By the time Jessica Jensen arrived at the Venice Beach gallery for Liza’s showing, there was a line out the door, winding to the end of the block. Trendy hipsters jostled against grungy millionaires and diamond-decked socialite types, the crowd as mixed up and melted together as only a Southern California social event could be. Apparently word had spread about her BFF/adopted sister’s rave review on the LAArtscene blog, which called Liza’s work “wildly innovative and breathtaking, both exquisite and shocking!” The masses had come here to see and be seen, to shock and be shocked.
The open bar probably didn’t hurt either, at least for the trendy hipsters, whose high-end taste didn’t always reflect the size of their low-end bank accounts.
The turnout was thrilling, and her heart pounded in her chest as Jess realized the person she cared for most in this world was really on the verge of the success she so richly deserved. A long line wasn’t the endgame, though. The true test would come in the morning when Liza found out from the owner just how many of these desperate-to-be-cool types had actually shelled out money to buy any of the pieces, the cheapest of which was priced at around five grand.
All of Jessica’s crossable digits were metaphorically crossed, and not just because she wanted Liza to be successful. There would be a more immediate benefit. One sculpture sold meant their rent wouldn’t be late next month. Two might mean they could actually drop the air-conditioning thermostat from ninth circle of hell to eighth. Dreamy.
“Miss Jensen, did you find it?” the bouncer asked as she skirted around, cutting in line.
She lifted her hand, in which she held the silver charm bracelet she’d raced home to get when Liza had realized she’d forgotten it. “Crisis contained.”
He grinned, having watched her tear out of the gallery an hour ago, right before the show opened. “Her good luck charm, huh?”
“Yeah, literally.” She flicked the four-leaf clover. It had been the first charm on the bracelet. “Our mom gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday.”
“You’re sisters?”
He sounded shocked. That made sense. Jess was tall, Liza petite. Liza was a brown-haired bundle of creativeness, Jess a red-haired bundle of attitude.
Oh. Plus Liza was black, and Jess was white. Details.
“Yep,” she said, not feeling the need to reveal anything more to a stranger. Especially not about the adopted family she’d been blessed to land in.
Liza had been fortunate enough to have her mom, Beth, all her life. Jess had only been lucky enough to get her at age eleven. Her own mom had died when Jess was nine, after which she got to play here-we-go-round-the-foster-care-system for two years. Beth was the prize she’d won at the end of the game. The adoption had saved her life, and not just figuratively, considering Jess’s final foster mother had had the maternal instincts of a snake.
Wait. She probably wasn’t being fair…to snakes. They vibrated their bodies to warm their eggs. Her last foster mother wouldn’t have warmed Jess with a cup of her own spit, and her creepy husband would have just spit on her for his own amusement.
She shoved the memories away. They were phantoms from a past she barely recalled.
“The bracelet must be pretty special. I hope it works for her,” the bouncer said.
“You and me both,” she murmured, picturing Beth and how proud she would be tonight.
Thinking of Beth still made Jess cry, eighteen months after her death. Liza had to be feeling the loss even more drastically, knowing that but for a few cancerous cells, her mom would be right here with them. The cruel twists of fate had been especially cruel to Jess and Liza when it came to mothers and fathers. They were both orphans now—Liza officially, since her dad had died in an accident before her birth, and Jess technically, since hers had skipped out when she was two. Neither one of them was whining about it, though. They were both gonna be okay.
The bouncer opened the door for her. “Tell her if she doesn’t get a taker on the Touch Me statue, I’ll give her part of my salary for the next twenty years to pay for it.”
As he wagged his brows, she forced a tight smile and hurried in, fearing he’d ask if she’d ever modeled for her sister. She’d been asked that too many times, by too many people.
The short answer: No.
The long answer: Sort of, but only from the neck down. Well, maybe the jaw down.
The longest answer: Yes, and oh, God, wasn’t it freaky-weird to lie there naked while her best friend/sister drew tons of sketches of her?
Jess was the woman alone in bed, gaining pleasure in the only way she could.
Art imitates life.
The number of people who would ever know that: two. Jess and Liza.
Inside, she took a second to gawk at the crowd. When she’d left, the building had been practically empty—only Liza on the floor with the management and the staff. On her way out, she’d sent up a good luck prayer, noting how the tastefully arranged gallery had been thick with possibility, waiting for something to start.
Now, sixty minutes later? Well, hot damn, it had started. Her BFF was taking the art world by storm. The place was jam-packed, a strange cross between an art exhibit and a rave. Potential buyers sipped fruity vodka and gushed over the classical-yet-sensual pieces of art surrounding them. A deep thrum of evocative music pulsed; the very air throbbed with it. She felt it reverberating through her body, each thud of the bass timed to the beat of her heart. God, anybody who didn’t get a rush from this display was obviously half-comatose. Because the music, the food, the ambient lighting, the thrill of expectation and excitement all added to the atmosphere of sensuality inspired by the nude forms filling the room.
Some artists were inspired by beauty in nature, in architecture, in landscapes. Liza was inspired by naked bodies. If she photographed them, she might be called a pornographer. Instead, she sculpted them, and was a hot artist on the rise. Gotta love SoCal.
“There you are!” Liza squealed, grabbing and tugging her into an alcove near the exit. “God, that dress. It’s like Cinder-freaking-ella’s godmother was Christian Dior.”
“Thanks,” she said, amused Liza was sticking to her goal to stop swearing. “Did you think I’d show up here in my hideous prom dress, the only long one I own?”
Correction: the only one she had owned. Now she had this pale blue designer gown. She’d bought it from a consignment store in Laguna Beach, for probably one-twentieth its original price. That had still been just about enough to break her clothes budget for the year, but she wouldn’t have come to Liza’s opening in a ratty outfit for anything.
“Nope. We’re both the belles of the ball.” Liza extended an arm and Jess hooked the bracelet on without interrupting her sister’s babbling excitement. “Can you believe this?”
“Of course I can. I knew you could do it,” she said, loyalty winning the race over honesty out of her mouth. Because, the truth was, she’d been scared to death that Liza’s dreams would be shattered, the whole thing would be a bust, and they’d end the night doing tequila shots in the roach-infested dive downstairs from their not-infested-but-still-sometimes-roachy apartment.
Liza deserved success. But, in Jess’s experience, things like this—acclaim, wealth—didn’t happen to chicks like them. Ever since they were teenagers growing up in a tiny Illinois town, Liza becoming a famous artist was her fantasy, a daydream, like Jess’s was to see her name on an Academy Award statue for Best Original Screenplay. She had never really thought they would come true.
Now, though? Surrounded by rich people oohing and aahing, whispering about the beauty of Liza’s creations, and pretending they weren’t turned on by the naked or nearly naked bodies? Well, Jess wasn’t exactly rehearsing her acceptance speech, but perhaps after tonight she’d be willing to admit such things were at least possible. And thinking about what she’d say when seated next to Benedict Cumberbatch on Oscar night.
Whoops. Inner Sherlock fangirl moment. Down, Cumberbitch.
“Well, it’s all thanks to you.”
“Oh, sure, I’m the one who spent sixty hours a week for the past couple of years in a sweltering storage unit making amazing art out of clay.”
“No, that was me,” Liza said, her smile impish, which went well with her sweet, heart-shaped face, deep brown eyes, and mass of curly brown hair. “But you are the one who got Sid to give me an appointment with Sharon, which resulted in me getting this opportunity.”
Jess frowned, not comfortable going down the I’m so grateful road. Not with Liza, the person she loved most in the world. What wouldn’t she have done to help Liza get her start? She couldn’t think of a single goddamn thing.
“That wasn’t me, it was my cleavage,” she replied with a shrug. “Sid didn’t look above my collarbone the first time I came in to talk about your awesome art.”
“Well, thank heaven Sid’s a creeper.”
“Pervert is more like it.” But perviness had worked to Liza’s advantage. So Jessica hadn’t spit in the jerk’s face or punched him when he’d made a really gross suggestion after looking at the cell phone full of pictures of nude statuary.
Liza glanced down, addressing Jess’s chest. “Thank you, ladies. I’ve been jealous of you half my life, but you really came through for me.”
Jess laughed, knowing what Liza meant. She’d been out for a run, all sweaty and slick, when she’d seen the sign for the new gallery. She was not the type to use T&A to get what she wanted, which was why her usual nonworking uniform was jeans and a geeky fandom T-shirt. On that occasion, though, the she-bits had come in handy. Sid Loman was obviously into college-aged young women wearing tight workout clothes.
She wasn’t really college-aged, though she was still in college. At twenty-five, she should’ve graduated three years ago. But when one started late, and then had to work forty hours a week and go to school part-time, it look a lot longer. After this summer session, she’d be within six credits and one internship of that elusive diploma.
“For all your hard work, you deserve some big, strong, man hands,” Liza added.
Jess purposely misunderstood, lifting her own. “I’m happy with these.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.” Liza nodded toward her chest. “I meant them.”
She cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
She hadn’t had anybody else’s hands on her body for quite some time, which frankly was fine with Jess. Man hands were attached to men. And men could be…well, she’d leave it at difficult, and ignore the other words sprouting in her mind: bastards, jerks, stalking pricks.
“Come on, not all guys are…” Bastards, jerks, stalking pricks. “Bad.” Seeing Jess’s reaction, Liza backed off. “Sorry. I forgot I’m talking to Sister Jessica, patron saint of celibacy.”
“I’d be happy to end my sainthood if I could meet someone worth sinning for.”
“I could name a hundred guys who would line up to help you sin.”
“You don’t know a hundred guys.”
“Fifty then. Fifty guys.”
“You don’t know fifty guys either, unless you’re referring to the jerks we went to high school with.” And if she hadn’t slept with any of them then, she sure was not going to now. Even her prom date hadn’t succeeded in getting her ugly dress off her, though he’d tried groping her through it. Which was why she’d ditched him and walked out of the stupid high school dance.
“You’re such a pessimist.”
“I don’t need fifty guys. One would be fine…as long as he’s the right one.”
“There are nice men around. They’re not all like that bastard,” Liza said with a shudder. She knew how bad things had been when Jess ended her last relationship, about a year ago.
Her sister had been her rock, moving without complaint—twice—so Jess could remain away from her ex, Johnny, who she’d dated for eighteen months. They’d both changed their numbers because he’d kept calling, first begging Jess to come back to him, and then growing threatening. He’d also harassed Liza, blaming her for breaking them up.
They both knew the guy was unhinged. It had been a nightmare scenario, for sure.
Fortunately, he had finally backed off…or so she hoped. A tiny hint of worry had been tickling the back of her mind for the past few days, though. One of her neighbors told her a man had been hanging around the building and had asked about her. Private delivery man. That had to be it. She didn’t know if she could handle it if Johnny reappeared on the scene, wearing his crazy like a crown.
It’s been complete radio silence for two months. He’s gone, it’s over. So maybe she would consider reentering the dating world, if only she met someone who, (a) interested her and (b) wasn’t a psycho jerk who would stalk her if she ended things.
As usual, Liza read her mind. “You’ll find someone. Someone wonderful. You have to let yourself be open to it and not worry every guy is going to go Michael Myers stalker on you.”
Johnny had never gone serial killer crazy, but he had once threatened to kill her. That threat had been the final straw. She’d told him she never wanted to see him again, moved, and changed her number. Only he didn’t get the hint…or the blunt statement.
Not wanting to continue the dark conversation on this oh-so-bright evening, she said, “Emily doesn’t get off work until nine, but she promised she’d be over afterward.”
Their new roommate had been with them for only a month. It hadn’t been easy bringing a stranger into their tight little family, but they needed a third to make their rent. So far things were working out. Emily was a lot of fun—she worked with Jess at the restaurant—but was also respectful of the longtime bond her two roommates shared. She didn’t take offense when Jess and Liza wanted some sister time.
“Great, but you’re not getting away with the subject change. It’s high time you put yourself back into the dating game. Or at least the sex one.”
Sharon, the owner of the gallery, came gliding over, looking ecstatic. “Liza, darling, you must come with me! We’ve sold Making Love. The buyer wants to meet you.”
Not only was Jess thrilled the priciest piece in the collection had sold, but she realized she’d been saved by the bell by Sharon’s announcement. Her sex life was not something she ever wanted to discuss, especially not when in public. And sober.
“Seriously? Making Love’s the first one to sell?” Liza asked.
“Did you think it would be a subtle, small-penised, classical nude?” Jess replied with a snort, not surprised a supersexy sculpture had found a buyer right away. Everyone in SoCal wanted to be considered cutting edge and daring. “Of course some studio hotshot wants sex-in-stone. It’ll be the centerpiece of the marble-tiled foyer of his Malibu mansion.”
Liza merely sighed. Making Love was the biggest piece in the collection, depicting two nude forms, not one. It perfectly captured the beauty of human sexuality between two people who loved each other. But it was also full-on statue sex, and there were a bunch of discreet, classical pieces Liza liked more.
“It’s not the first to sell, it’s the second.” Before Liza could ask for details, Sharon went on. “And the buyer is a rich studio hotshot who might buy more, so let’s go.”
Sharon grabbed Liza’s arm and tugged her away. Jess smiled as the women disappeared into the crowd, then decided to walk through the exhibit. She’d watched these items develop from sketch to completion, but she had never looked at them on proper display.
First, though, she needed fortification after her race home and back. Skating around the chatty gawkers, she headed for the bar and smiled at the good-looking bartender.
“Tonight’s special is a Flaming Orgasm,” he said with a confident smile.
“Interesting.”
“Can I give you one?” His words were low, suggestive.
“How about you just make me one,” she replied with a chuckle.
“I’ll make sure it’s strong and powerful…something you won’t forget.”
The guy was obviously angling for good tips, offering hot orgasms to every person who came up to the bar, male or female, so Jess don’t take the flirtation seriously. But when his fingers lingered against hers as he slid the glass across the bar, she took notice. His smile was intimate, his eyes warm. So maybe the invitation wasn’t as generic as she’d imagined.
“Whenever you’re ready for more, you let me know.”
“I think this’ll be enough for tonight.” Because real flaming orgasms were nice, but they so often came with strings attached. Or men. Same difference.
Sipping her strong, fruity drink, she moved through the gallery. Clumps of people whispered around some of the most beautiful pieces. The biggest crowd was gathered around Looking in the Mirror, a stunning piece showing a woman weeping as she undressed. The woman’s eyes and posture conveyed such sadness—a statement on society’s pressure on women to look perfect—that the heart ached to behold her. She affected everyone…well, everyone except Sid the Perv, who looked so pleased you’d think he was the artist, not the salesperson.
Suddenly, something changed.
A frisson of tension slid through her, and a tiny quiver shook her body. The fine hairs on her arms stood up. Her breath shortened, and she began to hear the pounding of her own heart as her pulse surged.
She was being watched.
Jess took a calming breath, knowing her panicked reaction was excessive. Because, well, of course she was being watched. Everyone in the place was watching everyone else, looking for reactions to the art, or for a subject of future gossip. Jess suspected this art show would inspire more one-night stands than Marvin Gaye night at a singles club. Everyone was watchful, wanting to know who wasn’t going home alone and all that critically important stuff people in this zip code loved to whisper about.
That didn’t calm her. Jess’s skin actually began to prickle in goose bumps, and a tiny throb in her lower back made her almost want to arch it. It was odd, but the small of her back, with its vulnerable vertebrae at the base of her spine, was one of her most erogenous zones. A lover intuitive or patient enough to discover the vulnerable spot on her back could turn her into a puddle of need with the faintest brush of his fingertips. Not surprisingly, Johnny never had.
That was how this felt…like a delicate touch. This stare, this attention—it was intimate. The hint of panic receded, utter awareness taking its place.
With her history, thinking someone was watching her every move should make her nervous or afraid. But she wasn’t. Just because she was being stared at didn’t mean any ugly remnants of her past were lurking in the shadows of the gallery. Her instincts whispered this was something different, something new.
She lifted her hand and swiped her hair back over her shoulder. Trying to be unobtrusive, she looked around, hoping discover the person eyeing her. Her stare slid over the crowd. She didn’t see anybody focusing on her enough to make her react so viscerally, though she did catch the gaze of more than one guy who offered a smile. She ignored them, even while the heat of someone’s avid attention bored through her skin.
And then she saw him.
He stood in the back corner of the gallery, half-hidden in shadow. He appeared to be the only person in the place not pressed in the middle of a group. Something about his posture—ostensibly relaxed, but with an almost tangible element of tension—warned anyone not to get too close.
The lights from two nearby alcoves cast enough illumination to show he was tall and wearing a dark suit. His brown hair was shot with gold, but Jess couldn’t make out any of his features. Still, she knew he was the watcher. His eyes reflected a gleam of light, and those eyes were staring at only one thing. Her.
Jess looked away, swallowing nervously. She resisted the urge to lift her hair off the back of her neck again, not because she needed a distraction, but because she was suddenly hot. A thin sheen of perspiration had emerged on her skin, to go along with her thudding heart and choppy breaths. The spot on the base of her spine still tingled. She knew it was bizarre to be reacting like this to the watchfulness of a stranger, but thought wasn’t part of the equation. Her senses and instincts were in charge. She felt as confusingly aroused as a virgin on prom night.
Unable to resist, she glanced at him again. He hadn’t moved, still standing silently in the corner, alone, unapproachable. But when he saw her looking, he leaned forward to meet her gaze, so the light shone on his entire face. Jess sucked in a gasp, pure feminine appreciation flooding through her, and she literally wobbled in her spiky heels. She hadn’t had so much as an ankle tremor when darting between cars on Venice Boulevard, but she was ready to fall over because a stranger’s face shifted the world on its axis.
Calling him handsome would be like calling Mount Everest a hill. He was utterly magnificent, from the top of his tousled hair to his strong forehead, slashing brows, high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, square jaw, and luscious mouth, so serious and unsmiling. The shadows of the room emphasized the stark, sculpted lines of his face, and as he shifted, the light caught those strange, arresting eyes again. She couldn’t determine the color but realized they were practically glowing, the effect nearly animalistic.
Her fanciful writer’s imagination went to dark places and scary stories of vampires and werewolves. Sexy ones. Damn, she really need to reglom True Blood.
Yes, she had a TV obsession. A movie obsession. A Hollywood obsession.
Which made it even crazier that she hadn’t immediately recognized who was staring at her the second she laid eyes on him. But when she heard a whisper nearby—Is it really him? Is that Winchester?—her mind finally kicked back into gear and she realized who, exactly, he was.
Reece Winchester.
The six-year-old girl within her who’d liked him in a Nickelodeon movie smiled. The thirteen-year-old girl who’d crushed on the rebellious, smart-mouthed gang member trying to break out of his deadly world sighed. The fourteen-year-old girl who’d been devastated by the fate of the golden-haired lieutenant who’d stormed the beaches of Normandy wept. The fifteen-year-old girl who’d gone wild over the dreamy nineteenth-century writer with the tragic life and death quivered. And the seventeen-year-old girl who’d fallen wildly in lust with the hot intergalactic playboy/fighter pilot who saved the universe got a little damp in the panties. Every movie in between had only deepened her crush.
Reece Winchester: inspiration for dreams and fantasies. Childhood star turned adult box-office golden boy. Actor. Director. Screenwriter. Moviemaker. Oscar winner. Millionaire. Recluse. Mystery man. And he’s looking right at me.
“Oh, my God,” she mumbled when it all sank in. Her jaw unhinged, but she quickly snapped it shut, wincing as her teeth scraped her tongue. She was supposed to be a professional; she wanted to be part of the movie world, and soon. Getting all tongue-tied and fangirlish over a sex god who was miles out of her league was not the way to get ahead in this town. At least not the way she wanted to get ahead.
Besides, she must have been mistaken. He hadn’t been staring at her. No way. Reece Winchester dated heiresses, models, and actresses. Glamorous sexpots. Not twenty-five-year-old waitresses/college students. Nor could he be as handsome close-up as he’d always looked on the screen…though he looked pretty darn good from thirty feet away, too.
Forcing away the crazy idea somebody like him would give somebody like her a second glance, she deliberately shoved her shoulders back and her chin up, and stepped close to the nearest piece of art, studying it like she intended to do a dissertation on the thing.
Mistake. The piece was a male nude, and she was about eye level with a thickly muscled thigh and a coyly draped crotch.
She fanned her face, remembering the nude scenes from the last movie in which Winchester had appeared. Twisted, an erotic thriller released five years ago, had been scorching. The film had earned its R rating by the skin of its teeth, and it was Winchester’s most popular of his acting career, even if it hadn’t been the one to earn him the Best Actor nomination. After its release, and despite its popularity, he’d stopped acting to focus on scriptwriting and directing. Since he’d been only twenty-five at the time, and was the hottest young star in Hollywood, the moviegoing world had been shocked, twenty-year-old Jess included. But the career-change didn’t appear to have hurt him any.
Jess was so lost in thought about Reece the Superstar she forgot the man was in the room, and that she’d imagined he was staring at her. Which was perhaps why she nearly dropped her glass when she felt a tall, solid form move behind her and heard a man say, “Interesting.”
Smooth voice. Deep, silky. A voice she recognized. She’d heard it on the big screen and the small one, since she had copies of every movie he’d starred in—seven from his childhood years, eight from his adult ones. Was he really talking to her?
“Yes, it is,” she murmured, all calm and collected, like she was not shaking in her consignment store shoes.
“Possibly one of the artist’s earlier efforts.”
Hmm. How had he known? “Yes,” Miss Conversational Genius repeated.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?”
The hint of confidence in the tone told her he knew the answer. Had any woman ever told him to go away because he was bothering her? Huh. Doubtful. “Not at all.”
“Good. What is it called?”
“What we’re doing? I think it’s a conversation.” Jess didn’t know where the snarky response came from, or where she’d gotten the nerve to be all quippy with the guy, but there you go. That was her, always a mouth-off away from catastrophe.
“I meant the sculpture,” he said. No laugh. No humor. Crap.
Realizing they were actually going to have a conversation, and knowing it might require face-to-face interaction, she wondered if she was ready for it. Hesitating, she licked her lips and replied, “It’s called Naked Man.”
“Subtle.”
Knowing it was rude not to face him, she took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder. Lord have mercy.
Deep breaths might be calming in normal situations—like when one was confronted by a repo man repossessing a car. Been there, done that. But they didn’t work at all when looking into the clear amber eyes of a man every woman on the planet fantasized about. His looks made you silently gawk while you tried to figure out why the arrangement of cheek and jaw, mouth and eyes, was so arresting and unforgettable. She interacted with scruffy, shaggy-haired surf-bum types in the bar where she worked, so she’d almost forgotten how appealing a conservative haircut and a smoothly shaven face could be. Not to mention the sexiness of a perfectly tailored power suit, the charcoal color interrupted only by a splash of red in the necktie.
She finally cleared her throat and pushed a few words out. “It is from very early in the artist’s career. How did you know?”
“She draped the sex organs, as if she wasn’t quite ready to go there.”
Jess nodded, wondering if she was truly talking about men’s packages with the sexiest freaking man alive. Was this really happening, or was she hallucinating? Had that stupid bartender slipped GHB in her drink? Damn, if she woke up tomorrow with no memory of what happened, and then found videos of herself on YouTube, she would rip him a new one.
“Even for an early work, though, it’s very good,” he added.
In case this was real, she decided to go with the conversation. “Yes, I’m happy to have seen it coming together.”
“You watched the work in progress?”
“Yes. The model’s a neighbor.”
He was also an actor. Jess had heard he was talented, but she had no firsthand knowledge. His movies were the kind shown in shady theaters on Santa Monica Boulevard, where the guys in the audience wore trench coats and the only women were looking for customers. But he was a hell of a nice guy, as well as being hilarious at parties.
“And the artist?”
“She’s my sister.”
“You have different last names.”
Shocked, she spun all the way around and gaped at him. “How do you know?”
“I asked about you, Jessica.” He didn’t seem at all embarrassed or coy about it; his bluntness was unnerving.
“Asked whom, Reece?”
A faint twinkle in the eyes. “Sharon.”
“You know her?” She was starting to feel like a parrot. “I mean, why would she tell you?”
Why would you ask?
“She’s my partner.”
Confusion dug at her. “Partner…” Then it sank in. “Wait, do you co-own this gallery?”
“I do.”
Wow. She’d had no idea, and she would bet Liza hadn’t either.
Before she could question him again, he elaborated. “Sharon’s also my aunt. She has a good eye, and she likes art. So I supply the money and she does the rest.”
A silent partner. It made sense. A guy like him couldn’t simply open a business. He was too busy running his movie empire, writing and directing hit film after hit film, achieving the kind of superstardom his fans from his childhood-star years could never have envisioned. He might have had only one Oscar nomination for acting; so far, however, for writing and/or directing, he’d added another three nods and two wins. In under six years. Amazing.
“I stay out of it, for the most part.” His voice dropped, and a hint of intensity was audible in his tone. “I just show up when there’s something interesting to see.”
He wasn’t staring at the statue now; he was studying her. Those fascinating brown-gold eyes—a lion’s eyes—swept over her as he assessed her hair, her face, her throat, her lips. Jess’s breath didn’t quite reach her lungs. She got the feeling he was trying to tell her something, as if he’d come here to see her, not Liza’s work, which was crazy since he couldn’t have known she existed until a few minutes ago.
“And you knew there would be something interesting to see tonight?” she prodded, feeling light-headed. His stare was so captivating, the appreciation in his gaze overwhelming. She was probably fumbling, but she had to know if she’d totally misread him.
“I knew.”
He continued to stare, but didn’t smile, nor did he go on. He was cryptic, his speech clipped and deliberate, his mood mysterious. He had sought her out, come over to talk to her, but he wasn’t flirting, and he didn’t appear to be trying to pick her up. As if. Still, his attention was searing, every bit of his focus directed at her. It felt as if they were the only two people here.
Being the object of Reece Winchester’s unfiltered interest was a feeling unlike any she’d experienced before. It had nothing to do with him being a movie star, or even that he was a drop-dead gorgeous, rich, successful one. There was something magnetic about the man himself. A sort of powerful energy throbbed when he was near, and she found herself completely unable to resist the pull of it.
He turned on his heel to look at the sculpture again, the abrupt change of mood startling. “I prefer your sister’s female nudes.”
“You and every other straight dude here.”
He didn’t laugh, or even acknowledge the comment. “In fact, I’ve already bought one.”
“Let me guess—you’re the studio hotshot who snapped up Making Love?”
A slow shake of his head. Right. Left. Center.
The man was so serious, so darned intense. And she was so far out of her depth, she had no idea how she was still even a part of this conversation.
“I had my new purchase removed to a private suite upstairs before the opening, and will have it shipped out to my place tomorrow. I didn’t want anyone else seeing it. I wanted it reserved strictly for my own viewing pleasure.”
Huh. She hadn’t even noticed one missing, and Jess was familiar with all of Liza’s work. Then again, there were sixteen pieces on display, and every display alcove was packed.
She was curious, though. “Which one was it?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
So much for his own viewing pleasure. She had no idea why he was inviting her, nor did he wait for her to agree to come with him. He simply tried to steer her away by placing his hand on the small of her back to edge her through the crowd.
A tiny moan escaped her lips. She quivered and almost stumbled.
Her dress was extremely low cut, front and back. A silky scoop descended to just above her rear. She’d never worn anything like it, mainly because she had never wanted to inflict dreadful boob tape on herself, and there was no way this dress could be worn with a bra. But now she knew the dress was worth the tape, even if she ripped away skin trying to pry it off later. She’d been so worried about the front, and containing her assets, she hadn’t even considered how exposed her lower back would be in the dress. It had never occurred to her to wonder what might happen to her if that oh-so-sensitive spot was on display and practically invited touching.
Now she knew. Fire happened. Lava and wonder and desire and need happened.
As his fingertips brushed against her bare spine, his middle finger dipping low, a hot wave of pulsing desire radiated throughout her body, making her shudder involuntarily. There was the faintest contact, the tiniest stroke of skin on skin, but she felt utterly electrified as sparks of heated sensation spiked through her.
He leaned close to murmur, “Are you all right?”
She swallowed hard, trying to find her vocal cords. “It’s warm and overcrowded.”
Understatement. The tiny touch had aroused her to a point of near insanity. She didn’t imagine that was his intention, but he’d succeeded nonetheless.
“It will be more comfortable upstairs.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll be a big mistake.”
He dropped his hand, not urging her, nor trying to lead the way. It was as if he knew Jess was fighting an inner battle between want and wisdom. He even stepped back an inch, touching her only with his magnetic aura, the decision entirely in her hands.
“It’s your choice. Do you want to come with me, Jessica?”
Damn. She was not the type who wanted a man to call the shots, but it sure would be easier to justify anything that happened by saying he’d swept her off her feet. But he wasn’t going to let her off so easily. It would have to be her choice.
Then she reminded herself: nothing’s gonna happen. He was an unusual man, here alone, probably looking to escape the sycophants by engaging someone as equally alone in conversation. That was it. There was nothing personal, nothing sexual, about the invitation, despite the ambiance.
But his eyes—oh, those eyes—they glowed with something that looked like promise. And, at last, that mouth quirked up the tiniest bit, the sparkle in his eyes accompanying what might, for him, be the beginning of a genuine smile. It was as if he were daring her to give in, to at least go along and see where he might want to take her.
A wise woman would know her limitations and stick to her own side of the playground. This guy played in a whole different league.
The hint of a smile tempted her, though.
She knew Reece wasn’t any of the characters he’d played on the screen; he was a unique person who was good at disappearing into other people’s skin. But she had beheld his gorgeous smile in films, seen the way laugh lines fanned at the corners of his eyes when he was happy. What she was seeing now didn’t come close. She wanted to witness the real thing. Full-throttle warmth and broadly smiling charm from the man himself, not a character he was playing.
She wanted a real smile directed only at her.
So while she knew the wise choice would be to say no—two little letters, one small syllable—she found another word coming into her mouth.
Before she could say it, however, his jaw clenched the tiniest bit. “You decide,” he said, glancing over the crowd toward the front door. “I don’t want to pressure you.”
Little did he know his hint of a smile had already done the trick.
Jess had never pictured herself as the Cinderella type. Well, she’d understood the sitting-in-the-ashes, worked-to-death part. Her days in foster care had given her a graphic lesson in playing that role. She’d just never imagined there could be fairy godmothers, gorgeous gowns, and Prince Charmings whisking girls into their happily ever afters. Or at least their happily-upstairs-in-a-private-suite-with-a-movie-stars.
Hmm. Beth certainly had been her fairy godmother. She was wearing a killer dress. And a Hollywood prince was trying to whisk her away from a big party.
Shit. Maybe she was freaking Cinderella with Christian Dior as her fairy godmother.
“So I’ll tell you what. I’ll wait for you by the elevator in the back hallway in ten minutes. If you’re there, I’ll take you up and show you everything you want to see.”
Oh. He was giving her time to change her mind. In ten minutes, she would certainly come up with a thousand reasons not to go with him. Crap.
You’re going. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and you’re not going to blow it.
Right. She was so gonna be there. Almost certainly. Definitely probably.
But something impertinent and unpredictable made her ask, “And if I’m not?”
He looked down at her. Hesitated. And then said, “If you’re not, I think I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”