Watching You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  A thirteen-year-old backing out of a potential blockbuster because he didn’t like the director. What a world he must have grown up in. “I see.”

  As if realizing how that might have sounded, he went further, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “I really didn’t like him.” He grunted.

  She sensed a story, judging by his audible disgust. “Oh?”

  “Let’s say he’s no longer in the business. I might have helped him get that way.”

  Wow. Definitely a story. Jess was dying to know more, but a quick shake of his head told her he’d pushed the subject out of bounds.

  “Plus I was burned out.”

  Burned out. At thirteen. Maybe her childhood wasn’t the absolute worst in the world.

  He wasn’t finished. “When you were thirteen were you certain you were doing exactly what you wanted to do for the rest of your life?”

  “I was just happy I had a roof over my head,” she admitted with an unamused laugh.

  The elevator reached its destination and the door swished open with a soft ding. But rather than stepping out, or gesturing for her to, Reece pushed a button to keep the door open, and focused his attention on her. “Are you being facetious?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Add orphanages and foster care to the typical zits and angst and you’ll have a good picture of me as a tween.”

  A frown pulled at his strong brow. “You were an orphan?”

  “I’m not little and my name’s not Annie, so don’t go feeling sorry for me.”

  “You’re perfect, and as I recall, her story had a happy ending.”

  The You’re perfect part almost went right past her, but since the words were accompanied by a quick, appreciative stare, she grabbed them and clutched them to her heart like a pair of lost Jimmy Choos. “My story had a happy ending, too,” she said, managing to keep her tone conversational. “No Daddy Warbucks, but Liza’s mom found me and adopted me.”

  “Found you? Did you run away?”

  “A few times, but that’s not what I meant. Liza and I were best friends in elementary school,” she explained. “But she moved to another town and we lost touch. Then my mother died and I ended up in foster care. Liza’s mom later heard about it and got me out after two years.”

  “Two years,” he murmured, appearing thoughtful. “At such a difficult age.”

  “That’s when I met you,” she admitted, offering him a cheeky smile. “Whenever I lived anywhere near a movie theater, I’d go there to escape. I got really good at slipping in with big families. I would park myself in a theater and stay all day to avoid going to wherever home was.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You didn’t say any of the things people usually say when they hear my history.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘You poor thing.’ Or,” she added with an eye roll and a grunt, “my personal favorite, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’”

  “What an awful saying,” he said, sharp, almost angry. “No child needs to be that strong.”

  “I agree. And something tells me you have reason to know that, too. Don’t you?”

  His stare met hers, those strange eyes laced with mystery. She suddenly realized she’d told him a lot about herself, and he’d revealed nothing more than she could have discovered in a copy of the National Enquirer. Damn, she really needed to learn the art of being mysterious and circumspect.

  Seeing how stiff he’d become, and feeling his tension, she cursed herself for her words. He probably thought she was groping for details about his famous, tragic sister. She really hadn’t been. Honestly, Rachel Winchester’s story was far too common in Hollywood. Young teen gets famous, makes a lot of money, falls in with the wrong crowd, starts doing drugs. She gets so strung out one night she falls—or, some say jumps—off the balcony of a high-rise hotel in Atlanta. So sad. But not exactly uncommon.

  No, her real object of curiosity was Reece himself. She wanted to know why he’d come back to Hollywood like a young man on a mission, driven and laser-focused, making a half-dozen movies before practically flipping the bird at everyone and quitting acting to move behind the camera when he was in his prime. A mystery lurked there, which was why she’d made the comment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t…”

  “Forget it.” Finally letting go of the open-door button, he added, “Come and see my latest obsession.”

  She followed him out. “You’re obsessed with a statue?”

  “I like perfection,” he admitted, walking down a hallway lit with soft, recessed lights.

  Everything about the gallery below was tasteful. Up here, it verged on opulent. The fixtures were ornate, the hallway lined with art by masters she’d actually heard of.

  She followed, noting the silence as her high heels sank into the plush carpet, until they reached the last door in the hall. Unlocking the door, he remained back for her to enter ahead of him. She did so, stepping into blackness, and then waited for him to turn on the overhead light.

  He didn’t. Instead, he reached around her to push the door shut, enclosing them in the private room. His hand brushed her arm as he moved. The connection was brief and light, but it came from out of the darkness, surprising her. She managed to keep her moan behind her lips, knowing if those fingertips had again found her hot spot and lingered there, she would have dropped to the floor on hands and knees and begged him to kiss his way down her spine.

  One floor below, two hundred people were talking, chatting, buying art, and selling themselves. But she felt cocooned, wrapped in a silky layer of secrecy. His low exhalations were barely audible above the raging thud of her own heartbeat, and she waited for another touch.

  The tension rose, becoming almost unbearable. His breath warmed her temple as he moved around her. God, was he going to kiss her? She didn’t want him to do that in the dark. She wanted it to be bright, with lights, music, cymbals clashing, if only so she could make herself believe it was really happening, and imprint the memory on her all of her senses.

  He moved past her toward a dais. One of Liza’s statues stood on it. She saw the faint outline, the gleam of soft grayish white, but couldn’t distinguish which piece it was.

  The air was somehow expectant, and she had the strangest feeling she was acting out a script someone just shoved into her hand. She didn’t understand the story, or the characters, or the motivations. He was totally in control—the director. He knew who she was. He’d sought her out. He’d gotten her alone.

  What was he planning? What would happen next? Would someone yell, “That’s a wrap,” and cut the scene? Most importantly—what, exactly, was the rating on this film of her life?

  There was a clicking sound, and then tiny lights on the base of the platform shone up, illuminating the piece from below. Jess saw it, recognized it, and sighed.

  Touch Me.

  She was not surprised. It seemed impossible, yet somehow inevitable, that this would be the sculpture he bought, the one he wanted to show her. Fate seemed to be playing tricks on her, setting her up but not cluing her in to the fact that she was being carried on a random current or drawn onto a twisty path by forces she never knew existed.

  “This is my favorite,” he said, watching her, speculation in his gaze.

  Swallowing hard, she tried to find her voice. Could this be deliberate, and not fate?

  Reece Winchester’s favorite piece of Liza’s art happened to be Touch Me. And she was in it. Jess was the one touching herself.

  No, there was no way he knew, not when Liza made sure to change the features and shape of the face, with only the barest hint of her real lips and jaw. The eyes, nose, cheeks, forehead, and hair were not hers. From the neck down, she looked just like any other curvy young woman. No. He had no idea she’d been the model; he’d just gotten her alone and was trying to get a rise out of her for some reason.

  If so, wow, had his plan backfired. All she could think when she look at the statue was that she needed to hit
the StairMaster, because her thighs were getting a wee bit thick.

  “I imagine you can see why I wanted to keep it all for myself,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”

  Jess couldn’t help warming under the admiration, even if he was just admiring Liza’s skill. “And you’ve already bought it?”

  “Yes. I knew the moment I saw her I had to have her.”

  Whoa. His expression was covetous, his voice thick and heavy. She again caught a double meaning. Did he mean the her sculpted out of clay, or the her standing nearby?

  No. It was the damn statue. He had no idea who she was. It needed to stay that way.

  Remaining cool, she asked, “Do you always get what you want?”

  “Always, Jessica.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. His voice throbbed with intensity. The words weren’t a boast; they were a promise.

  “Lucky you,” she said, feigning nonchalance, wondering if he could sense her blood was racing through her veins. Seeing the way he eyed the statue, knowing she was the one whose naked form he was appreciating—even if he didn’t realize it—gave her a wicked, secret thrill. What, she wondered, would he say if he knew she was the one shown, naked, half reclining, her hand between her legs?

  One thing was for sure—nobody who knew the truth would call her Cinderella again.

  He leaned against the back of a nearby sofa, crossed his arms in front of his broad chest, and stared at her. The pose was utterly masculine, the attention unnerving, as if he was waiting for something. Finally, she realized he was expecting her to react to the statue.

  “Uh, well, congratulations on getting to it first. It’s nice.”

  “You think so?” he asked, his tone casual, his body powerful. She was again reminded of a lion trying to figure out whether he’d prefer a tasty gazelle or a yummy zebra.

  “Sure.”

  Tsking, he shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s not?” she whispered through dry lips.

  “Nice isn’t the word. She’s magnificent.”

  Straightening, he glided toward her, moving silently. Predator and prey. She didn’t even think about it and took a quick, involuntary step back.

  He followed. Crowding her. He was close, so very close. He radiated heat, making her sway a little. Reece obviously had no concept of personal space, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, a rarity for her, especially in heels.

  “I am curious about one thing,” he murmured, searching her eyes.

  “What would that be?” she managed to whisper.

  “I’m wondering,” he said, lifting a hand and brushing his fingertips against her jaw, his thumb rubbing against her bottom lip. “Why did she disguise your beautiful face?”

  Completely shocked, she couldn’t reply for a moment. Her jaw fell open, and she stared up at him, wondering how he could be so certain. He wasn’t trying to tease the truth out of her; he sounded like he was absolutely sure she’d modeled for the piece, when in truth, there was no way he could know. She had no tattoos, no distinguishing marks—nothing made her body any different from any other woman’s. He had to be guessing.

  But she knew he was not.

  “Who told you?”

  Liza wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t. But maybe she needed to show Sharon the model release forms, one of which Jess had signed. Might Reece have seen it?

  “Nobody told me.” “Then how could you know?”

  He raked a hot gaze down her body. “How could I not?”

  “You…you recognized me?”

  He nodded. “The minute I saw the statue.”

  She gulped. “No one else ever has.”

  “No one else sees you as clearly as I do.”

  Wow. Great line. Only she didn’t think it was a line. He sounded totally serious.

  “I’ll repeat the question,” he said. “Why the secrecy? Why did she hide your face?”

  Licking her lips, Jess wished she had brought a drink with her. Her mouth was so dry, and it was so darned hot in here. Well, it wasn’t hot in the room, but the heat he put off was melting her like she was a Hershey’s bar left on a dashboard.

  “She didn’t need my face.” Trying to lighten the moment and cover her embarrassment, she forced a laugh and looked away. “Wanted only for my body. Story of my life.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said, his tone forbidding. “Don’t mock yourself.” He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to look directly into her eyes. She quickly fell back into wild, hypnotic Reece land where thought didn’t exist and there was only action and reaction, motion and emotion. “She wanted your face. Didn’t she.”

  It wasn’t a question. And Jessica didn’t try to deny it.

  “Why did you say no?” he asked, dropping his hand. She immediately missed its warmth, which was crazy since she’d just been mentally whining over how freaking hot it was in here.

  “I guess I didn’t want the notoriety. I’m trying to be taken seriously as…” Realizing if she said she wanted to be a screenwriter he might assume she was about to go all Hollywood on him and launch into a script pitch, she changed direction. “I mean, I work at a bar and already have to fend off grubby men with grabby hands. The last thing I’d want is for any of them to see that piece, recognize me, and decide to be more persistent with their attention.”

  His jaw flexed, as if he was gritting his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. “They touch you?”

  “Perils of working in a place called Hot Buns.” Seeing his confusion, she added dryly, “We don’t sell burgers, and we wear short shorts.”

  He got it now, and the jaw tightening thing got worse. “Why?”

  “Why do I work there?”

  A nod.

  “Girl’s gotta eat.” She gestured toward the statue. “Look at those thighs. I’ve obviously gotta eat a lot.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I told you not to do that anymore.”

  She gulped. He was deadly serious, as if he had the right to give her orders. It was caveman. It was unacceptable.

  It was kind of hot.

  “Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you. You have to know you’re beautiful.”

  Good lord. Reece Winchester was telling her she was beautiful? And he sounded like he really meant it? She knew she was sexy. She had assets and knew how to flaunt them. But nobody had ever called her beautiful.

  Now Liza? Oh yeah. Her sister was soft, fragile. Any guy would look at her and think, “She’s so lovely.” Jess? They’d think, “I’d do her.”

  First off, she wasn’t much short of an Amazon. While her dark red hair was eye-catching and she had a decent body, her eyes were a muddy brown and her nose had a bump from a long-ago break earned in a foster-care fistfight. Freckles tended to attack her pale skin when she was in the sun, and the cleft in her chin was absolutely mannish. So, no, she’d never considered herself beautiful, or even very pretty. Just hot.

  “Oh, crap, the chin!” she groaned, realizing how Reece must have recognized her. She darted over to the statue and looked, honestly unable to remember whether Liza had used her real chin. The cleft she’d hated since toddlerhood was pretty distinctive.

  But it wasn’t there. Liza had smoothed out her jaw and closed up the little space with something more rounded and feminine.

  “It wasn’t the chin,” he told her. For the first time, she heard what may have been genuine amusement in his voice.

  Swinging around to confront him, she saw he was not smiling, but those amazing eyes might’ve held the faintest hint of a twinkle. “Then what?”

  He shrugged. “Everything. It was everything.”

  “It couldn’t had been everything,” she snapped. “You’ve never seen me naked.”

  Another of those not-quite-a-smiles tugged at one side of his perfect mouth. “Not yet.”

  Holy shit. He’d said it as if he expected to see her naked. He could probably pick up the phone and have whoever was on this month’s cover of Cosmo in his bed by the time he got hom
e tonight. So why on earth would he want her?

  “Wait a minute, you said you recognized me as soon as you saw the statue.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you bought the statue before the opening. You had already seen me. The real me.”

  He nodded once.

  “How? When?”

  “Through the security cameras.”

  Yes, of course. She’d noticed the cameras all over the gallery floor downstairs. Security would have to be tight considering the value of some of the artwork the business dealt with, so naturally they would have video monitoring.

  “I saw you the day you came in off the beach and talked to Sid,” he admitted. “I was here to meet with Sharon and watched you through the monitor.”

  His voice thickened as he said watched you. He made something simple sound so intimate, as if he’d been studying her. Considering he saw that statue and realized it was her right away, perhaps he had been.

  “And only from seeing me through a camera, you recognized me as the model for the statue when you saw it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Please tell me you didn’t Facebook stalk me.”

  A tiny, real smile. Glorious. Not the full frontal she’d been seeking, but close enough to get her bells ringing. “I don’t do Facebook.”

  “You have a page. I follow it.”

  “Have you been Facebook stalking me?”

  Heat flooded into her cheeks. “No, of course not, I…” God, this was embarrassing. “I like to keep up with Hollywood stuff, okay?”

  He relented and didn’t push it further. “Somebody handles the official page for me.”

  Of course. His people.

  “And the acting one is fan based.”

  Ahh. The acting one was the one she’d “Liked.” Along with about two million other people. But she didn’t say so. She suspected Reece was touchy about his early years in Hollywood and preferred to be thought of only as a writer and director. Which was really sad, because, to her, he was always gonna be Runner Fleet, intergalactic space pirate. Inspiration for her first erotic dream. And, to be honest, many more.

  “I made a point of being here when you came back with Liza to meet with Sharon.”