“But . . .” He rubbed his temples. “Well, I know you need the money. So why not?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, then her shoulders lifted as she drew a deep breath. Finally, she tilted her chin up so that she was looking straight at him. “Because of you.”
“Me,” he repeated.
She flashed a little half smile. “You make me do foolish things.”
There wasn’t a damn thing suggestive about her words, and yet that’s how his body responded, as if they were in a bar drinking martinis instead of coffee, and she’d reached over and boldly stroked his cock.
He closed his hand around the cardboard cup and focused on the heat—and on not crushing the thing and sending the rest of the coffee flying. Mostly, he focused on not reacting at all, at least not in a way that she’d notice.
“Foolish things,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Like what? Like posing for me? I have to disagree. That wouldn’t be foolish at all.”
She tilted her head to one side, looking at him like he was crazy. “How can you say that? I already did it, remember? I already know it was—”
She cut herself off suddenly, her lips pursing tight together.
“Oh, no,” he said, and actually heard laughter in his voice. “You were about to agree with me.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Then what were you going to say? Posing for me was . . .” He trailed off, making a circular motion with his hand as if drawing the words out of her.
“Hot,” she finally said, her face taking on the tinge of a serious sunburn. “Okay? Satisfied? Posing like that was hot.”
He stared at her for a moment, a little baffled, a lot relieved, and even more turned on. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “It was.”
“And hot equals foolish. Plus,” she added, “that’s not who I am.”
He thought he had pretty solid evidence to argue that point, but he also knew he’d never convince her. Not now.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But here’s my problem, and bear with me, okay? I’ve got this show in just a few weeks. And because it’s a whole big production with catalogs and publicity and on and on and on, I don’t even really have that much time. So let’s say ten days. All I need from you is ten days. Hell, we can do it in five, if we work long hours. Five days and opening night. That’s it, Kelsey. Five days. That’s three grand a day just to stand in front of a camera.”
She started to speak, but he held out a hand to silence her. “Wait. Let me finish.”
When she nodded, he counted that as a point in his favor and rushed on.
“You say that’s not who you are, but you don’t see what I see. You have the look I’ve been searching for. The image that’s been in my mind for all these years, ever since the concept for this show was nothing more than the kernel of an idea. It’s all those bits and pieces that make up you. Even the part of you that dances.”
He thought that had grabbed her attention, so he rushed on. “I told you about the stage at the end of the hall? A sensual woman behind a gauzy screen. What if she’s dancing? All of the passion and power captured in the still images coming out through music and motion.”
“That’s nice,” she said softly. “It even sounds like fun. But I can’t be the one who does it. I told you. My job. And it’s—”
“Not you. Yeah. I know. But that’s the beauty of it.” He leaned forward and boldly took her hand, letting her warmth fuel his passion for this project. For having her be part of it. “Kelsey, it doesn’t have to be you.”
Slowly, she pulled her fingers away from his. “What are you talking about?”
“You could be anonymous.”
“But—but all the pictures you have so far. Almost all their faces are lit. And they’re looking at the camera, and they’re bold and sensual and unashamed and it’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said sincerely.
“I told you I love the work, Wyatt. I just can’t be part of it.”
“Kelsey Draper can’t. But maybe an anonymous woman can.”
“But—”
“You’re going to say that’s not the point of my exhibit, but maybe it is. Maybe the idea of the show is all those specific women in the gallery leading up to one ideal of a woman. An anonymous woman who represents all those things you were just talking about.”
“I don’t think that’s me.”
“And I think that’s for me to decide.”
“Anonymous,” she said, and Wyatt tried hard not to cling to the hope that one word fueled in him.
“Completely anonymous.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly as he held his breath and forced himself to stay silent. Finally, she spoke. “Will you let me think about it?”
Disappointment curdled in his gut. “Of course.”
“Okay.” She pushed back from the table and stood. “Well, um, I should go.”
He leaned over, his hand landing on her purse. “Wait.”
“Wyatt, please. I just need to think.”
“I know. I get that. But I also think you owe me an explanation.”
She eyed him warily. “For what?”
“Kelsey,” he said gently. “What happened to Griffin?”
For a moment, she just stood there. Then she sat down again. “Please,” he pressed. “Don’t you think it’s time to tell me what happened the night of the party?”
21
I freeze a little at his words, and I want to disagree. No, I’d say. No, it’s not time. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.
But I can’t say that. Because even though I’d rather run out the coffee shop door, I know he’s right. It is time. And he deserves to know what happened.
“How long have you known?” I ask. “About the night of the party, I mean.”
“Technically, no time at all. I’m just making guesses here. But after I met him—after I learned how old he was when he got burned—I put it together. There was an accident that night, wasn’t there?”
Frowning, I hug myself. “Accident,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue. “That’s just too clean a word for what happened.”
“Hey, hey.” His voice has dropped to the gentlest of whispers, and I don’t realize why until he leans across the table with his napkin and gently brushes the soft skin under my eyes.
I manage a watery smile in thanks, and then try to clear my head enough so that I can tell the story. But I’m not having much luck.
“Let’s walk,” he says, rising and coming around the table to pull out my chair.
I grab my purse and stand, tilting my head up as I do. “Are you taking care of me, Mr. Segel? Or should I call you Mr. Royce?”
“Call me Wyatt, and yes.” He takes my hand, and leads me out the door. I expect him to release me once we’re outside, but he doesn’t. I realize that I’m glad, and it’s not because I crave his touch—though it’s true that the memory of his fingers on me during the photo shoot keeps teasing me.
No, what I crave is his support. His strength. And even though I know I’m playing with fire, right now I will eagerly cling to him.