Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)

“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.

“There’s a party at my grandmother’s estate on Monday,” he says. “It’s the seventieth anniversary of the release of her first movie. She was fifteen and it was a huge scandal because of course her father cast her, and the press was saying that she was going to crash and burn.”

“The Girl in the Moon,” I say. “I love that movie. And she was brilliant.”

“Of course she was. My great-grandfather was nobody’s fool. And he only hired people with talent. Family included. At any rate, all the usual suspects will be there. Hollywood elite. Los Angeles society. It’s going to be a crush.”

“I bet you’ll have fun. Crowded, but they’re all coming to honor your grandmother.”

“It’ll be more fun if you come with me.”

I pause. “Really?”

“I want her to meet you.”

“Oh.” Those butterflies are back, and I feel all of fifteen again. “I’d love to come.” I glance down at the drenched sundress. “I can do better than this. But I don’t know if I have anything that really fits the occasion.”

“No problem,” he says, with the kind of gleam in his eye that should make me nervous but right now only makes laugh. “You can just leave that to me.”





26


“I definitely should have brought my camera,” Wyatt said, as Kelsey did a little twirl in the dress he’d picked out for her. It was classic black, with a form-fitting velvet top that reminded him of a dancer’s leotard.

The skirt was equally on theme, made from three layers of gauzy black material that had enough transparency to make it racy but not indecent. The material hung in varying lengths, so that it not only flowed as she walked, but flared out when she twirled. And though the dress didn’t reveal them, he liked knowing that underneath it all she wore the black La Perla panties he’d bought to complete the outfit.

She’d said it before about a dozen times, but she thanked him again as he opened the door of his Navigator and helped her in. “For the dress and for the experience,” she added. “I’ve never been shopping quite like that.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, meaning it. Usually, shopping bored him. And usually, he avoided calling on his Hollywood pedigree.

But for this, he’d decided to take the leap. He’d felt like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, after she’d been snubbed by the snooty women on Rodeo Drive. Only in the movie—which he’d seen far too many times on far too many bland dates—they didn’t play the scene right. At least not as far as he was concerned.

No, the point wasn’t that Julia Roberts got her outfits. The point was what Gere could do for her. What Wyatt could do for Kelsey.

And he’d felt like Santa on Christmas morning as the sales team from one of Beverly Hills’ most elite clothing stores brought rack after rack of cocktail dresses, shoes, and accessories to his studio for her to try on.

In the end, he’d picked out two, but when she said she’d only accept one, he insisted it be the black one with the look of a dancer. “It’s you,” he’d told her. And she’d slid into his arms and kissed him, right there with the store manager looking on.

It had been a sweet moment, but now, as he maneuvered the Navigator toward his grandmother’s Holmby Hills mansion, he felt a growing heat. She looked wildly, deliciously sexy next to him, in the stunning dress and black heels and her hair piled high, so that loose tendrils curled at her neck.

But it was when he noticed the bracelet that he really felt that pang of desire. The infinity bracelet that he’d given to her in Santa Barbara. That was the second time he’d seen her wear it, and that simple connection between them tugged at his heart.

“You’re staring,” she said, smiling.

“You’re beautiful.”

Her smile widened. “I think it’s the dress.”

“I know it’s the woman.”