I slam through the door to the alley just as my tears start to flow in earnest. And as the steel door clangs shut, I lean against the brick wall and force myself to simply breathe while my blood pounds in my veins, and images of those photographs—and the man who took them—fill my head.

Honestly, this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I should have turned around the moment I realized the audition was for Wyatt. I should have run far and fast and not even thought twice.

Instead, I lingered, craving recognition from a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Which should be just fine with me. After all, if anyone can throw my carefully constructed life out of whack, it’s Wyatt. He’s temptation personified, and when I’m around him, my self-control vanishes.

And nothing good ever comes from that.

Nothing that lasts, anyway. He made me feel good, that’s for sure. So much so that the memory of his touch still fuels my fantasies, as potent now as it was more than a decade ago.

But those touches were forbidden, our moments together stolen. I knew I was breaking the rules, but I didn’t care. What good was the threat of punishment against the reality of his kisses? His soft caresses?

He eviscerated my control. Made me forget my objections. Turned my willpower to mush. And though I want to blame him, I know that in reality, it was all on me.

I wanted to be bad—more specifically, I wanted to be bad with Wyatt.

Even then, I knew I’d have to pay. Of course, I would. There’s always a price when you break the rules. Hadn’t I been raised on that mantra? Hadn’t it been drilled deep into my soul?

But until Wyatt, I never really tested it.

Maybe I didn’t believe it.

Maybe I thought I could outwit fate.

But Karma is a nosy, invasive bookie, and when you try to cheat her, she takes what she’s owed.

I’ve been scrambling for years to pay that debt. And fifteen thousand will go a long way to repairing the biggest mistake of my life.

Or it could have. But I bolted, and in the process I destroyed my only chance to get that much money in so short a time.

My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat as that simple reality settles over me. I bolted.

I didn’t just walk away from the chance to earn that money, I sprinted.

Am I really so lame? So fragile that I’ll shatter under the chill in his voice or the ice in his eyes?

After all, what did I expect? That we’d both look at each other with wide-eyed surprise and then leap across a daisy-strewn studio into each other’s arms while orchestral music played in the background?

That our past would be magically erased, and bluebirds of happiness would ring our heads while tweeting a chipper melody?

Not hardly.

I should have stayed. I should have looked him in the eye, told him I’d come about the job, and steadfastly repeated that the past didn’t matter. Over and over and over for as long as it took for him to ignore everything that happened before and simply hire me.

Because I hadn’t come to Santa Monica to see Wyatt Segel or W. Royce or whatever name he wanted to go by. I hadn’t come because I have some deep hidden desire to strip my clothes off in front of a camera. And I most certainly hadn’t come for the fizzle and pop that fills me every time Wyatt is near.

I came solely for the money. For Griffin.

And there is no way I’m letting Wyatt’s Arctic glare send me scurrying away.

I need this job, and he needs a model. So I’m doing this. I can, and I will.

With my pep talk still ringing in my ears, I turn and pull open the heavy steel door. It creaks, and as I step over the threshold, Wyatt turns once again to face me.

He’s standing like a sentry in front of a wall decorated with dozens and dozens of white-draped photographs. I know what’s hidden behind the drapes—images of women just like me, their bare bodies posed provocatively. And for one tiny moment, I breathe easier. Soon, those women will be on display for anyone in the world to see, but until then, Wyatt’s covered them. He’s protecting them. Guarding their honor.

And surely a man who does that will protect me, too.

I clear my throat and flash a tentative smile. “I shouldn’t have run.”

Immediately, the guarded expression in his eyes fades, replaced by something that looks almost like hope.

Encouraged, I rush on. “It’s just that I really need this job, and you made it so clear you didn’t want to see me, and—”

“I see.” He’d been walking toward me, but now he stops, his hands sliding into his pockets. His posture stiffens. He’s no longer hopeful; if anything, he’s hostile.

A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, and I want to kick myself for being such a fool. My apology was for running away twelve minutes ago. But Wyatt obviously thought I was apologizing for what happened twelve years ago.

I expect him to order me out. To tell me firmly and plainly that I have no business being there.

But he says none of that. All he does is look at me so deeply I’m certain he can see all the way to my soul.

I shift under his inspection, feeling raw and naked and exposed. I want to explain. To tell him how confused I was. How much he meant to me. How badly I screwed up. How many people I hurt.

But I can’t. The words just don’t come. Instead, I can only manage a breathy little gasp before I force out his name, “Wyatt, I—”

“I’m not hiring you, Kelsey. Did you really expect that I would?”

“I—I didn’t know it was you,” I admit.

“And now you do.” He starts to pivot, dismissing me.

“Dammit, Wyatt!”

He stops. His eyes are wide, and I think he’s as surprised as I am that a curse escaped my lips. The teenager inside me actually cringes, but my father isn’t here. It’s only Wyatt, and my outburst has at least snagged his attention.

“You need a model,” I say. “I need the work.”

“This isn’t the job for you, Kelsey. We both know that.”

I lift my chin. “You don’t know me at all.”

“No, I don’t. I thought I did,” he adds, his harsh words making me cringe. “But I know enough to know this isn’t you.” He indicates the three photographs without drapes. “Or this,” he adds, yanking more drapes to the ground to reveal two riveting photos of women who are entirely nude, yet staring out at the camera without an ounce of shame, as if they owned the world and everything in it.

“And certainly not her,” he continues, uncovering another, this one in virginal white bridal lingerie, her wrists and ankles bound with red ribbons, her face alight with ecstasy. “Or am I wrong? Is that really what you want, Kelsey? Or are you just here for another piece of me?”

Another piece of me? I have no idea what he means by that, but I don’t ask him. I can’t. I’m too distracted by the way my heart is beating wildly, and not just in reaction to the waves of restrained anger pulsing off this man, but because of the images he’s revealed. Bold women. Brash women.

Fearless women who ask for—and get—what they want. But that isn’t me. It never has been. How can it be when I know only too well the price I’d have to pay?

“Well?” Wyatt demands, and when I remain silent, he makes a scoffing noise. “Like I said, that’s not who you are.”

I bristle. “Did you really just say that? Are you actually telling me that I ought to be ashamed for wanting to pose for you? That those women should be ashamed of their bodies? Their emotions?”

“Ashamed?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “Hell no.”

“Then what?”

With a soft chuckle, he saunters toward me. He stops only inches away, his proximity making my head spin.

When he reaches out, I start to take a step back, but force myself to stay perfectly still. This is a test, I’m certain of it. And it’s one I’m determined to pass.

Even so, I can’t stifle the soft exhale of breath when he gently brushes my hair off my face, his fingertip grazing my ear in the process. I feel that touch all the way in my core, and I have to forcibly press my lips together in order not to whimper.

Slowly, he traces his fingertip down the line of my jaw, then down my neck, lower and lower until I’m not breathing, and it’s taking all of my strength to stand perfectly still and not run.

“What I’m saying,” he says as his fingertip rises with the curve of my breast, “is that I don’t think you can handle it.”

“I can,” I say, though my voice comes out shaky and not firm at all.

“Is that so? The kindergarten teacher has a wild side? The dancer’s abandoning beginning ballet and tap for more exotic pursuits?”

“How do you know what I’ve been—?”

But he continues speaking as if I hadn’t said a word. “You’re willing to do this?” he asks, putting his hands on my shoulders as he steps behind me, so that we are both facing the wall of exposed photos.

“You’re actually going to reveal yourself to the camera? To me?” His hands graze down my arms as he speaks, making it difficult for me to concentrate on his words, which are drowned out by the pounding of my blood.

“And it’s not just your body on display, but what’s inside you. Are you willing to show that fire? That heat? To expose yourself like that, open and vulnerable, to whoever stands in front of those photos? And to me, too, Kelsey. Can you handle knowing I’ll see you raw and vulnerable? And not just see you. Do you understand that I’m the one who’s going to take you there?”

The thought terrifies me—and yet I can’t deny that the terror is tinged with something else. Something scary and exciting all at the same time. “I can do it.” I force the words out past dry lips. “I’m not the same girl I was when you knew me.”

“Aren’t you?” His hands move to my hips, his fingertips resting on the edge of my pubic bone. My skin beneath his fingers warms, but it is the heat that pools between my thighs that has put me at a distinct disadvantage, and though I try to focus, I know with absolute certainty that if this showdown is going to be decided by cool minds and clear heads, I am going to lose.

It’s not a pleasant thought, and I force myself to think about Griffin. About the past. About the money I need to earn. Even my grocery list. Anything I can think of to block out the way that Wyatt’s touch is making me feel. Because what I’m thinking is that there could still be something between us.

What I’m thinking is that maybe I want there to be.

And those are thoughts that I really shouldn’t be having.

“My models have to be exceptional. To not just display passion, but to feel it. And this final woman that I’m casting has to be honest with her emotions. With her desire. She’s the centerpiece. The strongest and the most vulnerable.”

“I can handle whatever I need to,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

“So you say, but I’m not convinced.”

He’s still behind me, and I whip around to face him, surprised and angered by his casual indictment.

“Is this how you auditioned those women?” I demand. “Did you touch them? Did you stroke their skin and whisper to them? Because I’m thinking no.”

“You’d be right,” he says, surprising me.

“So you’re punishing me.”

His gaze never wavers as he says, “Maybe I am.”

My chest tightens, and I immediately regret poking the beast. I’d never expected him to admit it, and now I’m staring straight into a past that I don’t want to think about, much less discuss.

I draw a deep breath. “Then you’re being an idiot. I need a job. You need a model. You’re only hurting your show by turning me away.”

His left eyebrow arches up, a trick I used to find bone-meltingly sexy. Now, all I feel is panic. And not just because I need this job and fear that he’s going to send me away. No, the real source of my panic is something much deeper. Much more unexpected. And much, much scarier.

It’s Wyatt. It’s the girls on the wall. And it’s this whirlwind of emotion swirling inside me that I don’t understand and refuse to examine.

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the prize. The job. The paycheck. “Fine. Punish me all you want. Just give me a chance. I can do this.”

He drags his fingers through his hair, and he no longer looks angry. Instead he looks wounded. Defeated. And I know that’s all on me. Because he put his heart on the line once for me, and I know I ripped it to shreds.

“I can do this,” I say again, as if repetition will persuade him. “I just need—”

“Can you? Sweet Kelsey Draper? You practically sank into the floor when you let out a curse a few minutes ago. I don’t believe there’s any way you can put yourself out there the way I need.”

“I can. You just have to believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then let me prove it to you.”

“How?”

That is a really good question, and one I don’t have an answer to. Then I remember a bachelorette party I got dragged to last year. “Do you know X-tasy?”

“The strip club in Van Nuys?” Something like amusement sparks on his face. “It’s crossed my radar.”

“Tonight. 9 o’clock.”

“Why—”

“Just be there. And bring a pen. Because you’re going to want me to sign your contract right then.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he says as he takes a single step toward me, and a pleasant but unwelcome warmth floods my body.

I take a step back in a vain effort to keep my wits about me, but he matches my movement. “I’m under the gun here, Kelsey,” he says, leaning in even closer. “I need someone I can depend on.”

I force my expression to remain bland. He’s right in front of me, and if I take another step back, he’ll have me caged in against the wall.

“I’m dependable,” I say, but instead of sounding firm and determined, I sound breathy and overwhelmed.

“History would suggest otherwise.”

His harsh word lands on me like a punch in the gut, and I fight the urge to cringe. Or, worse, to escape through that door again.

Except I did that already, didn’t I? I left. I ran. And I never looked back.

“It’s been twelve years,” I snap, not sure if I’m more angry with him or with me. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Fair enough,” he replies coolly. “I don’t owe you a job.”

“No, you don’t. But you need a model. And I can do the job. You’re an idiot if you don’t let me prove that to you.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

I draw a calming breath. “Please,” I beg. “Tonight. Nine. I won’t let you down.”

He cocks his head, silently studying me. “You already did that, Kelsey. A long time ago.”