That slip made her attack him more harshly than originally intended. With a disparaging head-to-toe wave of her left hand, she asked, “Were you dressed like this?”
He looked down and shrugged. “Probably.”
“Then even if I’d been stone-cold sober, I wouldn’t remember you. You look like a child wearing his older brother’s clothes.” At least, from the neck down. From the neck up, he looked, well, yummy. Sharp cheekbones, albeit hiding behind the hair. Firm lips that…there she went again. For crying out loud, what was it about Dylan Royce that tugged at her so much? Was it just because he hadn’t stopped intensely staring at her since she’d walked into the room?
Dylan plucked at his baggy pants. “Yeah, I’m not wild about them, either.”
“Then, for goodness sake, why are you wearing them?”
“Because the label’s stylist, my manager and my last PR rep told me to.” Slowly, he edged closer to her. “They’ve provided me clothes for eight straight years. They picked out the boxers that strategically showed when I bent down to grab a microphone off the stage. They picked out socks that would look good when I crossed my legs in TV interviews. Even bought me swim trunks and fucking pajama bottoms in case paparazzi snapped a shot off a balcony.” Dylan stopped so close that the lapels of his ugly blazer brushed her breasts. “And before you judge my lack of independence, isn’t that exactly what you’re about to do to me?”
“Yes.”
His warm breath feathered against her cheek. “So how about we start with a clean slate instead of you looking at me like I’m an epic fuckup?”
Charming…but also able to put her in her place. Ariel didn’t care for that combination. It didn’t bode well for their working relationship. And by that, she meant Dylan doing exactly what she said, when she said it. It was the only way for this whole PR makeover to work. She had to be in charge. Starting now. Starting with getting the heck away from him and his annoyingly hypnotic eyes.
Ariel crossed to the wall of posters. Stopped to give each one a sniff, a crinkle of her nose, a shake of her head. She stopped at the final frame, the one with just him in it. And very pointedly turned her back to it. “I grew up with real rockers. Not this vanilla version you present to the world. I’m not sure I believe that you can be turned into a sex idol.”
“Ariel, hang on just one minute,” Leo blustered. “You were assigned to handle Dylan because of your close ties to Riptide. You can’t back out now. You have to make this work.”
No kidding. Not just to save Dylan’s tanking career, but her own. “Leo, would you give us some privacy?”
“Sure. Anything.” He backed out of the room, desperation coming off of him in waves like cheap cologne. Ariel knew the label had sunk millions of dollars into 4X4 over the years and made their money back tenfold, at least. Things with Dylan’s first solo release must be even worse than Leo had admitted to her. Well, fine. Her situation with her company was more tenuous than she’d admitted to Leo. Everyone had secrets. Or a secret agenda.
“How old are you?” she asked, smoothing the front of her electric-blue miniskirt.
“Twenty-three.”
Only a year younger than her. The oversize clothing made him look younger. Ariel crossed her arms over her white corset top. “Tell me something: Are you a virgin, Dylan?”
“What?” He fumbled a few steps back, as if the very words drove him away.
“I listened from the other room. Leo said he needed women to want to fuck you. You’ve got a squeaky-clean reputation. You’ve spent a good chunk of your life surrounded by teenyboppers. Talk about a definite ‘hands-off’ situation. So I have to wonder if you even know what we’re talking about.”
It was risky, but putting Dylan on the defensive might be the only way to find out exactly how much charisma he had. She’d watched videos—endless videos—as soon as her boss not so politely told her to fix Dylan or find another job. They’d shown her a guy with enthusiasm who could follow choreography, bop around the stage and blend with his fellow bandmates.
To be honest, 4X4 was interchangeable with three other boy bands that had come up at the same time. All four were now disbanded. And Dylan was the only band member trying to make a go of it as a solo artist. Which kind of gave away the life-span of a boy-bander, didn’t it?
He frowned at her with an equal mix of anger and disbelief. “It’s not enough that you people buy my underwear? Now you want to know if I can handle the equipment that goes in it?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Do you need signed affidavits?” Hands on his hips, he came at her. Slowly. Surprisingly seductively. Leading with his hips, which drew her gaze down to his belt. “Or are you looking more for show-and-tell?”
“It’s a yes or no question, Dylan. Are you a virgin?”
The corner of his mouth curled downward into a sneer. “No. But that doesn’t prove shit. Any nimrod can shoot his wad in thirty seconds. You want to know if I can arouse women? If I can make them want me from across a stage and a mosh pit? If I can raise their temperatures and make them drop their panties?”
Okay. He was off to a pretty good start. It had to be the tractor beam of his blue eyes mixed with the deep hoarseness of his voice. Ariel licked her suddenly dry lips. “That sums it up.”
“If I can prove that to you, you’ll get on board, all the way?”
“Yes.”
From his pocket Dylan produced a hair tie and pulled all that thick streakiness into a stubby tail. That exposed the slashes of his cheekbones, the dark eyebrows and the manly jut of his Adam’s apple. It aged him by about five years, in a good way. In a lip-smacking way. And then he stripped off his blazer.
“What are you doing?”
“Proving a point.” He rolled his sleeves up, exposing tanned, muscled forearms dusted with golden hair. Super manly. Superduper lip-smacking. Dylan advanced on her like a jaguar stalking a helpless gazelle on the savannah.
What did he intend to do? Kiss her? Grope her? Since Ariel had thrown down the gauntlet, did she really have any leg to stand on to tell him no? Not that she wanted to. He looked down at her, which made Ariel all the more aware of their height difference. And brushed past to sit down at the gleaming white, baby grand piano in the corner.
Dylan pushed back the cover. Sat with his head down for a few seconds. Was he figuring out what to sing? Or was this all a bluff and he was scrambling to come up with the next part of the plan? After those moments of stillness, face still pointed at the keys, he began to play. Soft chords. A haunting, hollow sound with a melody that floated on top like foam at the seashore’s edge. A few bars of intro, and then he sang.
I wanted to be free
Wanted everyone to see
Only, simply, just me.
Dylan lifted his head to gaze out the windows at the only somewhat smoggy skyline. His left hand moved into stronger chords, filling the natural break in the lyrics, driving the rhythm into something more robust.
No sharing the spotlight
Being all alone just feels right
Watch me—solo—tear up the night
At the instrumental break, he tossed his head back to look at her. No, he didn’t just look at Ariel—he connected with her. Made her feel like he was singing the words straight from his heart into her own. Those blue eyes burned with passion, concentration, intent. It seemed so obvious that Dylan was sharing something intensely personal with her. That he’d chosen her, Ariel specifically, to receive his music. To receive this outpouring of musical emotion and keep it safe for him.
Didn't know I'd be so naked,
Stripped, bare, alone.
Exposed to the world
Holding my breath till the music starts
And then I'm filled up, flying
Nothing but happiness in my heart
When he stopped playing, Ariel glanced down at his hands, long fingers resting lightly on the ivory keys. Wait—when had she drifted over to the piano? Her hand curved around the edge of t
he curlicued music stand. Her bare leg was mere inches from his.
“Well?” Dylan asked.
“That’s a wonderful song,” she breathed, still caught in the swirl of music hanging in the air. “Did you write it?”
“Naked? Yeah. It was supposed to be about my first time onstage, solo. How I hoped it’d feel. But the label hasn’t sent me on a tour for this apparent stinker of an album, so it only exists in the music for now.”
That was a timely reminder of why she was here. Which was not to drape herself over a piano and stare at him with googly eyes, no matter how velvety his voice. Ariel straightened. “Quite the impressive performance, I’ll admit.”
Dylan hinged back from his hips, hooking his feet beneath the pedals. He craned his neck sideways as though scanning the floor. “I don’t see ’em.”
“See what?”
“Your panties. I was sure I heard them land on the floor in the middle of Naked.”
Another timely reminder. That all rockers were cut from the same cloth. Screw-and-scram artists. “Look, you made your point. You have…potential. I’ll polish it the best I can. Starting with a full makeover tomorrow afternoon. No discussion. Although I think you might be pleased with the results.”
He tucked his thumbs into the waist of his pants as he stood. “If it means getting out of these clothes, I’m all for it.”
“I thought that’s what you started to do five minutes ago,” she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Really?” His eyebrow winged up. “I wasn’t sure you’d react well to the obvious approach. To being, you know, manhandled.”
Quite correct. Ariel lifted her chin. “I would not appreciate being manhandled. I do like to be handled by a man who knows what he’s doing. There is a difference.”
“I know the difference.” Dylan picked up his blazer and held it over his shoulder by a single finger. “And I’ll prove that, too.”
Before Ariel could snarkily turn him down, before she could remind him that she was the one in charge, before she could do anything, he’d already moved in on her. Used his hips to press her into the curve of the piano. Used his shoulder to nudge her body into a better angle. And then his lips met hers. Softly. Not all bluster and brashness.
No, Dylan surprised her with his technique. His kiss was a faint brush of lips. Then another. A slow back and forth that had her opening her own lips in a silent plea for more. More contact. More kisses. More of him. Ariel even raised up on tiptoe to lean into that provocative mouth.
It worked. Dylan slid his hand along her waist, then up her side so his thumb lay just below the lower curve of her right breast. The fact that he was so near and yet not touching it made Ariel hyperaware of his fingers. The length of them. The heat of them searing right through her top, as though all the heat from playing Naked now seeped out of him. Dylan squeezed, pressing her in and up, bowing her to press her breasts into his chest.
And then his tongue swooped in. Licking. Languorously exploring—and that exploration had the added bonus of slowly rousing every infinitesimal strand of nerves in her mouth. Warmth swirled right along with his tongue. Except that trail of warmth took off on its own path, expanding through her body with each pulse of her heart, each pull of his lips.
Ariel didn’t want to do anything to jar the perfection of what was inarguably one of the top three kisses of her entire life. But she simply couldn’t contain her pleasure—or her growing excitement. A low moan broke from her throat.
As feared, that was enough to make Dylan ease back. He removed his hand first…still without lifting his thumb that last crucial millimeter to make contact with her now aching breast. With a final suck on her bottom lip, he lifted his head. Looked at her with bedroom eyes, heavy-lidded and somehow darker than when she’d first seen them.
“That’s what it’s like to be well-handled by a man. I need you to keep that in mind. Make sure you handle me just as well over the next few weeks.” Dylan turned on his heel to walk out with one heck of a cocky swagger. Which was when Ariel realized he’d just kissed her legs out from under her without even using two hands. The other had kept holding his jacket.
Ohhhh.
Dylan Royce was definitely not the teenager she’d watched bop around in those videos. He was all man. A very dangerous man. Because in proving how easily he could make women in the audience want him, he’d also proven how easily he could make Ariel want him.
And now that she did want him? Enough so that she had to ease onto the piano bench and let her head clear? It’d be impossible to look at him the same way again. It’d be impossible to ignore the chemistry between them. It’d be impossible to shadow him twenty-four/seven, stay impartial and do her job.
But if she didn’t, if Ariel screwed up at all handling Dylan, she’d be fired. Funny how that fear still wasn’t enough to dim the luster of his kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
Ariel sat on the edge of her desk to get out of the way of the rack of clothes being wheeled into her office. “Thanks so much for pulling all these and coming over on such short notice, Raimondo.”
“This is Hollywood, chica. Everything happens at the last minute. And now you owe me a favor.” He flashed very white teeth in his very dark face. Swarthy sexiness didn’t begin to describe the effect of his wide smile, tanned muscles bursting out of a tight yellow tee and a personality that made every woman feel like she’d be lucky to get in bed with him.
While Ariel enjoyed flirting with Raimondo—and did, to keep him on the string for emergencies like today—she’d never felt the slightest temptation to take him up on the less-than-subtle invitations to spend time together outside of work. He was a player. No doubt he’d show her a good time for a night or two, but then he’d move right along. The last thing Ariel wanted to be was interchangeable.
“I told you that Dylan will mention your store whenever he’s asked about his wardrobe. I can’t give you more than that. And I don’t owe you a favor, PKCL Publicity, LLC does.” Ariel softened her statement with a remonstrative smile and teasing flutter of her eyelashes. But it was important to keep him in line. Remind him who had the upper hand. Because the moment she let the power dynamic reverse, she’d never get it back. Her performance was already under scrutiny, her job on the line. There could be no slipups.
“When should I come back for these?”
“An hour.” Ariel immediately reconsidered. Dylan seemed to have more than a bit of an attitude about his old wardrobe. She agreed with him that it was horrendous. But she didn’t know him well enough to know if his pissiness was due to caring about what he wore, or caring about being told what to do. Hoping for the former didn’t lessen the chances of it being the latter. If he argued about every piece he tried on, it could take a while. “Better make that two.”
“Is this one as special as he thinks he is?” Raimondo encircled her shoulders and gave her arm what seemed to be a commiserating rub. Ariel, however, knew it to be fifty percent commiseration, fifty percent an attempt to graze the side of her breast with his hand. Not the first time he’d attempted the move. Being so obvious about it, and the fact she’d seen him do it to at least three other publicists and an assistant, made it not worth getting upset over.
Today’s reaction, though, surprised her, because he made her remember yesterday’s kiss with Dylan. The smoking-hot kiss where she’d shamelessly arched into his touch, trying to get him to touch her breast. Not her best moment. Certainly not a professional one, for many reasons.
Reasons that she’d spent all night repeating. Easy to do, since sleep had been impossible. Every sense kept replaying things about the kiss. The exciting rasp of his tongue. The melody of the song he’d played just prior to the kiss—because Dylan’s performance had evaporated her mental walls and left her all quivery and turned on before he ever touched her. How he’d looked at her with such intensity that it didn’t just feel like every other woman in the world had disappeared—it felt like the rest of the whole world had d
ropped away.
Ariel’s reasons were rock solid. One, Dylan was a boy-bander. If men were drinks? Boy-banders were orange soda, and real rock stars were thick, heady Guinness. Why settle for the pale imitation? Although…that kiss, the charisma, the wit…he’d surprised her by being much, much more than anticipated. Which meant moving right along to reason number two.
Two, she’d sworn off rockers. Their MO could be summed up the same way Ariel went through a bag of Doritos on the couch while watching a Hallmark Channel movie. They just grabbed women by the handful and immediately moved on to the next.
Three, he was a client. An amazing kisser of a client, her subconscious muttered. Not the point, her ambitious side muttered back. The point was that Ariel valued her professionalism.
Four, he was a client, and her job was on the line already. Mixing romance and/or lust into an already complicated assignment would be flat-out stupid. An epically bad decision.
“Ariel?” The second squeeze of her arm brought her out of her head and back to the realization that she had yet to answer Raimondo. And that his hand was scooching closer and closer to body parts he had no business touching. The man never passed up the opportunity for an accidental grope. Ariel usually paid enough attention to not let him that close. She still had to be off-balance from her time with Dylan. Bizarre. Now she’d have to extricate herself—politely—from his octopus-like embrace.
“Sorry, Raimondo.” Ariel tried to shrug out of his grip, but it only tightened. She slid off the desk. But that only tucked her in closer to his side. “I guess the answer is that I’m not sure yet. I’m not at all sure about him. Not who he is or how good he can be.”
“All you have to do is ask. I’ll tell you exactly how good I am.” Dylan swung through the doorway, dressed in another of his ridiculously baggy and layered outfits. His hair, however, was vastly different. Obviously, the appointment she’d sent him to at LA’s priciest salon had been worth every penny. They’d sheared off a ton of the length. Now the sides and back were all short, the top gelled straight up from his forehead. The view of his laser-sharp cheekbones was unobstructed…aside from being distracted by the near-sparks coming from his eyes.
The Reverse of Perfection (Bad Decisions Book 2) Page 2
