Wicked Torture Read online

  He took a step back as he continued his inspection, ensuring himself that there were no more refinements to be made. Slowly, he moved farther back, wanting all three in his field of vision, just like a visitor to the exhibition would see. One step, then another and another.

  He stopped when he heard the door open behind him, cursing himself for not locking up as Siobhan was leaving. "Did you forget something?" he asked as he turned.

  But it wasn't Siobhan.

  It was her.

  The girl who'd filled his mind. The girl who'd haunted his nights.

  The woman he needed if he was going to pull this exhibit off the way he wanted to.

  A woman with the kind of wide sensual mouth that could make a man crazy, and a strong, lithe body, with curves in all the right places. Eyes that could see all the way into a man's soul--and an innocent air that suggested she wouldn't approve of what she saw there.

  All of that, topped off with a wicked little tease of a smile and a sexy swing to her hips.

  She was a walking contradiction. Sensual yet demure. Sexy yet sweet.

  A woman who one minute could look like a cover model, and the next like she'd never done anything more glamorous than walk the dog.

  She was hotter than sin, and at the same time she was as cold as ice.

  She was Kelsey Draper, and he hadn't spoken to her since the summer before his senior year, and as far as he was concerned, that was a damn good thing.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at him, and her lips twitched in a tremulous smile. "Oh," was all she said.

  And in that moment, Wyatt knew that he was well and truly screwed.

  2

  Oh.

  The word seems to hang above us inside a cartoon bubble, and I mentally cringe. Ten years at an exclusive girls' school, an undergraduate degree in early education, minors in both dance and English, and the best I can come up with is Oh?

  And, yes, I know I should cut myself a little slack. After all, I was caught off guard. Not by the stunning and sensual art displayed in front of me, but by the man who created it. A man who's the reason my palms are sweaty, my nipples tight, and my pulse beating a staccato rhythm in my neck.

  A man I once knew as Wyatt Segel.

  A man I was completely unprepared to see.

  Which means that Nia has some serious explaining to do. "Just some photographer looking for models. My agent says the pay is awesome, and considering how much cash you need by the end of the month, it's worth a shot. He goes by W. Royce, but I've never heard of the guy. Then again, who cares so long as he pays?"

  Never heard of the guy? Oh, please. Nia's a model; Wyatt's a photographer. She must have known he'd taken a stage name. And then she went and set me up.

  Honestly, I just might have to kill her.

  First, though, I have to get this job. My brother Griffin's a fourth-degree burn survivor, and I have less than a month to come up with fifteen thousand dollars in order to enroll him in trials for an innovative new clinical protocol. Not an easy task on my kindergarten teacher salary, and even the additional dance classes I've added to my summer teaching schedule don't come close to taking up the monetary slack.

  Which is why when my best friend Nia told me about the audition, it seemed worth the shot. Granted, I took some convincing. And I wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of putting myself on display. But I psyched myself up. Desperate times, and all that.

  "My agent booked me for a lingerie shoot," she'd told me over drinks on the balcony of her beachfront condo yesterday. "A last minute gig. I guess the photographer's pushing up against his deadline. Anyway, I think you should go in my place. His name's W. Royce, and I can text you the address and time."

  My stomach lurched at the thought. "Are you crazy? I can't do that!"

  Nia sighed dramatically. "Why? Because it would be wrong?" She put finger quotes around the last word.

  "Actually, yes," I said adamantly. Nia constantly teases me about what she calls my elevated sense of scruples. She's convinced that I'm too staid and regimented. That I need to deviate from my safe little routine and cut loose sometimes. But she's one hundred percent wrong about that.

  I know better than anyone the price you pay when you break the rules.

  "He'll be expecting a drop-dead gorgeous woman who oozes sensuality," I said pragmatically. "And that's really not me."

  "Oh, honey, please. We both know you're gorgeous. And where else are you going to get that kind of money so quickly? Especially since you're too stubborn to borrow from me."

  "You're assuming I'll get the job." Unlike Nia, who's been modeling since she was seven, I have absolutely zero experience.

  "Did I mention you're gorgeous? Just because you never flaunt it, doesn't mean it's not true."

  I crossed my arms to hide an involuntary shudder. She's wrong, of course. Not about me being pretty--I am. And that's a cross I've had to bear my entire life.

  No, she was wrong about the rest of it. Because I did flaunt it. Maybe not much--and only once--but that was enough, and I opened a Pandora's Box of badness that I'm still trying to close.

  I licked my lips, my thoughts turning to my brother. That photographer might be pushing a deadline, but so was I. And if there was even the tiniest chance that this job could get me the cash I needed, then didn't I at least owe it to Griffin to try? Maybe under normal circumstances, lingerie modeling would be too racy for my sensibilities. But these weren't ordinary circumstances.

  "I can't do sexy photos. I wouldn't have a clue how to pose," I said, but my protest lacked oomph, and I saw from the way Nia's eyes lit up that she knew I'd taken the bait, and all she had to do was reel me in.

  "It's just commercial lingerie photos," she shrugged as if to say that was no big deal. "Just pretend you're at the beach in a bikini."

  I considered that, then nodded. It's not like I've never displayed a little skin. And I do own a bikini. I even wear it on the beach. In public. Sometimes.

  And after everything that happened back then, wasn't there some sort of karmic justice in me stripping down to my underwear for a good cause? I didn't know, but it sounded like a solid justification to me.

  "Besides," Nia continued, "a professional photographer's going to have an excellent bedside manner."

  "Nia!"

  "Oh, for fuck's sake, Kels. It's a figure of speech."

  "Language."

  "Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck," she retorted. And I couldn't help myself--I burst out laughing. "Love me, love my potty mouth," she said.

  "I do love you," I admitted. "Despite the potty mouth."

  "That's because I'm so damn, fucking lovable." She flashed a wicked grin before taking another sip of wine while I tried hard not to laugh again. Best not to egg her on.

  "Seriously, Kels, it'll be easy. It's a lot like dancing. Form and position and movement. In a lot of ways modeling is like choreography. And I've seen the outfits you rehearse in. Not a lot left to the imagination, right?"

  "That's different." When I dance, I dress for comfort and ease of movement. More to the point, I let myself become someone else, someone in tune with the euphoria of the music. Someone willing to let go of control, because the thread of the music is always there to pull me back and keep me safe.

  "Quit arguing and just go for it. Trust me, this job will be good for you. You can get your naughty on in a baby step kind of way, and all the while you can tell yourself you're only doing it because of Griffin. It's perfect."

  "First of all, I am only doing it for Griffin. I'm not looking for excuses to wear a tiny bikini or flash my breasts. I like me. I like my life. I'm happy. I'm comfortable with who I am."

  "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

  "Oh, give me a break," I snapped, feeling unreasonably defensive. "I don't need to hop in bed with a guy on the first date or--"

  "First date? Try fifth. Or never. And for that matter, when was the last time you even went on a date?"

  "That's not the point," I
said, because it really wasn't. "There just aren't many guys out there that interest me. And why should I go to dinner or drinks with a total dud, much less sleep with him? And you're getting off the subject," I added.

  She held up her hands. "You're the one who started talking about dating. My point was only that you should take the job because you need the money--but that you should try to have a good time, too."

  I took a long swallow and finished off my wine. "All I care about is getting enough money to enroll Griffin in the protocol."

  "Sure. Right. You justify it however you want. The point is, this is a rock solid deal. At the very least, you owe it to yourself--and Griffin--to go to the audition."

  I think about that conversation now, as I stand in Wyatt's studio in the shadow of these sensual, shocking photos. Photos that terrify me, taken by a man who excites me.

  I think about it, and I want to run.

  But I can't. Because Nia was right. I have to do this. I have to land this job.

  All of which means that I have to ace this audition, Wyatt or no Wyatt. And that will probably go a lot better if I can actually conjure words. Which, considering how many times I've imagined bumping into him, is turning out to be surprisingly difficult.

  In my head, I'm always clever and amusing during our imaginary encounters in bookstores and restaurants. And when we're assigned as seatmates on the long journey from Los Angeles to Australia, I'm not the least bit tongue-tied.

  Not that I've ever actually flown to Australia, but I've spent the better part of my life playing out a variety of fantasies in my head. And what's the point of fantasy if you can't fix past mistakes? If you can't be someone a little different than who you are? Especially if there's no way in hell you'd take the leap in real life?

  Over the last twelve years, I've spun infinite variations on my Wyatt fantasy. Sometimes we barely speak two words. Sometimes, I'll let him buy me a drink. Once or twice, I let it go a little bit further. But even in my fantasies, I can't bring myself to give us a happily ever after.

  Because between Wyatt and me, the story is a tragedy, not a romance. Considering everything that happened, how could it be anything else?

  Now, Wyatt is nothing more than a pushpin in the map of my life. A reminder of how horrible things can get, and why bad choices are, as advertised, bad.

  He's not a man, he's a concept. A talisman. Fantasy mixed with memory and topped with a sprinkle of loss.

  Unfortunate, maybe, but at least that's a Wyatt I can handle.

  But this Wyatt? The one standing in front of me with golden-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes that can see all the way into our past. The one whose lean body I can still imagine pressed against me, and whose strong arms once made me feel safe. The one with the impudent grin that used to make my heart flutter, but who now isn't smiling at all.

  The boy who once made my breath catch in my throat whenever I caught a glimpse of him. Who's now a man who walks with confidence and grace and commands a room simply by standing in it.

  The boy who made me break all the rules. Who made me lose control.

  The man who nearly destroyed me.

  That man isn't manageable at all. On the contrary, that man terrifies me. And right now, I can't help but think that coming on this audition was a mistake of monumental proportions.

  Yup. Definitely going to have to kill Nia. A pity, really. Because when am I going to find the time to go shopping for a new best friend?

  More important, how else am I going to earn fifteen grand by the end of the month?

  As I stand there like a dolt, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. That's when I realize that he's been watching me all this time. Not saying a word. Just waiting. As if this is all on me.

  I guess maybe it is.

  I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he's thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.

  I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he's lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn't, I still thought of him.

  And now, like a damn beggar, I'm searching his face for some sign that he's thought of me, too.

  But there's nothing to see.

  Right. Fine. Okay.

  I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that's a mistake because I'm immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They're raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.

  I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. "So," I say, trying to speak normally. "Usually I'm auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?"

  A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. "Kelsey," he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.

  "Yeah." I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I've been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. "It's me."

  He doesn't even look at it.

  "It's been a long time." His voice is flat. Even.

  "It has," I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, he's looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.

  I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It's hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt's eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I'm positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.

  I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it's good to see me after so much time.

  I couldn't be more wrong.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, and it's as if he's tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.

  I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. "I--I just . . . well, the job."

  I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. "I'm here about the job," I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.

  He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, then looks back at me with a frown. "Nia Hancock. Twenty-seven. Mixed race female. Her agent called yesterday and said he was sending her over."

  I lick my lips. "She, um, couldn't come. And since I could use the job, I came in her place."

  "You came?" he repeats, and I watch as a series of expressions crosses his face, starting with surprise, then moving into confusion, and settling on something that looks remarkably like anger. "You?" His voice takes on a bland tone that is more than a little disconcerting.

  I open my mouth to answer, but he continues before I can get a word in edgewise.

  "You expect me to believe that Kelsey Draper wants to be a model. One of these models?" he adds, waving a hand behind him to indicate the three uncovered paintings, larger than life in so many ways.

  I lick my lips, then immediately regret the unconscious action. Because I'm not sure. I'm really not sure at all.

  Then I remember Griffin. And the money. And the fact that I'm desperate.

  And, yes, I think about those
scary-but-tantalizing sparks that are zinging around in my bloodstream. I shouldn't want it. In fact, I should hightail it right out that door before everything crashes down on me again.

  But I don't. Instead, I glance down at the floor and murmur, "Yes. That's exactly what I want."

  He's silent, so I lift my chin, hoping he can see my resolve, but there's nothing warm or welcoming in his expression. On the contrary, what I see on his face is anger. And when he scoffs and says, "What the hell kind of game are you playing this time?" I know that I've made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.

  "I'm not playing a game," I protest, but my voice comes out shaky instead of strong. "It's just that I need--"

  "What?" he demands. "What could you possibly need from me?"

  The harshness in his voice slices through me, and I cringe. I want to explain myself, but when I feel the tears well in my eyes, I know that there's no way I can hold myself together. "I'm sorry," I whisper as I turn to flee. "I should never have come here at all."

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