Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(82)

We also decided not to bother with makeup. Wyatt said he could add lip color in the lab or darkroom or whatever, and the rest of my face will be hidden. And the odds of finding a makeup artist on such short notice who'll sign a nondisclosure are slim.

"Are we done in the studio? Or are you going to meet with him and then kick him upstairs?"

"Actually, I was thinking that today we'd do some beach shots."

Since I never turn down a walk on the beach, I agree eagerly, even though I'm a little nervous about how he intends to do show-worthy images on a public beach in the middle of the day.

He has me put on a thin, white cotton sundress from his wardrobe closet, and then we walk the short distance to the Santa Monica Pier, where we grab ice cream cones, then stand at the rail looking north toward the Palisades. "I have a house there, you know."

I glance sideways at him. "In the Pacific Palisades?"

"Yup."

"I thought you lived in Venice Beach."

He nods. "I do. I rent the Palisades place to a family with kids. It's part of my trust, so I keep the income. But I prefer living by the beach." 

"And paying for it with your photography business," I say, remembering what he'd told me back in Santa Barbara.

He meets my eyes. "You remembered."

"Sure," I say softly. "I remember everything."

He just looks at me. But the moment breaks when ice cream drips from my cone onto my hand, and I toss it into a nearby trashcan. I'm about to pull a tissue from my purse when Wyatt takes my hand, then slowly licks away the ice cream, sending wild shivers running all through my body. "Wyatt," I say, his name barely a breath.

His lips curve in a hint of a smile. "I like the way you taste."

My cheeks heat, and not from the beating sun. A moment passes, and I clear my throat. "I thought we were walking on the beach."

"We are," he says, still holding my sticky hand. "Come on."

We backtrack, then follow the path down to the parking lot and then onto the beach. I'm wearing sandals, and I take them off to walk in the surf, laughing when the waves crash higher than expected and dampen the hem of the dress.

"Sorry about that," I say, even though I'm not really sorry. It feels wonderful to be walking in the waves.

Wyatt's a few feet away, making sure his camera doesn't become the target of an angry sea. "Don't worry about it," he says. But a moment later, he says, "Actually, come this way."

I'm not sure what he's thinking, but I follow him back towards the pier. The light is dappled under there, mostly shadows, with a few streaks of sunlight breaking through between the planks above.

He points to a barnacle-covered post. "Stand there," he orders, then uses his hand to direct me to exactly the angle he wants so that one of those sunbeams illuminates my chest.

"Nice," he says.

"Is this just for you? Because it's not exactly erotic."

"Are you kidding?" he says, as he comes over and unbuttons the top three buttons on the bodice. The dress has spaghetti straps, so I'm not wearing a bra, and the thin material rolls back, so that the curve of both breasts is exposed. "Remember, we're telling a story. And sensuality isn't always about sex. Besides," he adds with a devious grin. "I'm not finished staging you."

He takes a step back and starts looking around, obviously scanning the area for something, though I have no idea what. Finally, he crosses to the other side of the pier and gets something from behind me. But since I'm under strict orders not to move, I don't know what it is.

I expect it must be something amazing-a nautilus shell, perhaps-so I'm surprised when I see a battered toy pail.

"What on earth?" I ask as he takes off his shirt, lays it on the ground, then carefully sets his camera on it.

Then he walks to the surf and fills up the pail, all without answering me.

"Wyatt," I protest. "What are you doing?"

"This," he says, then empties the pail all over my front, drenching the dress completely.

I yelp and splutter-because the Pacific is freaking cold-and start to step away from the post.

"Pose," he orders, pointing sternly at me as I freeze-literally. He snatches up his camera and takes a zillion shots. And when he's done-when he shakes off the sand and hands me his shirt-I glance down and realize that the wet sundress is completely transparent, revealing my pink panties and my very tight nipples.

"That one just might be my favorite," he says, then takes my hand. "Come on. Let's head back."

I release his hand long enough to slip into his shirt, breathing in the scent of him as it slides over my face. We walk hand in hand, and the moment feels more intimate than everything we did last night.