CHAPTER ONE

I WASN’T SERIOUS WHEN I submitted my application. Hell, I didn’t even want to apply for the contest. My friend Mia forced me to.

Even when I made it to the second round where they did a face-to-face interview, I put in a halfhearted effort because I never in a million years expected to be selected for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Sure, I fit the criteria: a virgin between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, willing to submit to a full medical screening and drug test. But I definitely don’t think I’m attractive enough to be a model of any sort.

Now a woman is telling me that I’ll be spending an entire week alone with world-renowned artist Chandler Lexington. He’s one of the most talented painters on the face of the planet. And he’s smokin’ hot to boot.

I try to pay attention to the details as she rattles them off. I can only assume that this is a super-important exhibit to Chandler since he went to the lengths of custom-building a house in the middle of nowhere for the setting. Judging from the application, he’s trying to capture some sort of innocence that only a chaste girl can provide. I can’t help but wonder what he’ll expect from me. Nothing has been made clear. The only information on his website was that he was looking for a model for his special exhibit. One girl. One week. No questions asked.

I’m full of questions, but I suppose I’ll find out what it’s all about when I get there.

In the following days, I float through life like it’s some weird dream. I visit the assigned gynecologist and have my first pap smear, which is awkward, to say the least, but totally worth it to have my future made as the model of one of Chandler’s paintings. Not that being a model was ever part of my life plan. I want to be an artist like Chandler. Well, kind of like Chandler. I draw manga, comics for adults with a Japanese style. It’s a hard market to break into in America, so I’ll probably eventually have to move.

I wonder what Chandler thinks about manga. Will he look down on me for taking a more cartoonish approach to art? Maybe I shouldn’t mention it to him. After all, the questionnaire had nothing about personal details. All it took to get me in were a few photos and fitting his criteria. He’ll probably expect me to stand silently while he paints me, and that’s fine. Whatever his work process is, I’ll go with it. I shouldn’t expect to come out the other end friends with him. He’s a busy guy. He travels the world to create masterpieces and display them for everyone’s appreciation. He probably can’t afford the time to get to know one of his subjects.

Those thoughts are confirmed when I’m called in to sign the waiver. It’s several pages long, and I take my time reading the whole thing. Chandler demands seven days of my absolute obedience. I’m not allowed to say no to any of his requests, no matter how personal. He will cast me out at the first sign of resistance and start the project over with a different model. It’s made clear that I’m replaceable, and while I was his first choice, there are others waiting behind me should I fail.

Reading through the contract leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I’m not sure why, though. I expected half of this. Besides, it wasn’t just a competition. This is Chandler’s work. I should not have doubted that he’d put a clause in there that he could kick me out if I didn’t work for him as a model. At the end of the day, his art is all that matters.

The lawyer gives me a serpentine smile, trying to calm my fears by telling me that everything in the contract is standard legal jargon. Apparently, despite sitting across from me patiently the entire time while I read it, he must think I just skimmed it. I didn’t miss a thing, including the part where it says I can’t take legal action against Chandler no matter what he does. As legal contracts go, it’s a bit unnerving, but I’ve come too far to back out now. And even though I initially didn’t care about being a part of this, I want it now, if only to see how Chandler works.

And so I sign my life away for seven days.

Secluded doesn’t even begin to describe where the location is. I’m told nothing as I’m ushered onto a private jet. My only clue as to where we’re headed is the direction that the plane is going in and looking at the scenery below. To be honest, I’m surprised they even let me sit by a window.

The flight is painfully long. Long enough that I see the ocean and know I’m not in the United States anymore. The sun sets. I can’t sleep because I’m so nervous. Then the sun rises again, and we finally land. I still have no idea where we are.

I’m barely down the plane stairs before I’m loaded into a van with tinted windows that reminds me of something that would happen in a horror movie before you’re murdered on foreign soil. There’s a panic attack swirling inside of me, always threatening to surface. I know it’s a mixture of nerves, fear, and lack of sleep. Despite what my illogical brain is telling me, I’m safe here. My parents may not know where I am, but they do know who to turn over to the police if I end up missing. Everything will be fine. I just need to get where I’m going and take a nap. If I’m allowed that. Chandler may want to get started painting me right away. The thought is utterly exhausting, but I would have to bear it.

I’m driven an hour away and then made to board a helicopter. From that point, we fly over the ocean again to what I can only assume is a private island. There’s no landing pad. Just grass.

“We walk the rest of the way,” a man in a black suit tells me when the rotors have stopped spinning enough for me to hear him over the noise. He looks like he should be working for the CIA.

I hop out of the helicopter, feeling dumb for having worn a dress. Then again, no one told me we were going to be hiking, which is obviously the case since there’s not a building in sight. Luckily, there’s at least a game trail that we’re able to take to avoid walking through the dense foliage surrounding us. Or maybe it’s a trail that Chandler made; I can see wheel tracks in the dirt.

I take in the scenery around us, thankful that I’m not the one carrying my suitcase because it’s quite a trek. To the east of us is a gorgeous mountain range with snow on the peaks. Aside from the sounds of birds chirping and insects buzzing, I can hear a river somewhere close by. It doesn’t take long before we break through the forest and it becomes visible. This place is absolutely gorgeous. No wonder Chandler wanted to paint here. The scenery is definitely inspiring.

I wrap my arms around me, silently cursing myself for not having thought to bring a coat, though I hadn’t anticipated traveling to somewhere with a more frigid climate. It’s not quite cold enough to see my breath frost, but almost.

I’m just about to ask the guy in the suit how much farther it is when I see the edge of a deck as we round a bend in the river. A new sound joins the rush of the water: loud thuds in rapid succession. And as more of the house becomes visible, I catch my first glimpse of Chandler Lexington, and he’s every bit as breathtaking as the scenery around us.

The soreness in my feet from treading through the forest in wedges fades, and my body heats up to a uncomfortable level as I stare at Chandler, who seems oblivious to our presence. He’s standing out on the deck shirtless pounding away at a punching bag. It looks like something from a movie with the river passing beneath the stilts of the deck and an entirely glass backdrop for the part of the house facing us.

I’m not sure which is better, spending a week in this fantastical place or spending it alone with one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on. In a professional sense, of course. There’s totally no way that I’m going to be masturbating to thoughts of him every night. Nope. Not gonna do that. Not gonna feel the urge knowing that he’s only a few bedrooms away, probably shirtless, lying in bed with that sinfully perfect body.

My God, is he ever ripped. The closer we get, the more muscle definition I see. When he finally notices us and turns with a smile, my heart about stops.

Holy hell. Someone should be painting him because he’s perfection in the flesh.

“Ah, there she is,” he says as we approach the side of the deck. “My muse.”