He was so sure of the perfection of the image that it took him a moment to realize that she'd frozen. He bit back a sigh of frustration, knowing damn well that he'd moved too fast. Whatever he'd told her about punishment, he didn't mean it. Not really. Not if it meant losing the shot.
"Sorry," he said, and watched as her eyes fluttered to his.
"That was wrong of me."
"I don't have to pose like that?"
"Not now. I get that it's too much. We can work up to it. Tomorrow. Or even the next day."
"But you want it."
"Hell, yes. It'll be stunning. I mean, come look at what we got right now, and it's only the first day." He turned to the monitor he kept set up on the far side of the room, then looked back to make sure she was following.
His breath hitched as he watched her slip back into the robe and then hurry toward him, her cheeks beet red. "You see?" he said when she arrived.
He stepped aside so that she could see the monitor and the incredible, sensual images of her he'd managed to capture.
She drew in a breath, then whispered, ever so softly, "I'm sorry."
"Are you kidding? These pictures are amazing. And we can get more tomorrow. You're right. It is late." He shoved a hand into his pocket, feeling almost like a teenager again. "I'm sorry if I've been an ass." He wasn't entirely sorry, and he still didn't trust her. But he was absolutely certain that with her in front of the camera, he'd be able to blow this show out of the water.
"Wyatt," she began.
"It'll get easier as we go on."
"Wyatt," she repeated. "I'm really sorry."
He froze. He just froze. "What exactly are you talking about?"
"I thought I could. But I was wrong.
I-I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it would be like this."
"Like what?" he asked, but she just shook her head.
"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I just can't do it."
14
I'm a block away before the tears start, and I pull over, my hands tight around the steering wheel as my body shakes with the violent onslaught of my sobs.
I was a fool to think I could do this-that I could display myself like that. That I could be so free, so open, with any man, much less Wyatt. A man who has always broken through my defenses.
A man who used to treasure me, but now cares nothing for me.
Less than nothing, actually. He reviles me, and why shouldn't he? I'm the one who left, after all. I'm the one who walked away and never looked back. And even though I may have fantasized that he would find me and call me and rescue me, I've always known that was a wish that could never come true.
For one thing, why would he try after what I did?
For another, how would he have managed to find me?
I know that we were kids back then, but that doesn't change the fact that I hurt him anymore than it changes the fact that I loved him. I did.
But love didn't make a difference. I screwed up, and I destroyed everything.
I'd thought I could handle tonight. That the fact that I needed the money would give me the strength to make it okay. But it's not okay. Because when he touched me, everything rushed back to me. Infatuation. Desire. Need.
I wanted him.
But more than that, I wanted him to want me. Maybe I was shy. Maybe I was awkward. But I wasn't scared. I was turned on.
He barely touched me, and yet I craved so much more. His hands on me. His lips hot against my skin.
With each infinitesimal change in the position of that sheet, I fantasized about his hands moving intimately over my body, not simply to set up the shot, but for his pleasure. And for mine.
He was a man I couldn't have-a man who rightfully despised me-and yet I would have willingly slept with him tonight, then slinked away in the morning hating myself.
He'd tempted me on purpose, of course. But not because he felt anything for me. He'd already told me as much, hadn't he? This was my punishment, and he was an expert at inflicting it.
Or maybe he wasn't.
Because instead of being something to endure, the night was something to treasure. Yes, I was scared. But I was excited, too. Not just because of how he touched me, but because I was pushing myself. I was breaking out of that shell. Going a little wild in ways I hadn't let myself go in years. Or ever, really, except for that one time twelve years ago.
That felt good. Bold. Like I was a butterfly pushing out of my cocoon.
But then he took me to the monitor, and when I peered down at the digital image, the reality of what I was doing struck me. This was just like twelve years ago. A bad choice. A dangerous choice.