In Antelope Valley, I’d felt bold and in control, the sensation of cutting loose and racing Blue down the open road fueling my confidence.

Driving back through the canyon, I’d felt sexy and clever, delighting in my ability to not only surprise Wyatt, but to light that fire of passion in his eyes.

But now, in Santa Monica, all of my strength and confidence is fading, replaced by a flutter of nerves that has me tapping my foot and twisting my skirt in my hand.

And the closer we get to Wyatt’s studio, the more nervous I become. Because I’m not just going to be on display for Wyatt, but for the world. And even though I admire those women who already hang on his walls, I can’t help but hear my father’s voice like a low drone in my ear. An early warning system of some approaching doom that I could have prevented if only I’d been a good girl, the way I was supposed to be.

Wyatt’s studio has access to a multi-level parking garage, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me, frowning slightly. “I lost you somewhere, didn’t I?”

I shake my head and try to conjure a smile. “I’m right here. Really. It’s just nerves.” That, at least, isn’t a lie. “Just the thought of being in front of a camera like that.”

He doesn’t answer for a second, and I’m not sure if he believes me or not. But then he smiles gently and squeezes my hand. “You’ll do great. You already did, remember?”

I laugh. “Yeah, but then I ran.”

“A valid point,” he concedes. “But you’re not going to do that this time.”

“No,” I promise. “I won’t.”

I mean it, too. But that doesn’t still the butterflies in my stomach.

The parking structure exits onto the street, and so instead of entering through the alley and the studio door, we go in through the gallery. It’s a retail space from which Wyatt sells his work, and the walls are covered with stunning landscapes, vivid seascapes, and beautiful architectural shots.

“These are amazing,” I say.

“They’re not bad,” he agrees. “And I’ve been making a decent living. But they’re not my passion. Just like teaching kindergarten isn’t yours.”

I’d been looking at a photograph of a tide pool, but now I tilt my head up to look at him. “Are you lecturing me?”

“Just calling them as I see them. You should be dancing.”

“I dance.”

“Hmm,” he says, which clearly isn’t agreement, but since he’s also not arguing, I move on, hoping to change the subject.

“When did you go to Paris and London?” I ask, pointing to some photos on a far wall. “And is this Moscow?” I turn back to him. “Are these yours?”

“What makes you ask?”

“I don’t know. The style is different. The composition. The use of light. Is it a different technique?”

“You were right the first time. My friend Frank took them. I sublet him studio space on the second floor, and share this part of the gallery with him. He’s in Bali now, I think. Possibly Alaska.”

I laugh. “Well, I hope he packed well.”

“I can’t keep track. Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “The studio’s back here.”

We go down a short hall, and then through a steel door to the familiar studio where I’d come to audition. “This place is bigger than it looks.”

“I have the second floor, too. It has two apartments and a shared kitchen.”

“Do you live here?” The thought amuses me. Like an old-time artist living in a garret.

“Not technically. Frank lives and works in his apartment, but I use the other as an office. It has a Murphy bed, though, and lately I’ve been sleeping here. It’s easier than going home even though I’m just over in Venice Beach.” He smiles at me. “Better now?”

The question surprises me, and I realize that my nerves have faded. “Yeah,” I say. “Better take some pictures quick before the nerves come back.”

“I would, but I think you’ll appreciate me waiting just a little longer.”

I don’t know what he means until he pulls out his phone and sends a text. A second later I hear a door open above us, then I see two sets of legs descending the stairs on the far side of the room. A moment later, I see who the legs are attached to, a lanky guy with a mop of dark hair that he wears in a man-bun, and a petite blonde in very impractical heels.

“Kelsey, this is Jon Paul, my assistant.”

“Just JP,” the guy says.

Wyatt turns his attention to the girl. “And you are . . .?” He trails off, and she thrusts out her hand toward him.

“Leah,” she says. “I’m Siobhan’s intern. She sent me over to drop off some mockups for the front of the catalog.”

“They’re on your desk,” JP says. He looks at me. “Is she—I mean, are you—”

“She’s just here for an audition,” Wyatt says, then shoots me a warning look before I have the chance to ask him what the hell he means.

Leah looks at me. “I hope you get it. The show’s so exciting. And the press is going to be all over it. Roger Jensen’s already said he’s going to cover it.”

“Who’s that?” I ask, and Leah looks at me as if I asked who Neil Armstrong was.

“He’s an editor with the Pacific Shore Art Examiner, and he’s brilliant. Plus, he has a syndicated column.”

“Oh, well. Then that’s great,” I say, surprised that Wyatt doesn’t look more pleased by news of the coverage.

“We were just about to head out,” JP says. “I finished working on the plans with Mike, so he’s good to go on the construction. But if you need me to help set up for Kelsey’s audition, I can stay.”

“You go on,” Wyatt says. “I’ve got it.”

“Great meeting you,” Leah says, with a little wave to both of us.

JP says the same to me, and then they both head out. As soon as the door shuts behind them, I turn back to Wyatt. “Auditioning?”

“You’re anonymous,” he retorts, and I nod with sudden understanding.

“There’s no way around JP, I’m afraid. But there’s no need for an intern to know who you are. Hell, I’ll keep it from Siobhan if I can. What?” he asks, peering at me.

I realize I’m smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt. “Nothing. It just feels nice to be taken care of.”

“I like taking care of you,” he says in a way that makes me feel all soft and gooey inside. “Speaking of. How are you doing? Butterflies still gone?”

“They’re starting to come back,” I admit.

He takes my hand and leads me over to the wall, then pulls the drape off one of the pictures. It’s a woman standing in a steamy shower, her body dappled with soap bubbles. She’s stroking herself, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, and she’s biting her lower lip in a way that makes it clear she isn’t just washing.

But at the same time, she’s staring straight through the water and the steam at the camera, at the audience. And she’s bold and beautiful and unashamed.

“Remember what you told me in the parking lot?” he asks. “That you saw beauty and strength in my photos? Well, that’s what I see in you. That’s what the camera will see.”

I gather his words and wrap them around my heart, wishing I could keep them with me always, because they calm me. More than that, they strengthen me.

“I’m sorry to be nervous,” I say.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“Then we’ll do just fine.” He nods toward the bed, still set up as a set. “Are you ready?”

“Don’t I need a mask or something?”

“No. I want to see you. But I’ll make sure to block your face later. There’s a lot I can do in the darkroom, okay?”

“Darkroom?”

“I mean that in the broad sense,” he says. “The show is a combination of images I’ve captured both digitally and on film. Some prints are purely digital. Some are purely film. Some are a mix. So when I talk about the darkroom, I’m talking either the literal room, or a figurative digital darkroom.”

“I know nothing about photography,” I tell him. “But I’m impressed.”

He laughs. “Very glad to hear it.”

“Do I need makeup?”

“Not tonight. For one, I’ll be masking your face. For another, I’m shooting digital tonight, and we’ll just do one or two poses to get you warmed up. I’m not even going to worry too much about the lighting. Just a little bit of reflected light and we’ll be good to go.” He smiles. “So, are you ready?”

I nod, though I’m not at all certain, and he sends me off to the bathroom to change into the fluffy robe again. “There’s lingerie in a bureau in there,” he tells me. “I have a slew of designers donating to me. Pick a thong you like and wear it under the robe.”

He isn’t kidding about the lingerie. The chest is crammed full of silk and satin in a variety of colors. I choose a thong in a deep purple. Then swallow hard when I realize he didn’t tell me to choose a bra.

When I return to the studio, I have the robe cinched tight around my waist and feel a bit like a housewife. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” I tell him. I haven’t touched it since I took it out of the elastic, and it’s wild and wind-tousled. “If you hand me my purse, I can brush it out.”

“Not a chance. You look sex-rumpled and amazing. Which is pretty much the look I’m going for. Come on over here and climb onto the bed.”

I do, then follow his instructions until I’m kneeling on the bed, my knees together and my rear on my heels. My back is straight, and pressed against the post. And my left arm is out of the robe, which hangs loose on that side.

“Good,” he says.

“That’s it?”

He chuckles. “No. That’s a start.”

He stands back, then rakes his eyes over me, his careful inspection firing my senses. And, oddly, settling my nerves.

After a moment, he turns around and moves a white screen that’s a few yards away from the bed. I realize it’s reflecting light, presumably for a softer effect.

He walks around me, then makes a few more adjustments, lost in his work. It’s fascinating watching him, and the last wisps of nervousness fade away as I realize that I’m a part of this world that he loves, and essential to what he’s trying to accomplish.

After a moment, he comes over to me sporting a wicked grin. “The lighting’s set. Now it’s time to work on you.”

“Right,” I say, expecting the nerves to return. But they don’t. Because now I’m in Wyatt’s hands, and I know he’ll take care of me.

“We’re going to do a lot of vignettes over the next few days, and I’ll pick the eight best. Some in a kitchen. Some at a desk. Some out in the world. Each one is supposed to tell a mini-story. And they build to a sensual climax—that’s the dance. You’ll still be anonymous, but you will need a mask for that. We’ll film it opening night, and use that film for the run of the show.”

“Do you need me to choreograph it?” The idea excites me. I’ve done choreography, but never with such an intimate purpose.

“Can you?”

I nod enthusiastically, and he smiles. “Well, then I guess we make a good team,” he says, and I swallow a happy sigh.

“This is the lovers’ vignette,” he says, indicating me and the post. “He’s gone away, and he wants to be sure she waits for him. So he binds her to the post.” He slides his hand up my left side, his skin grazing mine so softly I have to bite my lip to keep from trembling.

And then, when his hand brushes the curve of my breast, and then strokes higher, teasing my nipple, I bite my lip even harder.

My breasts ache, and my nipple tightens, and I fight a whimper because I want his touch. But he doesn’t satisfy my craving. Instead, his hand continues upward until he reaches my arm. And then, very gently, he raises it. Then he uses the sash of the robe to tie my wrist to the pole.

“Once bound, her lover goes away,” Wyatt continues. “But he’s gone too long. She’s lonely. Frustrated. And her thoughts turn to what will happen when he gets back. But she’s impatient and doesn’t want to wait. With her right hand, she emulates her lover’s touch.”

Now, he lifts my hand and places my palm over my breast. His eyes meet mine, and as he moves my hand so that my palm lightly strokes my nipple, I see the flare of heat, and feel a corresponding tug between my thighs.

His lips curve up, as if he’s perfectly aware of my reaction, and as he watches my face, he gently removes my hand and slides it down my belly until my fingertips graze the elastic band of the thong.

“She imagines his touch,” he says, as he slides his palms down my thighs, urging them apart until I’m kneeling with my knees spread so far I’m almost doing the splits. He takes my right hand again, then places it on my inner thigh, covered by his own hand. “She strokes herself,” he says, sliding my hand up until my fingertips graze the thin strip of material that is the crotch of the panties. “Teases and plays with herself as she waits for him, getting wetter and wetter and more and more turned on.”

He moves my hand so that my fingers slide under the thin material and I’m cupping myself. “She’s wet,” he whispers, and I am, and I want him.

“So very wet. And she waits, longing for him. She closes her eyes,” he says, as I do exactly that. “And as she thinks of him, she strokes herself. Teasing and touching and desperately wanting.”

He pulls his hand away, but as he does I feel his breath at my ear as he whispers. “You’re so lovely. Don’t stop. And don’t open your eyes.”

I make a little whimpering sound, but I do as he says, feeling the bed shift slightly. My fingers slide over my slick skin, and I gasp when I hear the distinctive click of a camera. My eyes flutter open, but Wyatt shakes his head. “No. Don’t stop. I want to watch you.”

He lowers the camera, and there’s a wild heat in his eyes that fires through me. I don’t know if he wants me, or if he just wants the shot, but I’m so aroused now I don’t care. I close my eyes again and do as he asks, feeling my body firing as the camera clicks and whirrs again and again and again.

When I’m close—desperately close—he tells me to open my eyes. I do, and find him sitting at the other end of the bed. “You’re amazing,” he says. “That was incredible.”

“Oh.” I press my thighs together, suddenly shy.

He comes to me, and I anticipate his touch. Bold and hard and demanding. His hands on my breasts. His mouth on my skin.

I expect him to finish what I started. To quell this need he’s fired inside me.

I expect all that . . . but all he does is untie my hand. “I think we may have a good one among all those shots.”

I frown, confused by both his words and by the fact that he’s backed away to sit on the far side of the bed again. “Only one good one? I thought—”

“What?”

I swallow, blushing. “Just that I thought you were probably getting a lot of good shots.”

“Definitely,” he says, and there’s so much heat and desire in his voice that I’m even more confused. “You were exceptional. But I meant good for the show. And for those, I’m incredibly picky.”

I frown and he laughs. “Photography’s a numbers game sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you go get dressed?”

Disappointment cuts through me. “Um, okay. I’ll change and head home.” I’m feeling overly exposed, and confused enough that getting out of there seems like a good idea. “What time do you want me back tomorrow?”

“How about eight. If we’re cramming the shoot into five days, I’m afraid they should be long ones.”

“Okay. Sure.” I stand awkwardly. “I’ll just go change.”

He reaches out to touch my arm as I start to walk to the bathroom. “It’s a long drive to Valencia. Maybe you should stay.”

I look at the bed. “Here?”

“I was thinking you could stay in my office. You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh.” A fresh shock of disappointment cuts through me. Considering he’d demanded I remove my panties in the car, I’d been expecting something much different here. Maybe he was just trying to keep me comfortable during the shoot. But that’s done, and if we’re going to his bedroom . . .

To say I’m confused would be an understatement. Especially since I flat out told him I wanted to—as he put it—be bad.

So where on earth is the badness?

“Kelsey?”

“I guess,” I say. And then, because it really is a long drive, I say, “Yeah. Actually, that would be great.”

He tells me to grab a nightgown out of the bureau, which I do, then I follow him up the stairs. He’s a perfect gentleman. Pulling out the Murphy bed. Making sure I’m comfortable. Telling me he’ll be right on the other side of the room if I need anything.

And then he goes off to the couch, and I slide under the covers, and I lie there, absolutely unable to sleep. Because, seriously, what is going on here?

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Wyatt?” I whisper to the dark. “Are you awake?”

“Do you need something?”

“Answers,” I say.

“Answers?”

“You told me I had to do what you said in front of the camera and in your bed.”

“And you did. You were great today.”

I frown. “Yeah, but I thought—” I cut myself off. What am I supposed to say? That I thought he was going to touch me? That I thought he was going to take me to bed? I did think all that, but I’m not sure I want to admit it out loud.

Except I want to know.

“I guess I thought you were going to touch me . . . more.”

“Did you?” His words are casual, but I think I hear a thread of heat under them.

I consider turning on a light since I can’t see his face, and on the one hand, that bothers me. But on the other, it gives me courage.

“Yeah,” I admit. “And don’t tell me I had the wrong impression. That’s what you said from the beginning. So why didn’t you?”

“A few reasons,” he says. “For one, it was a dick move for me to insist on that in the first place. I was pissed at you, and it was stupid and manipulative. For that matter, it was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“I won’t sue,” I say dryly, earning a laugh.

“Well, the biggest reason is that you didn’t want me to.”

I sit up in bed. “Wait. What? I never said that.”

“You did,” he insists. “In the car. You talked about what the women on my walls would want, and how you wanted to be like them. Well, tell me, Kelsey, would those women wait? I mean, if there was a man they wanted, would they hesitate at all?”

I’m silent.

“But I guess that’s the real question,” he continues. “Is there a man you want?”

My heart jumps a little in my chest. And when I answer, it’s a whisper. “Actually, there might be.”

“In that case,” he says, “I think you should go after him.”