Calling him handsome would be like calling Mount Everest a hill. He was utterly magnificent, from the top of his tousled hair to his strong forehead, slashing brows, high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, square jaw, and luscious mouth, so serious and unsmiling. The shadows of the room emphasized the stark, sculpted lines of his face, and as he shifted, the light caught those strange, arresting eyes again. She couldn’t determine the color but realized they were practically glowing, the effect nearly animalistic.
Her fanciful writer’s imagination went to dark places and scary stories of vampires and werewolves. Sexy ones. Damn, she really need to reglom True Blood.
Yes, she had a TV obsession. A movie obsession. A Hollywood obsession.
Which made it even crazier that she hadn’t immediately recognized who was staring at her the second she laid eyes on him. But when she heard a whisper nearby—Is it really him? Is that Winchester?—her mind finally kicked back into gear and she realized who, exactly, he was.
Reece Winchester.
The six-year-old girl within her who’d liked him in a Nickelodeon movie smiled. The thirteen-year-old girl who’d crushed on the rebellious, smart-mouthed gang member trying to break out of his deadly world sighed. The fourteen-year-old girl who’d been devastated by the fate of the golden-haired lieutenant who’d stormed the beaches of Normandy wept. The fifteen-year-old girl who’d gone wild over the dreamy nineteenth-century writer with the tragic life and death quivered. And the seventeen-year-old girl who’d fallen wildly in lust with the hot intergalactic playboy/fighter pilot who saved the universe got a little damp in the panties. Every movie in between had only deepened her crush.
Reece Winchester: inspiration for dreams and fantasies. Childhood star turned adult box-office golden boy. Actor. Director. Screenwriter. Moviemaker. Oscar winner. Millionaire. Recluse. Mystery man. And he’s looking right at me.
“Oh, my God,” she mumbled when it all sank in. Her jaw unhinged, but she quickly snapped it shut, wincing as her teeth scraped her tongue. She was supposed to be a professional; she wanted to be part of the movie world, and soon. Getting all tongue-tied and fangirlish over a sex god who was miles out of her league was not the way to get ahead in this town. At least not the way she wanted to get ahead.
Besides, she must have been mistaken. He hadn’t been staring at her. No way. Reece Winchester dated heiresses, models, and actresses. Glamorous sexpots. Not twenty-five-year-old waitresses/college students. Nor could he be as handsome close-up as he’d always looked on the screen…though he looked pretty darn good from thirty feet away, too.
Forcing away the crazy idea somebody like him would give somebody like her a second glance, she deliberately shoved her shoulders back and her chin up, and stepped close to the nearest piece of art, studying it like she intended to do a dissertation on the thing.
Mistake. The piece was a male nude, and she was about eye level with a thickly muscled thigh and a coyly draped crotch.
She fanned her face, remembering the nude scenes from the last movie in which Winchester had appeared. Twisted, an erotic thriller released five years ago, had been scorching. The film had earned its R rating by the skin of its teeth, and it was Winchester’s most popular of his acting career, even if it hadn’t been the one to earn him the Best Actor nomination. After its release, and despite its popularity, he’d stopped acting to focus on scriptwriting and directing. Since he’d been only twenty-five at the time, and was the hottest young star in Hollywood, the moviegoing world had been shocked, twenty-year-old Jess included. But the career-change didn’t appear to have hurt him any.
Jess was so lost in thought about Reece the Superstar she forgot the man was in the room, and that she’d imagined he was staring at her. Which was perhaps why she nearly dropped her glass when she felt a tall, solid form move behind her and heard a man say, “Interesting.”
Smooth voice. Deep, silky. A voice she recognized. She’d heard it on the big screen and the small one, since she had copies of every movie he’d starred in—seven from his childhood years, eight from his adult ones. Was he really talking to her?
“Yes, it is,” she murmured, all calm and collected, like she was not shaking in her consignment store shoes.
“Possibly one of the artist’s earlier efforts.”
Hmm. How had he known? “Yes,” Miss Conversational Genius repeated.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?”
The hint of confidence in the tone told her he knew the answer. Had any woman ever told him to go away because he was bothering her? Huh. Doubtful. “Not at all.”
“Good. What is it called?”
“What we’re doing? I think it’s a conversation.” Jess didn’t know where the snarky response came from, or where she’d gotten the nerve to be all quippy with the guy, but there you go. That was her, always a mouth-off away from catastrophe.
“I meant the sculpture,” he said. No laugh. No humor. Crap.
Realizing they were actually going to have a conversation, and knowing it might require face-to-face interaction, she wondered if she was ready for it. Hesitating, she licked her lips and replied, “It’s called Naked Man.”
“Subtle.”
Knowing it was rude not to face him, she took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder. Lord have mercy.
Deep breaths might be calming in normal situations—like when one was confronted by a repo man repossessing a car. Been there, done that. But they didn’t work at all when looking into the clear amber eyes of a man every woman on the planet fantasized about. His looks made you silently gawk while you tried to figure out why the arrangement of cheek and jaw, mouth and eyes, was so arresting and unforgettable. She interacted with scruffy, shaggy-haired surf-bum types in the bar where she worked, so she’d almost forgotten how appealing a conservative haircut and a smoothly shaven face could be. Not to mention the sexiness of a perfectly tailored power suit, the charcoal color interrupted only by a splash of red in the necktie.
She finally cleared her throat and pushed a few words out. “It is from very early in the artist’s career. How did you know?”
“She draped the sex organs, as if she wasn’t quite ready to go there.”
Jess nodded, wondering if she was truly talking about men’s packages with the sexiest freaking man alive. Was this really happening, or was she hallucinating? Had that stupid bartender slipped GHB in her drink? Damn, if she woke up tomorrow with no memory of what happened, and then found videos of herself on YouTube, she would rip him a new one.
“Even for an early work, though, it’s very good,” he added.
In case this was real, she decided to go with the conversation. “Yes, I’m happy to have seen it coming together.”
“You watched the work in progress?”
“Yes. The model’s a neighbor.”
He was also an actor. Jess had heard he was talented, but she had no firsthand knowledge. His movies were the kind shown in shady theaters on Santa Monica Boulevard, where the guys in the audience wore trench coats and the only women were looking for customers. But he was a hell of a nice guy, as well as being hilarious at parties.
“And the artist?”
“She’s my sister.”
“You have different last names.”
Shocked, she spun all the way around and gaped at him. “How do you know?”
“I asked about you, Jessica.” He didn’t seem at all embarrassed or coy about it; his bluntness was unnerving.
“Asked whom, Reece?”
A faint twinkle in the eyes. “Sharon.”
“You know her?” She was starting to feel like a parrot. “I mean, why would she tell you?”
Why would you ask?
“She’s my partner.”
Confusion dug at her. “Partner…” Then it sank in. “Wait, do you co-own this gallery?”
“I do.”
Wow. She’d had no idea, and she would bet Liza hadn’t either.
Before she could question him again, he elabo
rated. “Sharon’s also my aunt. She has a good eye, and she likes art. So I supply the money and she does the rest.”
A silent partner. It made sense. A guy like him couldn’t simply open a business. He was too busy running his movie empire, writing and directing hit film after hit film, achieving the kind of superstardom his fans from his childhood-star years could never have envisioned. He might have had only one Oscar nomination for acting; so far, however, for writing and/or directing, he’d added another three nods and two wins. In under six years. Amazing.
“I stay out of it, for the most part.” His voice dropped, and a hint of intensity was audible in his tone. “I just show up when there’s something interesting to see.”
He wasn’t staring at the statue now; he was studying her. Those fascinating brown-gold eyes—a lion’s eyes—swept over her as he assessed her hair, her face, her throat, her lips. Jess’s breath didn’t quite reach her lungs. She got the feeling he was trying to tell her something, as if he’d come here to see her, not Liza’s work, which was crazy since he couldn’t have known she existed until a few minutes ago.
“And you knew there would be something interesting to see tonight?” she prodded, feeling light-headed. His stare was so captivating, the appreciation in his gaze overwhelming. She was probably fumbling, but she had to know if she’d totally misread him.
“I knew.”
He continued to stare, but didn’t smile, nor did he go on. He was cryptic, his speech clipped and deliberate, his mood mysterious. He had sought her out, come over to talk to her, but he wasn’t flirting, and he didn’t appear to be trying to pick her up. As if. Still, his attention was searing, every bit of his focus directed at her. It felt as if they were the only two people here.
Being the object of Reece Winchester’s unfiltered interest was a feeling unlike any she’d experienced before. It had nothing to do with him being a movie star, or even that he was a drop-dead gorgeous, rich, successful one. There was something magnetic about the man himself. A sort of powerful energy throbbed when he was near, and she found herself completely unable to resist the pull of it.
He turned on his heel to look at the sculpture again, the abrupt change of mood startling. “I prefer your sister’s female nudes.”
“You and every other straight dude here.”
He didn’t laugh, or even acknowledge the comment. “In fact, I’ve already bought one.”
“Let me guess—you’re the studio hotshot who snapped up Making Love?”
A slow shake of his head. Right. Left. Center.
The man was so serious, so darned intense. And she was so far out of her depth, she had no idea how she was still even a part of this conversation.
“I had my new purchase removed to a private suite upstairs before the opening, and will have it shipped out to my place tomorrow. I didn’t want anyone else seeing it. I wanted it reserved strictly for my own viewing pleasure.”
Huh. She hadn’t even noticed one missing, and Jess was familiar with all of Liza’s work. Then again, there were sixteen pieces on display, and every display alcove was packed.
She was curious, though. “Which one was it?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
So much for his own viewing pleasure. She had no idea why he was inviting her, nor did he wait for her to agree to come with him. He simply tried to steer her away by placing his hand on the small of her back to edge her through the crowd.
A tiny moan escaped her lips. She quivered and almost stumbled.
Her dress was extremely low cut, front and back. A silky scoop descended to just above her rear. She’d never worn anything like it, mainly because she had never wanted to inflict dreadful boob tape on herself, and there was no way this dress could be worn with a bra. But now she knew the dress was worth the tape, even if she ripped away skin trying to pry it off later. She’d been so worried about the front, and containing her assets, she hadn’t even considered how exposed her lower back would be in the dress. It had never occurred to her to wonder what might happen to her if that oh-so-sensitive spot was on display and practically invited touching.
Now she knew. Fire happened. Lava and wonder and desire and need happened.
As his fingertips brushed against her bare spine, his middle finger dipping low, a hot wave of pulsing desire radiated throughout her body, making her shudder involuntarily. There was the faintest contact, the tiniest stroke of skin on skin, but she felt utterly electrified as sparks of heated sensation spiked through her.
He leaned close to murmur, “Are you all right?”
She swallowed hard, trying to find her vocal cords. “It’s warm and overcrowded.”
Understatement. The tiny touch had aroused her to a point of near insanity. She didn’t imagine that was his intention, but he’d succeeded nonetheless.
“It will be more comfortable upstairs.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll be a big mistake.”
He dropped his hand, not urging her, nor trying to lead the way. It was as if he knew Jess was fighting an inner battle between want and wisdom. He even stepped back an inch, touching her only with his magnetic aura, the decision entirely in her hands.
“It’s your choice. Do you want to come with me, Jessica?”
Damn. She was not the type who wanted a man to call the shots, but it sure would be easier to justify anything that happened by saying he’d swept her off her feet. But he wasn’t going to let her off so easily. It would have to be her choice.
Then she reminded herself: nothing’s gonna happen. He was an unusual man, here alone, probably looking to escape the sycophants by engaging someone as equally alone in conversation. That was it. There was nothing personal, nothing sexual, about the invitation, despite the ambiance.
But his eyes—oh, those eyes—they glowed with something that looked like promise. And, at last, that mouth quirked up the tiniest bit, the sparkle in his eyes accompanying what might, for him, be the beginning of a genuine smile. It was as if he were daring her to give in, to at least go along and see where he might want to take her.
A wise woman would know her limitations and stick to her own side of the playground. This guy played in a whole different league.
The hint of a smile tempted her, though.
She knew Reece wasn’t any of the characters he’d played on the screen; he was a unique person who was good at disappearing into other people’s skin. But she had beheld his gorgeous smile in films, seen the way laugh lines fanned at the corners of his eyes when he was happy. What she was seeing now didn’t come close. She wanted to witness the real thing. Full-throttle warmth and broadly smiling charm from the man himself, not a character he was playing.
She wanted a real smile directed only at her.
So while she knew the wise choice would be to say no—two little letters, one small syllable—she found another word coming into her mouth.
Before she could say it, however, his jaw clenched the tiniest bit. “You decide,” he said, glancing over the crowd toward the front door. “I don’t want to pressure you.”
Little did he know his hint of a smile had already done the trick.
Jess had never pictured herself as the Cinderella type. Well, she’d understood the sitting-in-the-ashes, worked-to-death part. Her days in foster care had given her a graphic lesson in playing that role. She’d just never imagined there could be fairy godmothers, gorgeous gowns, and Prince Charmings whisking girls into their happily ever afters. Or at least their happily-upstairs-in-a-private-suite-with-a-movie-stars.
Hmm. Beth certainly had been her fairy godmother. She was wearing a killer dress. And a Hollywood prince was trying to whisk her away from a big party.
Shit. Maybe she was freaking Cinderella with Christian Dior as her fairy godmother.
“So I’ll tell you what. I’ll wait for you by the elevator in the back hallway in ten minutes. If you’re there, I’ll take you up and show you everything you want to see.”
Oh. He was giving her time
to change her mind. In ten minutes, she would certainly come up with a thousand reasons not to go with him. Crap.
You’re going. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and you’re not going to blow it.
Right. She was so gonna be there. Almost certainly. Definitely probably.
But something impertinent and unpredictable made her ask, “And if I’m not?”
He looked down at her. Hesitated. And then said, “If you’re not, I think I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Chapter 3
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.
Watching You Page 3