I see him the moment I step outside the club. He’s leaning against the side of a Lincoln Navigator, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. His hair is windswept, the gold shining under the yellow-tinted parking area lights, and from his posture it’s obvious he’s still wound up tight, as if he’s on the verge of exploding.

As I get closer, I can see the irritation and impatience on his face as clearly as if it was stamped there. I know it’s directed at me—and that knowledge kicks off a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, my reaction one of both anticipation and trepidation. Because even while I fear the explosion, I’m grateful for any reaction from him. This is the man who never looked back, after all, whereas I spent years mourning his loss.

And, while his attack on Drunk Dude may have mortified me, I can’t deny that it excited me, too.

What I’m not certain about is why exactly he’s annoyed. Is it because of my dance? Or is it because he’s getting tired of waiting in the parking lot for me?

The latter wouldn’t surprise me. The truth is, I did take my time coming out. In fact, I’d considered staying until the final girls danced, not only because I was in the mood to aggravate Wyatt, but also because I wanted that money.

Based on the chatter backstage as I was changing and packing up my stuff, I know I was in the lead by a huge margin. And everyone was speculating who would end up winning if I actually followed Wyatt out of the building. Because that’s one of the rules. The winner has to be present.

But here I am outside.

Here I am, walking away from what I’m guesstimating is at least a grand, probably a little more.

And for what? I don’t even know if he’s going to hire me. Or if he’s going to apologize for smacking down that drunk and embarrassing me, much less ordering me outside like I’m a recalcitrant teenager.

I pick up my pace, my speed increasing along with my irritation. As I approach, he stands up straight. His mouth moves, as if he’s going to speak, but I don’t let him. Instead, I poke him in the chest with my index finger. “You owe me a grand,” I say. “Probably more, but I’ll settle for a thousand. In cash. Tonight.”

I expect him to laugh. Or at least to ask me what the hell I’m talking about. Instead, he reaches up and folds his hand around mine. His palm is warm, and though this isn’t an intimate touch, my stupid, traitorous hormones are reacting as if it were. As if we were the old Kelsey and Wyatt, holding hands on the far side of the golf course where no one could see us, least of all my father.

Roughly, I wrench my hand from his. “A grand,” I repeat.

“Get in the car,” he says.

I tilt my head, then cross my arms over my chest. His eyes follow my movements, and as I watch, the corner of his mouth lifts, and that tiny movement softens his expression. I feel my skin heat, because I wasn’t expecting him to so overtly check out my breasts.

Then my blush deepens, as I realize he’s not checking me out at all. Instead, he’s reading my T-shirt.

“Dance like nobody’s watching,” he reads, then looks at my face with the kind of intensity I remember only too well. The kind that sends shivers through me. “Is that what you were doing in there?” he asks. “Dancing for yourself?”

I force my feet to stay planted on the asphalt. I want to run from the heat I see in his eyes. Because it’s dangerous, I know it is. And yet I need him, and if I run, I’ll only be hurting my brother.

I draw a breath, fix my eyes on an illuminated gas station sign shining somewhere behind him, and say very softly, “No.”

“Look at me, Kelsey.”

I do, my jaw set as I force myself to maintain eye contact.

“Tell me,” he says.

“You know the answer.” I’m proud that I’ve managed to disguise the tremor in my voice. “This was an audition, wasn’t it? Who do you think I was dancing for?”

His throat moves as he swallows. “Get in the car.”

“Pay me.”

“I haven’t hired you yet.”

“A grand,” I say, circling back to my original demand. “We both know I would have won. And we both know that you messed that up for me.”

I cross my arms again, and this time I’m determined not to be waylaid by whatever he says next. He surprises me, though, by not saying anything at all. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and peels off ten hundred dollar bills.

“Right,” I say, because I’d actually forgotten how casual money must be in his family. “Chump change to you.”

I expect a sarcastic reply, but he simply extends the bills. I reach for them, and as I pull the cash away, his hand closes over mine, the money held tight between our two palms. “I pay my debts, Kelsey,” he says. “Always.”

I’m unnerved, but I’m not sure if it’s because of his touch, his words, or the tone of his voice. Whatever it is, I tug my hand free, and this time he lets the bills come with me. I quickly shove them into my purse, the clatter of an adding machine filling my head.

Only fourteen thousand more to go.

The thought hits me like a surgical strike, pulling me back to reality. And the reality is that I need a lot of money. A lot of money.

That thousand he shafted me out of isn’t the prize I care about, and I shove the bills back at him. “Actually, forget the grand. I want the job.” I nod toward the club. “I think I proved myself.”

“Is that what you think?”

I stiffen, unnerved by the sharpness of his voice, a steely blade cutting right through any past—any connection—we may still have. “You saw me dance,” I say defensively. “You know I can strike a pose. You know I can look alluring.” I swallow, my cheeks burning. “And you know I can strip down and not turn away from the camera—or from the eyes behind it.”

His expression hardens. “And if I was looking for a woman willing to flaunt her tits so some poor slob can fantasize that she’ll take him home and fuck him like a porn star, then you’d totally land the job.”

Without even thinking about it, I reach out and slap his face.

Then that same hand flies to my mouth to cover my own gasp of surprise. I cringe and step back, certain there will be retribution. That he’s going to grab my shoulders. That he’s going to slam me against the side of the car and demand I apologize.

He does none of that.

Instead, the stiffness leaves his body, and he draws in air as he drags the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Oh, hell, Kelsey. I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

I’m so surprised by the admission that I take a step toward him, and the irony is that I want to make him feel better.

“It’s okay, really. And I don’t think your work is sleazy or anything like that. That’s not why I wanted you to see me dance here.” I don’t have to work to make my words convincing. Whatever else is going on between us, I would never lie about the impact of those spectacular, provocative photos. “Your work—Wyatt, those pictures are incredible. They’re honest and real, and the women you’ve photographed are . . .”

I trail off with a shrug, because how can I say that I want to be like them. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done this. But you made me so angry. All I really wanted was for you to see that I can handle the job.”

“And you thought this would convince me?”

“Well, um, yeah.”

“Hmm.” He starts to circle me, and I instinctively step away, protecting my blindside by putting his gigantic SUV behind me.

“You can dance, but I’m not hiring a dancer.” His words are low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. But his eyes are on me with every word. “Still, you have the look I want. The persona, too. And you damn sure have the attitude.”

“Like I said, I can do this.”

“You definitely proved that you can push past your comfort zone. I’ll even go so far as to say that not only are you absolutely fucking perfect for my show, but that no other model has come close.”

There’s a sharpness to his words. An anger. One that I’m certain has roots going back twelve years.

“But here’s the thing.” He stops circling me and instead comes straight toward me. I inch backward until my rear bumps the cool metal of the door. “So what if all those things are true? So what if you’re perfect? Because even with all that going for you, how can I trust that you’ll see it through? I only have a few weeks to wrap this up, and I can’t be wrong. So you tell me, Kelsey. How can I trust you? How can I be certain that you won’t bolt midway into the shoot? That you won’t leave me hanging?”

That you won’t break my heart?

He doesn’t say that last out loud, but I hear the words clearly in my head. I swallow the knot in my throat and blink rapidly, trying to stave off a flood of tears. I messed so much up. So many people, so many lives, and all because I reached for more than I should have.

And maybe I should stop pushing and just walk away. I’ll get the money somehow. If I have to, I can sell my Mustang, although it would kill me to do that. After all, Griffin painstakingly rebuilt it for me, and it would just hurt him all over again if I parted with it. Even if I was selling it to help him.

But walking away isn’t an option. Not anymore. Now it’s not just about me. It’s about Wyatt, too. About everything he’s been saying.

He needs me.

Maybe I can never make up for the way I hurt him twelve years ago. But I can help him now. And while that may not be everything, at least it’s something.

“I won’t run,” I promise. “I don’t know how to make you trust me. All I can do is tell you I mean it and hope that you believe me.”

His eyes bore into me, as if he’s trying to read the truth on my soul. Then he rolls his neck and starts pacing in front of me, his body as tense as a wild cat about to spring.

But even though that’s the impression I have, I still gasp when he does exactly that, lunging toward me and caging me against the side of the Navigator, his arms on either side of mine. His body dangerously close.

“Why?” he asks.

His mouth is so close that his breath warms me, and the scent of whisky is strong enough to be intoxicating. For the first time, I wonder how long he was in the club before I noticed him. Did he sit at a table and drink while the other girls danced? Did he enjoy them? Or was he there only for me?

“Answer me,” he demands, the heat in his words pulling me from my thoughts.

“I told you. I need the money. Please, Wyatt. Let me go.”

“Why?”

“You’re making me feel claustrophobic.” That’s a lie. I feel uncomfortable, yes. But not like that. What bothers me is the way my body is reacting to him. The way that, despite everything, I want him to lean in just a little closer.

“I meant, why do you need the money?”

“Oh.” Bitter mortification sweeps over me. “That’s really none of your business.” I lever myself away from the car, as if I’m going to shove past him. “You want to get out of my way?”

He uses his whole body to push me back, so that now I’m completely flat against the car, and he’s pressed against me, body to body. I feel my pulse kick up, and I have to clench my fists in order to fight the unwelcome urge to lean my head forward and kiss him.

“You’re making it my business,” he says, lifting one hand off the car so that he can run a lock of my hair through his fingers.

“Tell me, Kelsey. Why did you walk through my door? What kind of trouble are you in that you need money so fast?”

“I just do. What does it matter why? I need fifteen thousand, and I need it before the end of the month.”

“So that’s all this is about?” His fingertip traces the curve of my ear, and I can’t hide the shiver that cuts through me.

“That tickles,” I say, as if that’s all I’m reacting to. As if his touch isn’t really affecting me at all.

“It’s just about the cash?” He shifts his touch from my ear to my collarbone, exposed by the V-neck tee I’m wearing. “You’re not looking for publicity?”

“Publicity? For what? Why would I—”

“I could lend you the money,” he continues, putting his hand back on the car so that I’m fully caged once again.

“You won’t,” I counter. “And I wouldn’t take it if you did. I don’t want to be in anyone’s debt, much less yours.”

“Why not mine?”

I meet his eyes dead on. “Because you hate me.”

He flinches, and for a moment he’s completely silent. Then he slowly takes his hands off the Navigator and steps back, freeing me.

“I don’t hate you, Kelsey. It would probably be easier if I did.”

“Oh.” I glance down so he can’t see the tears that prick my eyes. I blink, then draw a breath to steady myself. Only when I’m sure I’ve got it together do I look back up at him. “Does that mean you’re giving me the job?”

He exhales. Loudly. “Fine. You want the job? It’s yours.” He takes another step back and looks me up and down. “We start tonight.”

I push away from the car, then stand rigid. “Tonight!”

“You have somewhere else to be?”

“I—no. Tonight it is.”

He nods, apparently pleased with my acquiescence. “I can’t be wrong about this, Kelsey. So I have some conditions, and they’re non-negotiable. You don’t want to comply, you walk away now. Is that clear?”

I nod firmly, hoping I look more certain than I feel.

“You saw the prints at the studio. The nature of my photos. They’re not porn, and they’re not snapshots from a strip club,” he adds, aiming his thumb toward X-tasy. “But there is an edge to them. A raw sensuality I’m trying to convey. Do you get that?”

Once again, I simply nod.

“And that means I need you to wear what I tell you and pose how I direct. Agreed?”

“Of course,” I say, a little confused. Because how else would this go down?

“Good. You have to do what I say, Kelsey. Like I said, that’s non-negotiable.”

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that pretty obvious? I mean—”

“In front of the camera,” he interrupts. “And in my bed.”

I gape at him. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

“But . . . why?” I don’t know what else to ask. More than that, I don’t know what to think, what to feel. I know I should slap his face and storm off, but somehow, I can’t quite manage.

“Why?” he repeats. “You already know why.” He takes a single step closer. “I’m punishing you, Kelsey. Exactly like you said in my studio earlier today.

“I’m punishing you,” he repeats, as I stand there mute and confused. “But you can still walk away if you want to. I’m leaving this entirely in your hands. You know my conditions. Now ask yourself what you want. And then ask yourself how much you want it.”

He walks to the driver’s side, opens the door, then pauses before sliding in. “I’ll be in the studio. You’ve got one hour to make up your mind.”

Then he slams the door and starts the car, and I’m left standing like an idiot in the parking lot wondering what just happened—and what on earth I’m going to do next.