. "All of these images are the prologue. A way for someone viewing the exhibit to become familiar with the theme. But you're the star attraction. One woman, one series of eight photos designed to explore the core theme while still playing to the overarching concept of the show. Innocence. Sensuality. Seduction. Eroticism. Debauchery. Confidence. All that and more."

  I listen, entranced by the passion in his voice. The certainty of his vision. I can hear him in Santa Barbara all those years ago telling me that he intends to be a photographer, famous in his own right, and not because of his family. And from what I've seen of both the paintings and the man, I am certain this is the project that will launch him.

  "It's why you're W. Royce," I murmur, speaking more to myself than to him.

  "What?"

  I shake my head. "Nothing. Except that I think it's going to be spectacular."

  "So you understand?"

  I glance around the room, taking in the photos and imagining how they will look in an actual gallery, the prints placed just so, with my images alongside them. "I think I get it," I say.

  "The idea at least. I'm not really sure what you have in mind for my pictures."

  His mischievous smile reminds me of the old Wyatt, and when his dimple flashes my stomach flip-flops. "Don't worry," he says. "You will."

  I nod, trying hard not to look nervous.

  "There's more than just photos, though," he says casually. "For you, anyway."

  I cross my arms and cock my head. "Yeah, I got that. Me in your bed. Not exactly an acceptable hiring practice, but I made my decision and here I am, at your mercy."

  He takes a step toward me, then another, his gaze raking over me as he walks, and making my body react in ways that I find both enticing and terrifying, all at the same time.

  "I like the way that sounds," he says, the low timbre of his voice giving me chills. "And I fully intend to play our arrangement out to its full extent."

  I swallow as perspiration beads on the back of my neck. I want to step back and give myself some distance, but I know he's trying to unnerve me, and I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

  "Fine," I say. "Whatever. Right now just tell me what you meant when you said it wasn't only pictures for me."

  He hesitates, as if trying to gauge my mood. Then he thrusts his hands out in illustration as he says, "Imagine a long hallway. Four pictures on either side, each of them you."

  "Okay," I say. "But where are the others? These, I mean," indicating the photos that already surround us.

  "In the antechamber. Visitors wander the chamber before entering the hall. The prologue, remember? That primes them. Then they enter the hall and see you."

  "Photos of me. But you said it wasn't just photos."

  "They walk down the corridor," he continues, doing exactly that. "And when they reach the end there's a curtain. Semi-transparent. Intricately lit. There's a stage behind it. And that's where you'll be. The woman from the photos, come alive. Posed and provocative, confident and calm."

  "I--what? But I thought the show would be permanent at the gallery. How am I supposed to--"

  "Just for the opening. In fact, just for part of the opening. Then you can leave the stage and we'll use a video projection."

  He turns to face me, and I can see that his mind is whirring, visions of how to bring this show off racing through his head. "What do you think?"

  "I--" I shake my head, trying to take all this in. "I think I'm a little overwhelmed."

  He laughs, then nods. "Right. Sorry. I've been living this project for almost two years now. I get a little carried away."

  "That's okay. I like it." The words escape before I can think about them, surprising both of us. He meets my eyes, his own narrowed with thought.

  "I call the show A Woman In Mind."

  I consider that, then smile. "I like that, too." I lift my hands and make air quotes. "W. Royce presents, A Woman In Mind. Did the idea start with a particular woman?"

  "It did," he says slowly, sounding a little surprised that I asked.

  "I thought maybe. You'd mentioned strong women earlier, and I know you're close to your grandmother. And goodness knows her story is amazing. I can't really imagine a more confident woman."

  "I didn't think you knew that much about her. You told me back then you'd seen her movies, but--"

  He cuts himself off, and I realize that we haven't really talked about "back then" at all.

  "I've been reading about the Golden Age of Hollywood," I say to fill the awkward silence. "Because, you know. I live here, and I love classic movies." Mentally I kick myself. I had no intention of revealing that I'd gone on a spree twelve years ago, reading all about his grandmother and her movies. As if somehow that could bring Wyatt back to me, even if only in my fantasies. "What's the big deal?"

  "Nothing. Not a big deal at all. And no. She's an inspiration, of course. But she's not the woman I imagined."

  I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't continue. And for some reason, I don't want to ask. I think maybe I'm afraid of the answer.

  "Right," he says after a moment. He rubs his hands together.

  "I guess we should get started."

  "It's almost two in the morning," I protest. "You were really serious about starting tonight?"

  He indicates the bed. "I see you there, spread out and sleepy. Consider it method acting."

  "Sleepy?" I lift a brow. "Doesn't sound very sexy."

  "Trust me," he says. "And take off your clothes."

  13

  Wyatt almost laughed at the deer-in-the-headlights expression on Kelsey's face.

  "Erotic photos, remember? Did you think they were all going to be lingerie and lace?"

  She wrinkled her nose in a way that looked just a little too adorable. "Um, kinda."

  He was torn between laughing at her naivete and pulling her into his arms to reassure her.

  He chose a middle ground, and kept his arms clamped firmly at his sides. Ever since she'd walked through his door, he'd been fighting the desire to touch her, to reassure her. Hell, to just fall back into old patterns and talk to her.

  The bottom line? He missed her.

  But what he missed was a fantasy. A Kelsey that she'd once projected as part of a teenage game. A sexual long con.

  And even if there had been a tiny bit of the Kelsey he thought he knew hiding beneath the surface, he was certain that the years had hardened her. Any girl who could play the kind of games she'd played back then couldn't hang on to any thread of innocent sweetness.

  He'd loved a girl who'd been smart and sweet and sensual and exciting. But that girl had never really existed. She was an illusion.

  An illusion that had haunted him for years, and that he was now trying to recreate with his camera.

  There. He'd said it.

&
nbsp; Kelsey wasn't just a girl, she was The Girl. The one he'd always had in the back of his mind. The one he didn't even realize had been his inspiration until she'd walked through his door. All along, she'd been his muse, and he hadn't even known.

  And now that she was here, beautiful and tempting and all grown up, he couldn't help but think that it had been a mistake to conjure her at all. Because she was too damn tempting, and it was taking all of his strength to harden his heart.

  "You're serious?" she pressed. "That's how we're going to start this. I just drop my jeans and panties, rip off my shirt and bra, and then stand here on display for you? No easing into it? No letting me even get the feel of being in front of a camera?"

  He considered saying yes, but she looked so damned perturbed that he took pity on her. He hooked his thumb toward a door on the far side of the room. "There should be a robe on the back of the door. Undress in there, put it on, come back out here." He glanced at his watch. "We really need to get started."

  He could practically see the battle raging across her face. Argue or change. And he was almost disappointed when she tossed her head and marched silently to the bathroom.

  He waited impatiently, then tried to look professionally bland when she emerged from the room in the fluffy, white robe that she'd cinched so tight it was a wonder she could breathe.

  She lifted a brow in what was an obvious question, and he pointed to the bed in reply. She headed there, then climbed on. The four-poster was tall, and she sat on the edge, her feet swinging like a child, her discomfort obvious.

  With any other model, he'd talk to her. Make her feel comfortable. Try to soothe her into the role.

  He knew he should do that with Kelsey. After all, she was the model he wanted. And yet he couldn't quite make himself do it. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he wanted to see her squirm. Petty, yes. But he'd meant it when he said he wanted to punish her. Hell, he'd wanted that for years. The desire to punish was almost as intense as the basic, unflinching desire to simply have her in his arms again.

  But that was him thinking with his cock, not his head. Because Kelsey Draper was bad news. He'd learned that the hard way, and Wyatt wasn't the kind of guy who made the same mistake twice.

  He had no intention of using the tripod to take these shots, and yet he bent over and fiddled with the height and angle anyway, just so he'd have something to do while he got his head together. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she was making him more than a little crazy. Even something as simple as seeing her sitting so perfectly straight with the oddest mixture of trepidation and anticipation coloring her expression. He looked at her, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss her or spank her or both.

  All he really knew was that he wanted answers.

  But at the same time, he didn't want to open wounds that had healed long ago.

  Except, of course, she'd opened them again simply by walking through his door.

  Shit.

  He changed his lens, then changed it back, then realized he couldn't procrastinate any longer. He took the camera off the tripod and went to kneel in front of the bed, taking a series of shots as he moved.

  "Probably won't make it in the show," he said, feeling centered again now that he was seeing her through a lens, "but I like it. You look fresh. Innocent." He stood. "It's a study in contrasts," he added, then tilted his head down so he was speaking more to the camera than to her. "We both know that looks can be deceiving."

  Even with his head down, he could see the way her hands tensed, clutching the mattress on either side of her. Good. They needed to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The way she'd deceived him. The brutal game she'd been playing. That bullshit Hollywood game. That goddamned fascination with celebrity.

  That was the mindset that had killed his father. And she was a living, breathing reminder.

  Not that he needed a reminder. Hell, his life was a reminder. Wasn't that the whole point? Why he was Wyatt Royce now, and not Wyatt Segel? Because he had to prove to his family what his father never could? That he was one of them, even without the name?

  "Wyatt?

  "Lay back," he ordered, gratified when she complied. But it wasn't quite right, and so he slung the camera over his shoulder, then crossed to the bed, his head tilted as he looked her up and down.

  As he watched, she drew a breath, which turned into a yawn.

  "Is this boring you?"

  "I'm tired," she snapped. "It's well past my bedtime."

  "Good. Stretch out. Pretend you're about to sleep."

  Her brow furrowed, as if she wasn't certain he was serious. Then she did as he commanded, scooting up and pulling the covers down.

  He almost stopped her, but a sudden vision of her naked body entangled in a sheet stopped him. "That's good," he said, leaning over so he could toss the bedspread off. "But I need you to take the robe off."

  She did, staying under the sheet the entire time she squirmed out of it, then dropped it on the floor beside the bed.

  "You're still just a little too covered."

  The thin, red sheet was all the way up to her chin, and she bit her lower lip, her body going perfectly rigid as he drew the sheet down, exposing her neck, then her shoulder, then her breasts. He let his fingers graze her skin as he did, telling himself he was only doing that so that he would drive her a little crazy. After all, this was about sensuality, and he wanted the image to show her arousal.

  All of that was true, of course, but the bigger truth was that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to feel her heat, the way she shivered under his touch. Wanted to know that she was responding to him. That she wanted him.

  "Good," he said, when she bit her lip so hard that it turned white, then turned her face away from his. Her cheeks were pink, and her nipples tight. Slowly, he reached down and cupped her breast, then felt himself grow hard when she gasped audibly.

  He ran his thumb around her nipple, amused when she squeezed her eyes shut. But that amusement faded to something much more dangerous when she opened her eyes and met his full on, because the expression of longing he saw there just about slayed him.

  "Is this punishment?" she asked, and he almost melted on the spot.

  "I guess that's for you to say."

  She licked her lips, and he felt the quickening of his pulse. "I thought you were going to take my picture."

  "That's definitely on the agenda. But I need to set the stage first." He whispered the words in her ear even as he reached down with his other hand and slid the sheet back over her leg, his palm stroking her smooth skin until only a sliver of material covered her.

  Then he stepped back and examined what he'd created--and he had to admit she was perfect.

  She was on her side, her head resting on her bent arm. Her other arm was draped over the curve of her waist, just above the swell of her hip. A bit of rumpled sheet rested on her hip, a small section of which hung down to keep her modestly covered. But just barely. Her thigh was exposed, as was her calf, and he liked the fact that though she was essentially naked and facing him straight on, he couldn't tell if she was waxed. But only that one intimate area was covered, and that added a punch of allure to the overall composition.

  "Just like that," he said, raising his camera, then moving slowly as he took a variety of shots from different angles and with different exposures. "Now slide the sheet all the way off and cover yourself with your hand. Actually," he amended.

  "Don't just cover yourself. Spread your legs and press your hands on your cunt. And close your eyes, Kelsey. I want to see you get off. I want to capture it."

  He wasn't even trying to yank her chain--not anymore. She was so damned beautiful. So ripe and strong and alluring, and he wanted that shot. Knew it would be perfect. A woman alone, exploring her body. He had to capture it. Had to pull it into the show.

  He was so sure of the perfection of the image that it took him a moment to realize that she'd frozen. He bit back a sigh of frustration, knowing damn well that he'd moved too fast. Whate
ver he'd told her about punishment, he didn't mean it. Not really. Not if it meant losing the shot.

  "Sorry," he said, and watched as her eyes fluttered to his.

  "That was wrong of me."

  "I don't have to pose like that?"

  "Not now. I get that it's too much. We can work up to it. Tomorrow. Or even the next day."

  "But you want it."

  "Hell, yes. It'll be stunning. I mean, come look at what we got right now, and it's only the first day." He turned to the monitor he kept set up on the far side of the room, then looked back to make sure she was following.

  His breath hitched as he watched her slip back into the robe and then hurry toward him, her cheeks beet red. "You see?" he said when she arrived.

  He stepped aside so that she could see the monitor and the incredible, sensual images of her he'd managed to capture.

  She drew in a breath, then whispered, ever so softly, "I'm sorry."

  "Are you kidding? These pictures are amazing. And we can get more tomorrow. You're right. It is late." He shoved a hand into his pocket, feeling almost like a teenager again. "I'm sorry if I've been an ass." He wasn't entirely sorry, and he still didn't trust her. But he was absolutely certain that with her in front of the camera, he'd be able to blow this show out of the water.

  "Wyatt," she began.

  "It'll get easier as we go on."

  "Wyatt," she repeated. "I'm really sorry."

  He froze. He just froze. "What exactly are you talking about?"

  "I thought I could. But I was wrong.

  I--I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it would be like this."

  "Like what?" he asked, but she just shook her head.

  "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I just can't do it."

  14

  I'm a block away before the tears start, and I pull over, my hands tight around the steering wheel as my body shakes with the violent onslaught of my sobs.

  I was a fool to think I could do this--that I could display myself like that. That I could be so free, so open, with any man, much less Wyatt. A man who has always broken through my defenses.

  A man who used to treasure me, but now cares nothing for me.

  Less than nothing, actually. He reviles me, and why shouldn't he? I'm the one who left, after all. I'm the one who walked away and never looked back. And even though I may have fantasized that he would find me and call me and rescue me, I've always known that was a wish that could never come true.