by Clare Cole
NEW SENSATION
Curves for the Rock Star
by
Clare Cole
Copyright 2012 Clare Cole
http://www.clarecole.com/
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any situations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook contains explicit material, strong language and sexual references intended for mature audiences only. All sexual acts portrayed or suggested are between consensual adults over the age of 18.
Chapter One
“Hugo Boss. You smell good.”
I flashed a cheeky smile at the six-foot-two slice of pure hunk standing in front of me as I nervously attached the 50mm portrait lens to my camera.
“Dahlia Noir, right?” he grinned back. “Givenchy. You smell gorgeous, too.”
I felt my cheeks flush at the compliment and giggled a little before looking up and extending my hand. “I’m Amy.”
"Amy Reid," he smiled, shaking it. His grip was firm but not too tight – respectful, almost. He placed his other palm on the back of my hand as he shook it and I felt a little tingle run up my arm, all the way to the back of my neck where the hairs stood up on end. "You're a great photographer. I love your work, especially the black and white stuff. I'm Rick."
"Don't worry, I know who you are," I laughed. "No introduction required. And thanks for the compliment."
He released my hand and stood back, hands on hips. "You're welcome."
"How did you know which perfume I was wearing?"
He narrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward, talking quietly. "I'm very interested in cosmetics. You might not know this to look at me, but don't be deceived. If the music thing goes to shit, I can always get a job on one of the counters in Macy's."
I started giggling. "Or Harrods. You're in London now, you know."
He held up his hands. "Excuse me. Forgot about that. As long as the pay is decent, I'll be there."
Everybody I'd spoken to had been right. Rick Borrell, international megastar and lead singer of Beautiful Losers, was every inch the charmer I had been led to believe. He was also absolutely gorgeous – better looking in the flesh than in his photographs, not that I thought that would have been possible. He was on perfect form today, his dark hair slightly ruffled and with a little stubble enhancing that already handsome face. I was going to have to be careful, maintain a modicum of professionalism. But it wasn't going to be easy. As he positioned himself against the white photographic backdrop and flashed another sexy smile my way, I knew I was putty in his hands.
Keep it together, Amy, I thought. He wouldn't be interested in you anyway.
"So who's interviewing me? I hope it's you."
I looked through my viewfinder and focused before firing off a test shot. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "Think I'll go easy on you?"
"No, not at all. Like I said, I love your photos. You took some recently of The Vaccines, right?"
I nodded. "Yup."
"They were cool. Very raw. They looked like they were taken by someone who actually gives a shit about music."
"I do," I replied, moving closer. "It's my life. It's everything."
His beautiful blue eyes sparkled and widened as I spoke. He paused, then a warm smile washed over his face. "I thought so. So, are you doing the interview or not? Because if it's not you, I'm going to demand that it is."
"Oh dear. You're not going to throw a rock star tantrum, are you?" I teased.
"Absolutely. I'll stomp my foot and everything. And if my demands aren't met, I'm going to pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, march us to my hotel and make you watch as I trash the room, like all good rock stars do."
I couldn't stop giggling now, my attempts at cool rebuttals and smart responses beginning to wane. I kept snapping away as he spoke, snatching intimate moments of him smiling and laughing. "Throw me over your shoulder, eh? I'm a little too big for that. I might give you a slipped disc. You wouldn't be able to stand or do anything for six months and you'd hate me forever."
"Well, now, just stop there for a moment."
I lowered my camera and looked at him, his expression changing to one of curiosity.
"Firstly, I don't want to be responsible for doing anything that could make me hate you forever. Not when our obvious love affair has only just begun."
I smiled nervously and pushed a loose strand of my long red hair behind my ear.
"Secondly, don't you make any of those silly comments about yourself. If you don't know how gorgeous you are, then I'm going to have to be the one to tell you. Corny, I know, but I like a woman to look like one, not like a matchstick."
I was floored, but also slightly suspicious. Was he just being kind? "Thanks," I replied. "But you don't need to flatter me. You must have gorgeous women throwing themselves at you day in and day out."
He crossed his legs, put his hands in his pockets and looked straight at me. God, those eyes were beautiful. "I was reading a magazine on the plane over here – Esquire, I think it was. They had one of those polls they do every year, 'Sexiest Woman in the World' or something. You know who won?"
I shook my head.
"Christina Hendricks. You know, the actress with loads of cleavage and a figure that Hollywood likes to describe as 'curvy'? And I agree. In fact, the results weren't even close. She annihilated the rest of the competition. If it wasn't for her, Mad Men would have no sexiness in it whatsoever."
I started taking photographs again, partly because I needed more and partly so I could hide once again behind the lens, taking the focus off me. "That's kind, but I'm no Christina Hendricks."
"Whoa there," he said, walking forward and grabbing the front of my camera. He gently lowered it and spoke to me softly, the smell of that Hugo Boss aftershave now just inches from my nostrils, causing a million tiny butterflies to dance around my stomach. "What would make you think that? You have an amazing body, gorgeous red hair and you're absolutely beautiful. It's taken everything in my power not to plant a kiss on those full, soft red lips of yours."
I gasped slightly and felt a rush of warmth between my legs. "So what's stopping you?" I grinned. My legs felt like jelly and it seemed like I could have collapsed at that very moment, falling at his feet like some adoring fan. But I was stronger than that, riddled with all the insecurities that all of us women have, but smarter than the average bear.
"Because," he smiled, almost breaking into a laugh, "that would be terribly unprofessional. Besides, we still have an interview to do and you've barely asked me a thing."
He took a few steps back and positioned himself in front of my camera once again. This time, I didn't raise it. "I've got all the photos I need. I think I just might have caught the real you under that swagger."
This time, he couldn't help but chuckle. "I guess you got me. Am I going to like what I see?"
"I think so," I smiled. "You look warm and approachable in my shots, but don't worry. I managed to capture that streak of arrogance you're famous for. I wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation."
He slowly walked towards me again. "Do you think I'm arrogant, Amy?"
"I don't know you. Unlike some journalists, I don't make assumptions about people that easily. What do you think? Are you arrogant?"
"I prefer confident. Or maybe ambitious. How about confidently ambitious?"
We couldn't stop smiling at each other. "Confidently ambitious. I like that. I can identify with it."
We made our way over to a leather sofa on the far side of the studio. Rick slipped off his jacket to reveal a tight, dark grey top that hugged at his muscular frame. I felt that weakness in my legs again, that churning in my stomach that only comes from being devastatingly attracted to someone. Keep it together, Amy. You still have
an interview to do.
"Where's your publicist?" I asked. "There's normally at least one person here to tell me what I can and can't ask."
He shook his head. "Not for me. I've never been one for big entourages. Or small ones for that matter. You can ask me anything, Amy. I'm an open book."
I set my recorder down on a low glass coffee table. "Okay, are Beautiful Losers splitting up?"
"Shit, you don't mess about. No, we are not. Why would you ask?"
"Well, the rumours have been flying for a while now and you're here to start the buzz about your solo project. Isn't that the first sign of tension in a band?"
He sighed. "Sometimes, you just have to do your own thing. Beautiful Losers has always been dear to me and always will be. I'm the main songwriter, after all. But sometimes you need a break from sixty-thousand-seater stadiums. This album allows me to do something a little bit more intimate, stripped back. It's full of songs that simply wouldn't fit on one of the band's albums."
"Are you hoping people see a different side of you? The one who isn't stepping off private jets, attending fashion shows and hanging out with supermodels?"
He smiled and looked around, pretending there was someone else in the room. "Who, me? I am I that person? Yeah, I guess so. Plus, I'm older now. I turned thirty just over two months ago and you start to grow out of all of that shit."
I relaxed back into the sofa, crossing my legs. This didn't feel like an interview. It felt like a conversation – a confessional, almost. "What is it you've grown out of? Are there any things you've regretted?"
"No," Rick smiled, shaking his head and flicking dust off his black jeans. "Being in a band is like a microcosm of life. You get to travel the world, meet some incredible people, hang out in some amazing places. You get to go wild, absolutely ridiculously crazy at times, and live this exhausting dream. But the industry is full of assholes too, some real scumbags who you wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. The tricky bit is navigating between the good and the bad at such a young age and coming out of it unscathed. I've done more in ten years than most people will ever do in one. When you live at that pace, you have to slow down eventually. That's where I am now, with this album. I'm in a different frame of mind, both philosophically and intellectually."
I paused for a moment. "Great answer."
"I know," he grinned. "Want some more?"
"Yes please," I giggled.
"Okay, on one condition. You let me take you out to dinner tonight. There's a restaurant near my hotel that I've been going to for a few years. The owner will give us a nice, private table in the back where you can discover my deepest, darkest secrets. How does that sound?"
I bit my lip. Was he asking me out? On a date? "Umm…"
He leaned forward. "Don't think about it too long. You'll hurt my feelings, you know."
I felt my face break out into the widest smile and the word I wanted to say simply fell from my lips without any further thought. "Yes."
"Okay, you won't regret it. The food is wonderful. And if you start to hate my company, the head chef is a fairly good-looking dude. You're just his type, he'd love you."
I closed my eyes and placed my hand over my mouth, trying to disguise my laughter. "We haven't even been out yet and already you’re setting me up with someone else."
“Well, I hope that isn’t necessary. I’d like you all to myself. All I have to do now is use my inimitable charm and freakish powers of persuasion to get you to like me.”
Little did he know it, but Rick didn’t even have to try. I was already his, falling faster than I could have imagined. It may not have seemed like it at the time, but that day was fateful.
My life was about to change forever.
Chapter Two
"That is one seriously expensive bottle of wine."
Rick poured the 2004 Chablis into my glass and smiled. "I know. Here's half the world losing their houses and living in cars and yet the cost of this bottle of wine equates to about five minutes of royalties for me. Don't think the ridiculousness of it doesn't go unnoticed."
I was stunned at how private this restaurant was. Tiny and softly lit, the unmarked black door down a side alley from Rick's five-star hotel would be completely hidden from the wider world. In fact, even if you managed to stumble across it, the average person wouldn't get in. In order to come here, you have to be a "member" of sorts, and Rick was music royalty. There were no more than twenty tables in total, and I didn't recognise a single other person yet Rick had politely waved or shared a greeting with almost everyone.
"Who are these people?" I whispered, leaning forward. "I feel a bit out of place."
He sipped his wine. "Don't," he replied, raising his glass to mine. We chinked them together. "To new friendships."
"I'll drink to that," I smiled.
"And mind blowing sex, of course. That's all to come, obviously."
"Don't be so sure of yourself," I snorted. "I'm a girl of class and breeding, you know."
Rick leaned forward. "Don't doubt it for a minute. And if you must know, virtually everybody in here is either the CEO of a company, a movie or record producer, or a bestselling writer of some kind – whether it's songs or stories. See that dude over there?"
He pointed at a dishevelled but good-looking man in his 50s, dressed completely in black, opposite an attractive blonde woman.
"Would it shock you to know he's probably the richest guy in the room? He writes mainly science fiction books, but a couple of them have been made into big Hollywood films. The royalties he earns – the passive income – is phenomenal."
"Is that the best part of your job? Earning money while you sleep, every time one of your albums is sold or a song is played on the radio?"
Rick nodded. "Yup. Makes the lean periods when the creative juices aren't flowing a hell of a lot easier. But I'd love his life. He never has to work again, yet nobody even knows who he is. I'd love that level of anonymity, not having to worry about the fucking paparazzi all the time." He sat back in his chair. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to swear like that."
"That's okay," I smiled. "Just mind your fucking language, okay?"
"No problem, boss," he laughed. "Oh, here's our food. Brian! How are you, my friend?”
A tall, portly man in chef's whites laid the food down at our table. "All the better for seeing you, Mr Rockstar!" Rick stood and embraced him warmly. "And who is this beautiful young lady you've brought with you today? I hope it's purely to treat her to the food and not your atrocious one-liners."
"This is Amy Reid. She is one of the best music journalists and photographers in London. And, yes, before you ask I'm doing everything I can to flatter her, break down her defences and get her to slowly succumb to my charms."
I giggled as the chef kissed my hand gently. "Don't give into him too easily, my dear. Make him work for it. I'm Brian John, the head chef and owner. If you find this degenerate too much to take, give me a shout after service has finished."
"I'll bear that in mind," I smiled.
"Told you he'd have a thing for you," Rick interjected. "Brian here is a sucker for a sexy redhead."
"Do you two go back a long way?" I asked the chef.
"He's been coming here since his first big hit album, although I'm not supposed to tell anyone that. He was an insufferably arrogant prick back then, though thankfully he's now marginally better. It's lovely to see him dining with somebody else for once."
We paused for a moment and I looked at Rick. I found it almost inconceivable that one of the biggest stars in the world often ate alone.
"So, shall I tell you what you have in front of you? For you, Amy, you have pan fried scallops with ratatouille and a shallot purée. And for the world's worst joke teller, a braised cheek of beef with creamed celeriac in a red wine sauce. Who chose the wine?"
I raised my hand.
"See? I knew Mr Borrell was punching above his weight yet again. You expertly pair a classic Chablis with your scallops, yet our man of the world
here is drinking a classic white wine with beef in a red wine sauce. What a dimwit. He never changes."
Rick laughed. "Or you could argue I was being a gentleman by letting the lady pair a wine that went with her meal rather than my own."
Brian turned to me and rolled his eyes. "If he says so. Anyway, I'm just kidding. Don't let the newspapers fool you. He's a great guy, this one. I'm not supposed to tell anyone that either, so keep it under your hat, okay?"
"Will do," I grinned.
"Enjoy your meal, you pair. It was lovely to meet you, Amy. And Rick, it's always a pleasure."
They shook hands. "Say hi to Julia and the kids for me, okay?"
As we started eating, the taste of impossibly fresh scallops began to melt in my mouth and I felt myself swooning at the flavours dancing over my tongue. "Oh my God, this is incredible. Just gorgeous."
Rick looked up. "Brian is an amazing chef. He used to work in the music industry, you know. He was a private cook on yachts and stuff like that. Some rich rock star or band would hire him for three months and he'd go cruising around the Mediterranean with them, cooking their food every day. He's seen some crazy shit, that guy."
"What about you? Have you seen any crazy stuff or have you been the one doing it?"
Rick sipped his wine. "Christ, that really doesn't go with beef. Still nice, though. Like I said earlier, I've done my share of stupid stuff in the past. But I was never one for smashing up hotel rooms or driving Rolls-Royces into swimming pools if that's what you're thinking."
"What about drugs and alcohol? Seems virtually everybody in music ends up fighting their battles with those at some point."
He shook his head. "Not for me. I like a drink, but I hate to get drunk. And, yes, I had my moments with drugs when I was earlier but the novelty soon wore off. I didn't find they contributed anything to my creativity like some people seem to believe. I always thought that was bullshit, just an excuse to behave badly. It comes back to ambition again."
"What do you mean?"
