One minute Reece had been with the most stunning woman here, touching the soft, creamy skin at her back, entranced by her husky voice and the sparkle in her brown eyes, more fascinated with her by the second. The next, he’d spied Rowan at the door and had begun swimming through the crowd, wondering if he’d missed his shot with the redhead.
As he made his way across the gallery toward his sibling, however, he did feel a hint of pleasure. He and Rowan were close, but their busy schedules meant they didn’t see each other often. Since the house fire two months ago, Reece had moved into a rental place up in the hills—very private, very secluded. He wasn’t doing a lot of traveling, so he didn’t have to leave Cecil B. with Rowan. Normally, he’d like this reunion. But his seventeen-minutes-younger twin definitely had bad timing.
She’ll be waiting. She had to be. Their chemistry was too strong for her to resist. And if she wasn’t? Well, he’d just have to entice her all over again. Despite what he’d told her about regret, he wasn’t going to let her go without taking another shot.
“Reece, wait.”
He paused as someone snagged his sleeve. Surprised, he turned around and saw a middle-aged woman with coarse, gray-streaked hair scooped up on one side and secured with a flower. She looked familiar, and wore a dreamy expression he’d seen on the faces of many women before her. He inwardly flinched, steeling himself for what he knew was coming.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Uh…yes.”
“I’ve missed you.”
Missed him? Did she even know him? “Look, I…”
“You don’t remember me.”
He racked his brain, to no avail. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Her hopeful smile tightened. “Of course, why would you remember? We only met twice. Anyway, I need to talk to you. I was hoping we could slip away for a minute. Maybe upstairs?”
Her suggestion was too much like what he’d asked of Jess a few minutes ago for his comfort. Had she been eavesdropping? Damn, couldn’t he get a single night out without his privacy being invaded?
“Hey, bro, how’s it going?” Rowan came in to save the day, as he often did when he knew Reece had been cornered by some determined, hopeful fan. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Rowan continued with a friendly smile, “but I haven’t seen my brother in ages, and we have a lot to catch up on. Family stuff. You understand.”
The stranger’s eyes narrowed, and Reece noticed her fists curling at her sides. So. She was that type of fan. His stomach clenched and he stiffened, knowing she didn’t want an autograph. She had personalized their relationship in her mind. She thought he returned her feelings.
He knew from experience he couldn’t give her the slightest hint of encouragement. He hated to play the role of shitty ex–movie star, but he knew it was for the best. “If you’d like an autographed photo, you’re welcome to contact my office. We’re online.”
“I have one,” she snapped before whirling around and stalking away.
“Gee,” said Rowan. “Was it something I said?”
“No. I think it was the fact that I have no clue who she is.”
“Stalker fan?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“You’re just a chick magnet…Eddie.”
Shaking his head, Reece resisted the impulse to punch his fraternal twin in the jaw.
“You gonna say thanks for my timely arrival?”
“It might have been timely in one regard, but definitely not in another.”
He didn’t mention he’d been about to take a stunning redhead up to the private viewing room. This crowd was filled with people he didn’t know and had no interest in talking to, and people he did know—who interested him even less. He’d wanted to get away, to be with her, and the invitation to come upstairs had seemed like the perfect way to do it.
Then his brother had come in. No way could he have whisked Jessica out of the gallery and up the elevator without Rowan seeing. And following. Rowan would have enjoyed being the kink in the hose.
“I told Aunt Sharon I’d be here,” Rowan replied, apparently not noticing he didn’t have Reece’s full attention.
“She’ll be pleased,” he murmured.
“Don’t think Raine’s gonna make it, though.”
Reece wasn’t surprised. Their baby brother, Raine, an ex-soldier and current security company owner, was bodyguarding a dimpled darling of the cinema. Not only was Raine not the art gallery type, but this exhibit wasn’t suitable for an eight-year-old movie starlet. Then again, Rowan, a police detective, wasn’t exactly the art gallery type either. Yet here he was. That said something about how much they loved Aunt Sharon.
“So, how’s it going, Georgie?” he replied, getting his brother back for calling him Eddie.
Rowan held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, keep your voice down, we’re even.”
“We’ll never be even. Georgie is far worse than Eddie.”
Their birth names had been a dreaded family secret since the kids were old enough to start school and understand firsthand what the word bully meant. Fortunately, with the two of them sticking together, they’d usually managed to come out on top. Until they’d moved to Hollywood, become child actors, and learned the real meaning of the word bully.
He shook his head, not wanting to think those thoughts. That they weren’t usually on his mind said a lot about how far he’d come. He only wondered if his brothers had, too.
“Tell me about it,” Rowan said with a heavy sigh. “I guess that’s one thing we’ll always have to thank Mom for…even if Dad will call us by our given names from now until eternity.”
That was understandable since he was never happy she had them legally changed.
Reece smiled faintly as he thought of their dad, a hardworking electrician. Reece had stayed with him for a week after the fire, enjoying the time alone with the happy retiree.
The fact that all the brothers had kept the names their manager/mother had sued to give them when they were kids said a lot about how much they’d disliked the ones they’d been given at birth: Edward, George, and Thomas. Few people knew their birth names. For decades, the world had known them as Reece, Rowan, and Raine Winchester, having watched them grow up on the small screen, and the big one, from the time the twins were seven and Raine just a baby.
And Rachel, of course. Their older sister, destined for stardom, the teenage drama queen.
Long gone, but not forgotten. At least not by her younger brothers.
Although none of them were actors any longer, the names still worked. Rowan sounded like the kind of guy who bloodhounded his way through crime investigations, as his brother did in the police department. Raine was pretty good for a man who rained down holy hell on potential kidnappers or stalkers as the owner of a private security company specializing in child-actor protection.
Reece? Well, it probably didn’t matter if the world knew his birth name was Edward, but he’d gotten used to it. Though, considering his real name was so average it might have gotten him off the damn cover of People magazine several years ago, he probably should’ve changed it back. Eddie didn’t sound like the “Sexiest Man Alive,” an honor he would gladly have done without.
“So, truce?” Rowan asked, flashing a grin.
“Truce,” Reece said, forgiving him for the name bit, even if he hadn’t quite forgiven him for interrupting his time with Jessica. He gave his sibling a quick backslap.
“How’s everything going?” Rowan asked. “Your latest project coming along well?”
“Actually, yes. It’s even under budget.”
“No way. Nice.” Rowan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “And any news about the house?”
Reece took a deep breath. “No, nothing yet.”
“The lead detective who’s working on it is good. He’ll crack it.”
“Before the new place is burned to the ground, too?” Reece had hired security to keep an eye on the construction of what would be his new house, but still…
“Just be thankful you weren’t in it.”
“Huh. Maybe if I had been, I could have caught the asshole in the act.”
“Or you might have died in your bed.” His usually cheerful brother sounded concerned.
“Don’t go there. I’m a light sleeper.”
“Not if you’re breathing smoke. Besides, if you had woken up and found somebody in your house, you probably would have beaten the crap out of him and gotten yourself sued.”
It sounded crazy, considering he’d been the victim, but he knew his brother was right.
Although the harassment had begun when he was a kid, he’d never gotten used to it or been very patient about it. This time, it wasn’t merely tearstained letters, intrusive photographs, pleas for kisses, or phone calls that kept requiring him to change his number. His home had been destroyed. Someone could have been killed. He wasn’t about to take that lightly.
Reece fucking hated feeling stalked. The sooner they caught the arsonist, the saner he would feel. Knowing somebody out there was living only to mess with him was enough to drive him out of his mind.
“Okay, enough about the fire. Seeing anyone?”
“No.” Not yet, anyway. Raising a brow, he added, “Speaking of which, you still owe me one for introducing you to Miss People’s Choice Award last month.”
His brother, broader and darker than Reece, smirked. “How about I pay you back by not making a play for the redhead you were chatting up when I got here?”
Reece’s good humor faded. He and Rowan had always enjoyed a friendly rivalry when it came to women, though never for long. Reece had an unfair advantage here in Hollywood, and he knew it, so if he and Rowan had their eyes on the same female, he usually bowed out.
But not this time. Oh, hell no. “Hands off.”
“You didn’t just call dibs on a woman. What are we, middle schoolers?”
“Don’t even think about it. Not her.” She’d been his object of fascination for two months, since the day he’d seen her through the security system. He wasn’t about to let his competitive brother interfere, which Rowan might, if only for a prank. He had that younger twin humor thing down pat. Some might consider it strange, given his career choice, but Reece would bet few at the LAPD knew about Rowan’s mischievous side.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes I am. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get to know her.”
Getting Aunt Sharon to set up this showing had been challenging. Yes, she loved the art Liza Shepherd had created, as did Sid. But the artist had no reputation, no name recognition, no guaranteed high price point, nothing to bring wealthy people in to spend a lot of money on her work. It had been a gamble.
By the looks of things, the gamble had paid off exponentially. The show was a great success. He’d seen several people handing over gold cards to the cashier. Sharon would be happy, Sid would be thrilled with his commission, Liza would be suitably proud.
It was all thanks to the redhead, who’d jogged in off the beach and pitched for her sister. Jessica Jensen. The woman he hoped was waiting for him by the elevator.
“Oh, shit, I can’t believe it,” Rowan muttered, dropping the subject completely. His whole body stiffening, he stared past Reece’s shoulder, toward the gallery entrance. “It’s Steve Baker. When did he get back in town?”
It was Reece’s turn to stiffen as tension wired through his body. He hadn’t seen Steve in years. Like Rowan, he’d had no idea the man was back.
Why he was at the gallery was anybody’s guess. Maybe he was trying to rekindle old friendships, if you could call them that. They’d known the guy as kids, when his star had been on the rise playing a wisecracking teen. But considering how the friendship had ended, he and Rowan could have done without the reunion tonight. Or ever.
“If it isn’t the Winchester twins,” Steve said, his face breaking into a grin as he walked up to them. Steve had always been tall; now he was a little overweight and a very big guy. “Long time no see.”
While Reece’s guts twisted, Rowan managed to look normal. Who ever knew the cop would be the better actor? “How’s it going, Steve?”
“Pretty good. I’ve been working a lot in Italy.”
Reece had heard the man, once a teen idol—part of the Frat Pack, as Steve and several other teens, including Rachel, had been dubbed all those years ago—had been making B movies in Europe. Too bad he hadn’t stayed there.
“Nice,” said Rowan.
When are you going back? Reece thought the words but didn’t say them.
All he wanted to do was get away, to forget the ugly past. He wanted to focus on the future—namely, one dazzling night with Jessica Jensen. But some dark history hung like a storm cloud, always threatening to peal thunder and to lightning bolt his life straight to hell.
Steve Baker was a stark reminder of all the things Reece wanted to forget: loss, grief, anger, rage, violence. Worse. But Reece couldn’t reveal his true reaction. He could show nothing, let nothing slip. He and Rowan had worked too hard to forget those dark days.
The last thing they could allow was for his late sister’s boyfriend to dig up the ugly past all the Winchesters wanted to remain buried.
* * *
Jess waited for nine and a half minutes before heading toward the back hallway. She had made the decision to go upstairs with Reece Winchester as soon as he’d issued the invitation, and then had changed her mind a dozen and a half times. She’d been playing the pluck-petals-off-a-daisy game in her mind. I will go, I will not.
She’d ended on I will go. Maybe by cheating. Probably by cheating.
She didn’t question her final decision. It might be the best one of her life, or the worst. She didn’t think she’d care either way. Jess had always been one to take chances. Coming out here to pursue her writing dreams had been taking a chance. Walking into the gallery that day had been another. Without risk, there could never be reward.
What reward Reece Winchester might have in store for her upstairs, she didn’t know. But she was going to find out.
Casually moving through the crowd, Jess offered the faintest of discouraging smiles to anyone who tried to approach her. She was also taken aback to see a couple of hard stares from women, perhaps jealous because she’d been engaged in a private conversation with Mr. Superstar. A platinum blonde—perfect for a role as the evil ex—huffed and rolled her eyes as Jess walked by. One older woman with long salt-and-pepper hair, wearing an ill-fitting, though expensive, black dress, glared at her pointedly, muttering what sounded like a slur under her breath.
The dislike wafting off complete strangers was palpable. If a simple conversation garnered such anger, she felt sorry for anybody who actually got involved with the famous movie star/director. Which she would not. Ever. Period.
As she meandered through the gallery, she avoided making eye contact with Liza, who was surrounded by admirers. She headed toward the back hallway, where, she recalled, there were small studios, a conference room, and an elevator leading to what she assumed were upstairs offices. But before she even got close to it, she felt a light touch of warm fingers on the small of her back. A quick inhalation brought the unmistakable scent of his cologne, and his presence was confirmed when he moved beside her, his breath warm on her temple.
“You’ve decided?”
“How do you know I’m not going to the bathroom?” Smart, Jess, talk about bodily functions with Mr. Hollywood, why don’t you? “Umm, to touch up my makeup.”
“You don’t need to. Plus, the ladies’ room is in the other direction.”
Defeat made her sigh. “Okay then, yes, I was heading toward the elevator.”
“I know. You couldn’t resist.”
Damn, he was holding on to his advantage. “No, I suppose I couldn’t. I do want to see it, if you still want to show it to me.”
Good lord, from bad to worse. Jess was flirtatious, but she’d put her hand on a Bible and swear she hadn’t been going for sexy, saucy innuendo. The man just screwed up her thoughts and left her brains scrambled.
“I mean, your piece.”
Wondering if he was laughing at her idiocy, she quickly glanced over, noting his serious expression. She also noticed the tension in his strong body, and a faint frown he couldn’t entirely erase. Something had bothered him during the ten minutes they’d been apart, but he was obviously trying to put it aside.
“My piece?”
“The piece of art you bought previously and are having delivered to your house,” she spelled out, feeling ridiculous.
“I know what you meant.”
Of course he did. “I’ve been trying to figure out which one it is,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t get close to any of the ones still on the floor.”
“You’ll know everything shortly.”
Everything? Well, maybe. Every bit of him was launching an attack on her senses. Thought had no place in this. Twenty minutes ago, she was a rational, slightly stubborn, more than a little snarky woman in a blue dress. Now she was a walking nerve ending, exposed, jangled, and raw.
He was stared at, and a few people tried to speak to him, but he had that Hollywood-bad-boy aloofness down to an art form. Jess, too, was gawked at, even glared at by those jealous of his attention to her—men and women. Yet the crowd melted out of their way, letting him take her off like a tribal leader ushering a virgin toward a rumbling volcano. Did that make her a human sacrifice? How funny that, right now, she truly didn’t care. She wouldn’t be able to protest if she wanted to.
They reached the back hallway, and he stopped before the elevator. Reece punched in four digits, ushering her inside when the door swished open, and followed her into the mirrored interior. As the door closed, leaving her alone in a small space with the man, tension roared again. Not fear, God no, but the most visceral awareness she’d ever experienced with another human being. She saw each individual golden-brown hair on his head, the flecks of light and dark swirling in his pupils, the smoothness of his masculine jaw, and the breadth of the powerful shoulders straining against the perfectly tailored fabric of his jacket.
Jess found it hard to breathe. She’d never had a panic attack in her life, had been accused of not having a fear gene, but she was well on the way to freaking out here. So she looked for something to say—anything—to make this moment normal, and less sacrificial-virgin-heading-toward-the-volcano.
Unfortunately, stupid fangirl came out. “Did you ever regret not doing James Bond?”
One brow went up.
Swallowing, feeling dumb, she went on. “I mean, when they wanted you to do the James Bond as a kid movie. Every young actor in the world wanted it, but you walked away.”
In fact, he’d walked away from Hollywood completely for several years. She’d heard stories about a dispute between his parents—his mother in California wanting to keep her kids in the spotlight, versus the father who lived on the East Coast and wanted his children away from the movie scene. There had also been a lot of speculation about the death of their sister, the golden-girl Rachel, a TV star. Many had assumed the family tragedy was what had driven the boys out of the business.
Reece had left acting as a still-cute kid with a dimple, but he’d come back as a drop-dead gorgeous eighteen-year-old with an attitude and table-broad shoulders.
His jaw stiffened a tiny bit. “I take it you were disappointed by my decision?”
“I was eight years old at the time. Of course I was disappointed. The world revolved around me, don’t you know?”
“I’m sure it did. The truth is, I didn’t like the director.”
A thirteen-year-old backing out of a potential blockbuster because he didn’t like the director. What a world he must have grown up in. “I see.”
As if realizing how that might have sounded, he went further, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “I really didn’t like him.” He grunted.
She sensed a story, judging by his audible disgust. “Oh?”
“Let’s say he’s no longer in the business. I might have helped him get that way.”
Wow. Definitely a story. Jess was dying to know more, but a quick shake of his head told her he’d pushed the subject out of bounds.
“Plus I was burned out.”
Burned out. At thirteen. Maybe her childhood wasn’t the absolute worst in the world.
He wasn’t finished. “When you were thirteen were you certain you were doing exactly what you wanted to do for the rest of your life?”
“I was just happy I had a roof over my head,” she admitted with an unamused laugh.
The elevator reached its destination and the door swished open with a soft ding. But rather than stepping out, or gesturing for her to, Reece pushed a button to keep the door open, and focused his attention on her. “Are you being facetious?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Add orphanages and foster care to the typical zits and angst and you’ll have a good picture of me as a tween.”
A frown pulled at his strong brow. “You were an orphan?”
“I’m not little and my name’s not Annie, so don’t go feeling sorry for me.”
“You’re perfect, and as I recall, her story had a happy ending.”
The You’re perfect part almost went right past her, but since the words were accompanied by a quick, appreciative stare, she grabbed them and clutched them to her heart like a pair of lost Jimmy Choos. “My story had a happy ending, too,” she said, managing to keep her tone conversational. “No Daddy Warbucks, but Liza’s mom found me and adopted me.”
“Found you? Did you run away?”
“A few times, but that’s not what I meant. Liza and I were best friends in elementary school,” she explained. “But she moved to another town and we lost touch. Then my mother died and I ended up in foster care. Liza’s mom later heard about it and got me out after two years.”
“Two years,” he murmured, appearing thoughtful. “At such a difficult age.”
“That’s when I met you,” she admitted, offering him a cheeky smile. “Whenever I lived anywhere near a movie theater, I’d go there to escape. I got really good at slipping in with big families. I would park myself in a theater and stay all day to avoid going to wherever home was.”
“Good for you.”
“You didn’t say any of the things people usually say when they hear my history.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘You poor thing.’ Or,” she added with an eye roll and a grunt, “my personal favorite, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’”
“What an awful saying,” he said, sharp, almost angry. “No child needs to be that strong.”
“I agree. And something tells me you have reason to know that, too. Don’t you?”
His stare met hers, those strange eyes laced with mystery. She suddenly realized she’d told him a lot about herself, and he’d revealed nothing more than she could have discovered in a copy of the National Enquirer. Damn, she really needed to learn the art of being mysterious and circumspect.
Seeing how stiff he’d become, and feeling his tension, she cursed herself for her words. He probably thought she was groping for details about his famous, tragic sister. She really hadn’t been. Honestly, Rachel Winchester’s story was far too common in Hollywood. Young teen gets famous, makes a lot of money, falls in with the wrong crowd, starts doing drugs. She gets so strung out one night she falls—or, some say jumps—off the balcony of a high-rise hotel in Atlanta. So sad. But not exactly uncommon.
No, her real object of curiosity was Reece himself. She wanted to know why he’d come back to Hollywood like a young man on a mission, driven and laser-focused, making a half-dozen movies before practically flipping the bird at everyone and quitting acting to move behind the camera when he was in his prime. A mystery lurked there, which was why she’d made the comment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t…”
“Forget it.” Finally letting go of the open-door button, he added, “Come and see my latest obsession.”
She followed him out. “You’re obsessed with a statue?”
“I like perfection,” he admitted, walking down a hallway lit with soft, recessed lights.
Everything about the gallery below was tasteful. Up here, it verged on opulent. The fixtures were ornate, the hallway lined with art by masters she’d actually heard of.
She followed, noting the silence as her high heels sank into the plush carpet, until they reached the last door in the hall. Unlocking the door, he remained back for her to enter ahead of him. She did so, stepping into blackness, and then waited for him to turn on the overhead light.
He didn’t. Instead, he reached around her to push the door shut, enclosing them in the private room. His hand brushed her arm as he moved. The connection was brief and light, but it came from out of the darkness, surprising her. She managed to keep her moan behind her lips, knowing if those fingertips had again found her hot spot and lingered there, she would have dropped to the floor on hands and knees and begged him to kiss his way down her spine.
One floor below, two hundred people were talking, chatting, buying art, and selling themselves. But she felt cocooned, wrapped in a silky layer of secrecy. His low exhalations were barely audible above the raging thud of her own heartbeat, and she waited for another touch.
The tension rose, becoming almost unbearable. His breath warmed her temple as he moved around her. God, was he going to kiss her? She didn’t want him to do that in the dark. She wanted it to be bright, with lights, music, cymbals clashing, if only so she could make herself believe it was really happening, and imprint the memory on her all of her senses.
He moved past her toward a dais. One of Liza’s statues stood on it. She saw the faint outline, the gleam of soft grayish white, but couldn’t distinguish which piece it was.
The air was somehow expectant, and she had the strangest feeling she was acting out a script someone just shoved into her hand. She didn’t understand the story, or the characters, or the motivations. He was totally in control—the director. He knew who she was. He’d sought her out. He’d gotten her alone.
What was he planning? What would happen next? Would someone yell, “That’s a wrap,” and cut the scene? Most importantly—what, exactly, was the rating on this film of her life?
There was a clicking sound, and then tiny lights on the base of the platform shone up, illuminating the piece from below. Jess saw it, recognized it, and sighed.
Touch Me.
She was not surprised. It seemed impossible, yet somehow inevitable, that this would be the sculpture he bought, the one he wanted to show her. Fate seemed to be playing tricks on her, setting her up but not cluing her in to the fact that she was being carried on a random current or drawn onto a twisty path by forces she never knew existed.
“This is my favorite,” he said, watching her, speculation in his gaze.
Swallowing hard, she tried to find her voice. Could this be deliberate, and not fate?
Reece Winchester’s favorite piece of Liza’s art happened to be Touch Me. And she was in it. Jess was the one touching herself.
No, there was no way he knew, not when Liza made sure to change the features and shape of the face, with only the barest hint of her real lips and jaw. The eyes, nose, cheeks, forehead, and hair were not hers. From the neck down, she looked just like any other curvy young woman. No. He had no idea she’d been the model; he’d just gotten her alone and was trying to get a rise out of her for some reason.
If so, wow, had his plan backfired. All she could think when she look at the statue was that she needed to hit the StairMaster, because her thighs were getting a wee bit thick.
“I imagine you can see why I wanted to keep it all for myself,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”
Jess couldn’t help warming under the admiration, even if he was just admiring Liza’s skill. “And you’ve already bought it?”
“Yes. I knew the moment I saw her I had to have her.”
Whoa. His expression was covetous, his voice thick and heavy. She again caught a double meaning. Did he mean the her sculpted out of clay, or the her standing nearby?
No. It was the damn statue. He had no idea who she was. It needed to stay that way.
Remaining cool, she asked, “Do you always get what you want?”
“Always, Jessica.”
Her heart skipped a beat. His voice throbbed with intensity. The words weren’t a boast; they were a promise.
“Lucky you,” she said, feigning nonchalance, wondering if he could sense her blood was racing through her veins. Seeing the way he eyed the statue, knowing she was the one whose naked form he was appreciating—even if he didn’t realize it—gave her a wicked, secret thrill. What, she wondered, would he say if he knew she was the one shown, naked, half reclining, her hand between her legs?
One thing was for sure—nobody who knew the truth would call her Cinderella again.
He leaned against the back of a nearby sofa, crossed his arms in front of his broad chest, and stared at her. The pose was utterly masculine, the attention unnerving, as if he was waiting for something. Finally, she realized he was expecting her to react to the statue.
“Uh, well, congratulations on getting to it first. It’s nice.”
“You think so?” he asked, his tone casual, his body powerful. She was again reminded of a lion trying to figure out whether he’d prefer a tasty gazelle or a yummy zebra.
“Sure.”
Tsking, he shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?” she whispered through dry lips.
“Nice isn’t the word. She’s magnificent.”
Straightening, he glided toward her, moving silently. Predator and prey. She didn’t even think about it and took a quick, involuntary step back.
He followed. Crowding her. He was close, so very close. He radiated heat, making her sway a little. Reece obviously had no concept of personal space, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, a rarity for her, especially in heels.
“I am curious about one thing,” he murmured, searching her eyes.
“What would that be?” she managed to whisper.
“I’m wondering,” he said, lifting a hand and brushing his fingertips against her jaw, his thumb rubbing against her bottom lip. “Why did she disguise your beautiful face?”
Completely shocked, she couldn’t reply for a moment. Her jaw fell open, and she stared up at him, wondering how he could be so certain. He wasn’t trying to tease the truth out of her; he sounded like he was absolutely sure she’d modeled for the piece, when in truth, there was no way he could know. She had no tattoos, no distinguishing marks—nothing made her body any different from any other woman’s. He had to be guessing.
But she knew he was not.
“Who told you?”
Liza wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t. But maybe she needed to show Sharon the model release forms, one of which Jess had signed. Might Reece have seen it?
“Nobody told me.” “Then how could you know?”
He raked a hot gaze down her body. “How could I not?”
“You…you recognized me?”
He nodded. “The minute I saw the statue.”
She gulped. “No one else ever has.”
“No one else sees you as clearly as I do.”
Wow. Great line. Only she didn’t think it was a line. He sounded totally serious.
“I’ll repeat the question,” he said. “Why the secrecy? Why did she hide your face?”
Licking her lips, Jess wished she had brought a drink with her. Her mouth was so dry, and it was so darned hot in here. Well, it wasn’t hot in the room, but the heat he put off was melting her like she was a Hershey’s bar left on a dashboard.
“She didn’t need my face.” Trying to lighten the moment and cover her embarrassment, she forced a laugh and looked away. “Wanted only for my body. Story of my life.”
“Don’t do that,” he said, his tone forbidding. “Don’t mock yourself.” He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to look directly into her eyes. She quickly fell back into wild, hypnotic Reece land where thought didn’t exist and there was only action and reaction, motion and emotion. “She wanted your face. Didn’t she.”
It wasn’t a question. And Jessica didn’t try to deny it.
“Why did you say no?” he asked, dropping his hand. She immediately missed its warmth, which was crazy since she’d just been mentally whining over how freaking hot it was in here.
“I guess I didn’t want the notoriety. I’m trying to be taken seriously as…” Realizing if she said she wanted to be a screenwriter he might assume she was about to go all Hollywood on him and launch into a script pitch, she changed direction. “I mean, I work at a bar and already have to fend off grubby men with grabby hands. The last thing I’d want is for any of them to see that piece, recognize me, and decide to be more persistent with their attention.”
His jaw flexed, as if he was gritting his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. “They touch you?”
“Perils of working in a place called Hot Buns.” Seeing his confusion, she added dryly, “We don’t sell burgers, and we wear short shorts.”
He got it now, and the jaw tightening thing got worse. “Why?”
“Why do I work there?”
A nod.
“Girl’s gotta eat.” She gestured toward the statue. “Look at those thighs. I’ve obviously gotta eat a lot.”
His eyes narrowed. “I told you not to do that anymore.”
She gulped. He was deadly serious, as if he had the right to give her orders. It was caveman. It was unacceptable.
It was kind of hot.
“Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you. You have to know you’re beautiful.”
Good lord. Reece Winchester was telling her she was beautiful? And he sounded like he really meant it? She knew she was sexy. She had assets and knew how to flaunt them. But nobody had ever called her beautiful.
Now Liza? Oh yeah. Her sister was soft, fragile. Any guy would look at her and think, “She’s so lovely.” Jess? They’d think, “I’d do her.”
First off, she wasn’t much short of an Amazon. While her dark red hair was eye-catching and she had a decent body, her eyes were a muddy brown and her nose had a bump from a long-ago break earned in a foster-care fistfight. Freckles tended to attack her pale skin when she was in the sun, and the cleft in her chin was absolutely mannish. So, no, she’d never considered herself beautiful, or even very pretty. Just hot.
“Oh, crap, the chin!” she groaned, realizing how Reece must have recognized her. She darted over to the statue and looked, honestly unable to remember whether Liza had used her real chin. The cleft she’d hated since toddlerhood was pretty distinctive.
But it wasn’t there. Liza had smoothed out her jaw and closed up the little space with something more rounded and feminine.
“It wasn’t the chin,” he told her. For the first time, she heard what may have been genuine amusement in his voice.
Swinging around to confront him, she saw he was not smiling, but those amazing eyes might’ve held the faintest hint of a twinkle. “Then what?”
He shrugged. “Everything. It was everything.”
“It couldn’t had been everything,” she snapped. “You’ve never seen me naked.”
Another of those not-quite-a-smiles tugged at one side of his perfect mouth. “Not yet.”
Holy shit. He’d said it as if he expected to see her naked. He could probably pick up the phone and have whoever was on this month’s cover of Cosmo in his bed by the time he got home tonight. So why on earth would he want her?
“Wait a minute, you said you recognized me as soon as you saw the statue.”
“Yes.”
“But you bought the statue before the opening. You had already seen me. The real me.”
He nodded once.
“How? When?”
“Through the security cameras.”
Yes, of course. She’d noticed the cameras all over the gallery floor downstairs. Security would have to be tight considering the value of some of the artwork the business dealt with, so naturally they would have video monitoring.
“I saw you the day you came in off the beach and talked to Sid,” he admitted. “I was here to meet with Sharon and watched you through the monitor.”
His voice thickened as he said watched you. He made something simple sound so intimate, as if he’d been studying her. Considering he saw that statue and realized it was her right away, perhaps he had been.
“And only from seeing me through a camera, you recognized me as the model for the statue when you saw it?”
He shook his head.
“Please tell me you didn’t Facebook stalk me.”
A tiny, real smile. Glorious. Not the full frontal she’d been seeking, but close enough to get her bells ringing. “I don’t do Facebook.”
“You have a page. I follow it.”
“Have you been Facebook stalking me?”
Heat flooded into her cheeks. “No, of course not, I…” God, this was embarrassing. “I like to keep up with Hollywood stuff, okay?”
He relented and didn’t push it further. “Somebody handles the official page for me.”
Of course. His people.
“And the acting one is fan based.”
Ahh. The acting one was the one she’d “Liked.” Along with about two million other people. But she didn’t say so. She suspected Reece was touchy about his early years in Hollywood and preferred to be thought of only as a writer and director. Which was really sad, because, to her, he was always gonna be Runner Fleet, intergalactic space pirate. Inspiration for her first erotic dream. And, to be honest, many more.
“I made a point of being here when you came back with Liza to meet with Sharon.”
She scrunched her brow. “Are you the reason Sharon asked Liza to bring me that day?”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “I wanted to see you again.”
“But why? Please tell me it wasn’t because you’re a perv like Sid.”
“I wasn’t fascinated only by your body.” He paused. “Wait, Sid is a perv?”
“World class.”
“He made you feel uncomfortable?”
“Hell, you made me feel uncomfortable earlier, the way you were staring at me.”
“That wasn’t my intention.” He wasn’t exactly apologetic, but he did sound sincere. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
She lifted a hand to her throat, brushing the tips of her fingers in its hollows. “Oh.”
He stepped closer, until she felt the brush of his pants against her bare leg. “And now?”
She couldn’t reply at first, caught in the web of magnetic power surrounding the man. Having to tilt her head back to look up into his face, losing herself in that intense stare, she couldn’t even remember the question. “Huh?”
“Are you uncomfortable now, Jessica?”
“Jess. Uh, everybody calls me Jess. Or sometimes JJ.”
“I don’t.”
Okeydoke. “No, I’m not uncomfortable now.” Liar. “I suppose I’m confused.”
“About?”
“About why you’re so interested in me.” It couldn’t be personal, could it? But what else would he want? What else did men ever want?
He reached up and cupped her cheek in his hand. “You have a face made for the camera.”
Realizing he was explaining why he’d been watching her, she shoved away a hint of disappointment that it wasn’t because of any sexual attraction. Was he scouting for talent, looking for some young, fresh face to put in his next film? Well, the famous director was definitely doomed to disappointment.
Snorting, she tossed her head. “Sorry to tell you this, but I have the acting ability of a pig on steroids.”
His hand fell, his eyes widened, and his mouth creased into that big, white, devastating smile. There it is. God help me, there it is.
She fell. Immediately. Instinctively. Fell into something she’d never experienced in her life and couldn’t yet identify. But it was potent.
She shivered, unable to help herself, both excited out of her mind, and for some reason, utterly terrified. When laughter—real, genuine laughter—emerged from his lips, she lost her last coherent thought. He was gorgeous when still and serious. Laughing and smiling? Lord, the man was simply intoxicating. She couldn’t resist him if she wanted to. Oh, how she hoped he didn’t want her to.
“Crap,” she whispered, knowing any walls she might have wanted to build between her and this so-far-out-of-her-league man had crumbled into dust, whether he wanted her just for her nonexistent acting ability or for something more…personal.
“Do you always say the first thing that comes to your mind?” he asked.
“I’d much prefer to say the last thing, but those comebacks often occur to me hours after the original conversation, when there’s nobody to say them to.”
His laughter deepened. “Happens to the best of us.”
“Oh, right. I find it hard to believe you don’t always get the last word.”
“Very rarely.”
“With your job? Come on, Director Winchester. That’s a wrap—were there ever three more glorious words in creation?”
His tone dry, he replied, “Some women might choose another three.”
“You’re not pregnant?”
“I want you.”
“Those are pretty good, too,” she snapped off, before she realized he was being serious. Very serious. There was no laughter now, only pure intensity. And heat. Oh, heavens, the heat.
He wanted her. This remarkable, incredibly sensual man, wanted her. It wasn’t about a love affair between her face and a camera; he was suggesting a far more intimate relationship.
He stepped toward her. She tried once again to step away from him but realized she was blocked by a broad, highly polished mahogany table and could go no farther. But he could come forward, and he did, moving so close she could feel his body heat, though he wasn’t touching her at all.
She glanced toward the large window overlooking the dark beach and the churning blackness of the sea. Someone could be standing out there, watching them in the softly lit room. But honestly, she didn’t much care. How could she when this gorgeous, perfect man was about to touch her?
He lifted a hand to her face, cupping her cheek, sliding his fingertips into her hair. Moving again, until one leg slid between hers, he dropped his other hand to her hip and pulled her close. He didn’t stop at her hip. Reaching around her body, he scraped his fingertips down the vulnerable vertebrae, to the base of her spine.
Shuddering, Jess closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “How did you know?” she whispered, moaning through the words.
“Know what?” he asked as he leaned closer, close enough for his breaths to fall soft upon her skin. Close enough for her to lose all sanity, all clarity.
Focus. She stared up at him. “How did you know if you touched me there I’d melt?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Because you quivered and arched your back when I was staring at you from across the room earlier.”
Just like that, with a glance across a crowded room, he had discovered something about her no lover ever had. This man saw things others did not, visualized the world in strange, sharp and perceptive ways. He had recognized her in the statue, had seen through the casual, quippy chatter and zoned right in on the woman who had been thinking about his hands and his mouth and his body since the minute she’d felt his attention on her in the gallery.
His fingers dipped lower, caressing her skin, teasing the curves of her rear, even as he pulled her hard against his body. She sucked in a gasp, shocked at the strength of him, every bit of him hard and powerful.
And then he was kissing her. That warm, wonderful mouth was covering hers, and she had one second to believe it before her entire world went up in flames.