Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

"Hot," she finally said, her face taking on the tinge of a serious sunburn. "Okay? Satisfied? Posing like that was hot."

He stared at her for a moment, a little baffled, a lot relieved, and even more turned on. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah," he said. "It was."

"And hot equals foolish. Plus," she added, "that's not who I am."

He thought he had pretty solid evidence to argue that point, but he also knew he'd never convince her. Not now.

"Fair enough," he said. "But here's my problem, and bear with me, okay? I've got this show in just a few weeks. And because it's a whole big production with catalogs and publicity and on and on and on, I don't even really have that much time. So let's say ten days. All I need from you is ten days. Hell, we can do it in five, if we work long hours. Five days and opening night. That's it, Kelsey. Five days. That's three grand a day just to stand in front of a camera."

She started to speak, but he held out a hand to silence her. "Wait. Let me finish."

When she nodded, he counted that as a point in his favor and rushed on.

"You say that's not who you are, but you don't see what I see. You have the look I've been searching for. The image that's been in my mind for all these years, ever since the concept for this show was nothing more than the kernel of an idea. It's all those bits and pieces that make up you. Even the part of you that dances."

He thought that had grabbed her attention, so he rushed on. "I told you about the stage at the end of the hall? A sensual woman behind a gauzy screen. What if she's dancing? All of the passion and power captured in the still images coming out through music and motion."

"That's nice," she said softly. "It even sounds like fun. But I can't be the one who does it. I told you. My job. And it's--"

"Not you. Yeah. I know. But that's the beauty of it." He leaned forward and boldly took her hand, letting her warmth fuel his passion for this project. For having her be part of it. "Kelsey, it doesn't have to be you."

Slowly, she pulled her fingers away from his. "What are you talking about?"

"You could be anonymous."

"But--but all the pictures you have so far. Almost all their faces are lit. And they're looking at the camera, and they're bold and sensual and unashamed and it's wonderful."

"I'm glad you think so," he said sincerely.

"I told you I love the work, Wyatt. I just can't be part of it."

"Kelsey Draper can't. But maybe an anonymous woman can."

"But--"

"You're going to say that's not the point of my exhibit, but maybe it is. Maybe the idea of the show is all those specific women in the gallery leading up to one ideal of a woman. An anonymous woman who represents all those things you were just talking about."

"I don't think that's me."

"And I think that's for me to decide."

"Anonymous," she said, and Wyatt tried hard not to cling to the hope that one word fueled in him.

"Completely anonymous."

She bit her lip and nodded slowly as he held his breath and forced himself to stay silent. Fin

ally, she spoke. "Will you let me think about it?"

Disappointment curdled in his gut. "Of course."

"Okay." She pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, um, I should go."

He leaned over, his hand landing on her purse. "Wait."

"Wyatt, please. I just need to think."

"I know. I get that. But I also think you owe me an explanation."