"Wyatt . . ."
"I said no. This exhibit is on my shoulders. I can't hide who I am, but I don't have to advertise it. If we trot my grandmother out, book her on morning shows, make her sing little Wyatt's praises, then everyone is going to come. You know that."
"Um, yeah. That's the point. To get people to your show."
"I want them to come for the show. Not because they're hoping to get Anika Segel's autograph."
"But they'll see your art. They'll fall in love then. Who cares what brings them through the door?"
"I do," he said and was relieved to see that she didn't seem to have an argument against that.
She stood still for a moment, possibly trying to come up with something, but soon enough she shook her head and sighed. "You're the artist." She made a face. "And you have the temperament to go with it."
"See, that's how you wooed me into doing the show with you. That embarrassingly sentimental flattery."
"You're a laugh a minute, Wyatt." She hitched her purse further onto her shoulder, then pointed a finger at him. "Don't fuck this up."
"Cross my heart."
"All right then." She leaned in for an air kiss, but caught him in a hug. "It's going to be great," she whispered, and he was surprised by how much he appreciated those simple words.
"It will," he agreed. "All I have to do is find the girl." He glanced at his watch. "An agency's sending someone over in about half an hour. Nia. Mia. Something like that. Who knows? Maybe she'll be the one."
"Fingers crossed." Her grin turned wicked. "But if she's not, just say the word and Cass and I will dive into the search."
"A few more days like today, and I'll take you up on that."
"A few days is all you have," she retorted, then tossed up her hands, self-defense style. "I know, I know. I'm leaving."
She headed for the front door, and he turned back to the print, studying it critically. A moment later he reached for the drapes that covered the prints on either side of the first image, then tugged them off, revealing the full-color photos beneath.
He took a step back as he continued his inspection, ensuring himself that there were no more refinements to be made. Slowly, he moved farther back, wanting all three in his field of vision, just like a visitor to the exhibition would see. One step, then another and another.
He stopped when he heard the door open behind him, cursing himself for not locking up as Siobhan was leaving. "Did you forget something?" he asked as he turned.
But it wasn't Siobhan.
It was her.
The girl who'd filled his mind. The girl who'd haunted his nights.
The woman he needed if he was going to pull this exhibit off the way he wanted to.
A woman with the kind of wide sensual mouth that could make a man crazy, and a strong, lithe body, with curves in all the right places. Eyes that could see all the way into a man's soul-and an innocent air that suggested she wouldn't approve of what she saw there.
All of that, topped off with a wicked little tease of a smile and a sexy swing to her hips.
She was a walking contradiction. Sensual yet demure. Sexy yet sweet.
A woman who one minute could look like a cover model, and the next like she'd never done anything more glamorous than walk the dog.
She was hotter than sin, and at the same time she was as cold as ice.
She was Kelsey Draper, and he hadn't spoken to her since the summer before his senior year, and as far as he was concerned, that was a damn good thing.
Her eyes widened as she looked at him, and her lips twitched in a tremulous smile. "Oh," was all she said.
And in that moment, Wyatt knew that he was well and truly screwed.
2
Oh.
The word seems to hang above us inside a cartoon bubble, and I mentally cringe. Ten years at an exclusive girls' school, an undergraduate degree in early education, minors in both dance and English, and the best I can come up with is Oh?
And, yes, I know I should cut myself a little slack. After all, I was caught off guard. Not by the stunning and sensual art displayed in front of me, but by the man who created it. A man who's the reason my palms are sweaty, my nipples tight, and my pulse beating a staccato rhythm in my neck.
A man I once knew as Wyatt Segel.
A man I was completely unprepared to see.
Which means that Nia has some serious explaining to do. "Just some photographer looking for models. My agent says the pay is awesome, and considering how much cash you need by the end of the month, it's worth a shot. He goes by W. Royce, but I've never heard of the guy. Then again, who cares so long as he pays?"