She’d driven through the night and kept driving as the sun rose, until she’d found herself in Montauk, a town nicknamed THE END. It was the perfect description for how she felt—all the way at the end of her rope.
She’d been to Montauk once before with her dad on one of their special yearly father-daughter trips. Rosa remembered driving past the long stretches of beach and wondering when her dad was going to stop so that they could go outside and play. But she’d trusted him to know the best place—she’d trusted him about absolutely everything—even when he’d pulled into a forest instead of the beach.
They’d hiked a winding trail, laughing as they’d skipped over some puddles and splashed through others, then come to what looked like a skateboarder’s big concrete half-pipe. Her father had told her that it was an old storm drain that was no longer used, but that it would take them to one of the most spectacular places he’d ever seen, one hardly anyone knew about. As they’d walked together along the cracked concrete, she’d been so excited by the adventure that when the trees suddenly opened up to reveal dark gray cliffs and the endless ocean beyond, she’d gasped in wonder.
Rosa always had fun playing in the sand and surf, but it was the turbulent ocean that had always touched her most deeply. Though she hadn’t ever said the words aloud to her father, he’d understood.
That special day so long ago, he’d taken her hand and told her they needed to walk carefully over the slick clifftop because he couldn’t stand the thought of her falling and getting hurt. She still remembered the warm, steady grip of his hand, how sure she’d been that he’d always be there to take care of her, to make sure she was never hurt. And how excited she’d been when he promised that they could come back to this spot the following year on their special trip.
A month later he was gone in a helicopter crash that took the lives of his entire radio traffic reporting team, and she’d never come back to these cliffs that she’d always thought of as their special place. But on that one perfect afternoon, he’d told her all about the currents, the tides, the marine life. And then, for a long time, they’d simply sat quietly together and appreciated the beauty all around them.
Her dad had been so good at being quiet, and letting her be quiet too. Rosa hadn’t needed to be the pretty one with him. The bubbly one. The fun one. The exciting one. The risky one. She could just be herself.
Whoever the hell Rosa Bouchard was now...
Just that quickly, the sun disappeared, its warmth gone as if it had never been there at all. The wind picked up again too, but strangely, she wasn’t cold. Or maybe she’d just been cold for so long she didn’t notice it anymore.
The rain came again, pouring down so hard that it stung her eyes, her skin. She wished it could wash her clean, but after all she’d consented to during the past several years as a reality TV star—and the horrible pictures she hadn’t consented to—she was afraid nothing would ever wash her clean again.
She’d turned off her cell phone hours ago, but she could still feel the unyielding weight of it against her hip in the back pocket of her jeans. She always had her phone with her and would have felt naked without it.
Naked.
She still couldn’t believe that the whole world had seen her naked on their phones.
Again, she didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just jumped to her feet, grabbed her phone out of her pocket, and threw it as hard, and as far, as she could.
Despite the countless hours of yoga and Pilates she’d put in to keep her naturally curvaceous figure in line, her phone barely made it to the sharp edge of the cliffs. Still, she could see the screen had shattered as it teetered back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...before finally falling over the edge.
Disappearing, just like her.
Chapter Two
She was leaving.
When the woman on the cliff had hurled her phone against the rocks in obvious fury, for a moment, even with the heavy rain drenching her, she’d almost seemed relieved. But then her shoulders had slumped again, her long, wet hair covering her face as she walked back along the clifftop toward the forest.
Despite the rain pelting her, she moved with innate grace, like a dancer or a runway model. And though there was no audience to impress, and she was still clearly upset, it was impossible to miss the sensuality in the slight sway of her hips. She was drenched from head to toe, and her jeans and T-shirt clung to her like a second skin, revealing a figure that would have made the hands of Rodin himself burn with the desperate need to sculpt her.
But the sex appeal that fairly dripped from her wasn’t what drew Drake, wasn’t what made it so hard to stop staring, to stop itching to paint her. He’d been with plenty of gorgeous women, and he’d never felt like this before.