by Betina Krahn
Manhunting.
What the hell had she been thinking?
As if decent, rational, gainfully employed heterosexual males just roamed the landscape, waiting to be bagged, banded and domesticated.
She refused to allow the pricking in her eyes to turn into tears. Two doors down, somebody punched the play button again and Nick Stack’s smoky, compelling invitation filtered through her office walls…muted, but still powerful enough to conjure the memory of Rich showing up at her apartment that first night with “their album.” A few bars of that sexy, driving beat and that mesmerizing voice, and she was putty in his hands.
It was the music.
It got into her blood and lowered her defenses. It always had. She couldn’t help thinking that she hadn’t fallen in love with Rich Collier so much as she had been seduced by that damned music—twice.
Still, she should have known something wasn’t right. Who the hell left Chicago on the weekend to go home to Muncie, Indiana? Nobody. Unless he was expected home on Friday evening. By his wife.
Where was her judgment, her business-honed instinct for subtext, nuance and deception? Where was her bullshit meter when she needed it?
Drowned out by raging hormones, a scorching set of male vocals and a hypnotic 4/4 beat.
What was the female equivalent of “thinking with your dick”?
Crimson with humiliation, she hit the intercom and dug deep into her reserves for some heavy-duty attitude.
“Get me somebody in Legal,” she ordered when Renee answered. “Nick Stack is going to rue the day he violated this contract.”
Four weeks later
“THIS GOES AGAINST EVERYTHING I’m trying to do, Stan.” Nick Stack stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as they emerged from the Drake Hotel on Chicago’s Miracle Mile. His leather jacket collar was flipped up against the November wind, his shaggy hair was blowing wildly, and his glare was hot enough to sear meat…all of which made him look very bad-boy rocker. A label he no longer appreciated.
“It’s money, Nick.” Agent Stanley Ripken waved his client toward the limo waiting at the curb with the door open. When Nick balked, Stan produced a glare from under wiry brows. “Get in the damned car.”
“They’ll flash these pictures all over the country,” Nick growled.
“We should be so lucky. It’s called publicity. And you need it.”
“Not like this, I don’t. It’s my old sound. I’ll never be taken seriously in jazz until that crap is six feet under.”
“After this shoot, they’ll cut you a nice check and we’ll hold a nice wake. Then you’ll get on with the new demo, and we’ll all get rich again.”
“Is that all you think about? Money?”
Stan squared on him, glaring.
“No. Right now I’m thinking of a photo shoot that you blew off and a lawyer screaming in my ear about failure to perform contracted services. You told me to get you some money—I got you some. ‘Just tell me where to show up,’ you said. Only you didn’t show up!” Then, like the father figure he’d often been to Nick, he pointed to the open car door. “Quit being such a diva and get in the car.”
Muttering, Nick climbed into the back of the limo. This, he told himself, was payback for all the pointless excesses of his former career. He was having his crimes against music and artistic integrity emblazoned on a valentine and hung around his neck for the whole world to see.
Stan was right—this was his fault. He needed money for a new demo album and was desperate enough to think he didn’t care how he got it.
It turned out he did care. A lot.
But his boycott of the L.A. photo shoot had only made matters worse. When they demanded a reshoot, CrownCraft insisted it be done in Chicago so it could be properly “handled” by their marketing department.
When the car stopped in front of a skyscraper, Nick rolled out and stood looking up at the place in horror. Sixty glass-paneled floors of tedium. He groaned. His last photos as an A-lister had been shot by an up-and-comer in Greenwich Village who took him out on the street—shirtless and holding his guitar—and captured what happened as he stopped traffic and sent most of lower Manhattan into gridlock. Now he was so far off the cutting edge that he was being funneled into an advertising photographer’s queue…just after the laundry soap and right before the mouthwash.
In that delightful state of mind, he emerged from the elevator onto the thirty-second floor and found a woman in a steel gray suit waiting with feet spread, arms crossed and chin out. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had damned fine legs—what he could see of them—and an attitude like the helmeted fat lady out of a Wagnerian opera. She was a little intimidating…and sexy as hell.
“We’ve been waiting,” she said in a deep, resonant voice that made his ears tingle.
“You know what they say. ‘Good things come to those who wait,’” Stan said with his most disarming smile.
“Whereas, we get your client.” She shot Nick a glare that sent a jolt of electricity through him, then turned briskly toward a nearby hallway.
This was his “handler”? Nick shook off the lingering sensual buzz, stuck his hands in his pockets and stalked after Stan and the Dungeon Mistress. Clearly, she wasn’t a fan. Probably a major corporate ladder climber. She sure had the legs for it. He followed them down to a pair of black spike heels with wicked red soles. There were probably men all over CrownCraft with matching puncture marks on their backs.
Watching the sway of her prime asset down the long hallway, he found himself experiencing a growing tension…in response to her hostility or her long-legged presence? Given the fact that this was photo shoot number two, it was undoubtedly the former. Her dismissive look and snide comment said clearly that she doubted they were going to get their money’s worth. And that came as something of a shock to him. Women usually appreciated him. In fact, they generally threw themselves at—
He slid his hand to his chest to explore the odd sensation developing there, then caught himself, scowled and jammed it back into his pocket.
Who the hell was she to…
He glared at her erect shoulders and superbly toned butt.
Fine. She expected a rock star—by damn, he’d give her a rock star. A no-holds-barred bad boy with ego and libido run amuck. With a little luck, the experience would be so obnoxious and the photos so bad that the company would use them sparingly…or not at all. Just what he wanted.
Brunhilda led them into a warehouse-size studio that was already warm from racks of overhead can lights.
Showtime. Before he had gone ten feet, he whipped off his leather jacket and tossed it to her. She caught it by reflex.
“Thanks, babe.” He hung his hands on his waist, giving everyone an eyeful of “rock star” while he surveyed the studio. “It’s hotter than hell in here. I’ll need some Lauquen. Can’t work when I’m dehydrated.”
“What?” She held his coat well away from her, her hackles rising.
“Lau-quen? Designer water? Ring any bells?” He pointed at the lights. “And some of this wattage has got to go.” He caught Stan trying to make for the door. “It’s in all my contracts. Tell ’em, Stan.” As Stan muttered a confirmation, she tossed the coat aside and struggled with her temper. She was hot? He smiled. She was going to get even hotter.
“First of all, my name is Samantha Drexel, not Babe,” she bit out in those husky tones that made his fingertips vibrate. “I am the marketing manager who came up with the idea of using your music in our valentines. It was someone else’s bright idea to issue a full CD of your songs, and we’re having to ‘crash’ production. So if you don’t mind—”
Nick whirled on Stan. “A CD? You let BMR sell them full tracks?”
Stan mouthed the words money, money, money as he rubbed his thumb and fingers together and ducked out the door. It was all Nick could do not to charge after him and throttle the old rat bastard until his hairpiece went flying. They were reissuing his old stuff!
For
a minute he grappled for control. For the past six years he’d labored in small clubs and worked endless studio sessions and jazz festivals, trying to bury his hard rocking reputation and forge a new identity for himself and his music. Then an ambitious corporate climber gets a bright idea and all his hard work goes down the tubes. He stared at her.
She was so going to regret that creative impulse.
“Lauquen comes from a special artesian aquifer in Argentina.” He gestured to his throat. “The trace manganese in the water coats the pipes.”
“Which is irrelevant, since you will just be posing,” she declared, stalking over to confront him.
“I don’t pose, Brunhilda, I sing. You have a sound system in this place, I assume. And my tracks.” He leaned close enough to read the odd blend of resentment and expectation in her eyes. Striking golden eyes. Narrowing dangerously. “Then let’s do it.”
2
SAM STOOD WITH HER hands on her waist, mirroring his pose, trying to maintain an upright-and-locked position. He was inches away, filling her vision, making her heart jackhammer and her knees go weak.
She couldn’t swallow.
Nick Stack. Wearing his trademark black jeans and shirt—open to that critical fourth button—and black Italian boots. Six feet three inches of free-range testosterone, with prominent cheekbones and fabulous teeth. He seemed leaner than he had been back in the day, but somehow he came across as all the more defined for it…as if the ease and artifice had been stripped away to reveal the raw essence of the man underneath. Twelve years after his hard-rocking heyday, he exuded a tested but still defiant sexuality that dared women to look. And touch.
She curled her hands into fists at her sides.
She had enough trouble with his cursed music. Having to resist both it and him at close range—she sucked a sharp breath.
Focus, damn it. She was here to see he fulfilled his contract. This was business, not pleasure.
Stepping back, she looked for photographer Halcyon White. He stood nearby with his assistant, watching them in a very intent way.
“Where’s the stereo?” she asked, grateful she didn’t sound choked.
When he directed her to a rack of electronic equipment on the back wall, she pulled out her cell phone and headed for the system controls.
“It’s me,” she said when Renee answered in their offices, above, on the thirty-eighth floor. “Find that CD of Stack’s and bring it down…fast.”
“He’s there?” Renee asked, perking up. “He made it this time?”
“In the flesh,” Sam said, regretting that choice of words the instant she clicked off. Flesh. Suffering a brief shiver, she made herself focus and located the receiver, disk tray and output controls.
When she returned, Stack had sent an assistant running for his pricey water and was sorting through the backdrop choices, declaring them to be “crap.” She clamped her jaw and headed for him, but Halcyon—living up to his name—grabbed her by the elbow and shook his head.
“I look best in grays and white lights with a hint of ultraviolet,” Stack declared, seizing a glaring white backdrop. “This’ll do.”
“Brilliant,” Halcyon declared, strolling over to him, seeming oddly relaxed. “If you’re going for a vampire-in-the-morning look.”
“It works for me,” Stack said with a fierce smile.
Halcyon chuckled.
“I think we need a warmer background to showcase you,” he said in measured tones. His own handsome chocolate skin and winter-white ensemble were such a statement that it was hard to argue with his eye for the subtleties of lighting on a human form. “This is going on a CD cover as well as a POS poster surrounded by valentine reds.”
“P-O-S?” Nick said, frowning.
“Point of sale.” Sam crossed her arms. “You’re going to be hanging in four thousand corporate stores, nation-wide…with feature space in another five thousand outlets that carry CrownCraft goods…surrounded by flocked red velvet and fuzzy teddy bears and pictures of swans with their necks entwined to form hearts.”
She couldn’t tell—did the news cause that blanch or was he just making another bid for his vampire lighting scheme?
“I’ll need a mike,” he said to Halcyon’s assistant, his jaw flexing. “Doesn’t have to be live, but I always use one.” He spotted and headed for the makeup table. The fortysomething makeup technician looked positively orgasmic as he slid into her chair and winked at her.
Sam made herself look away. He still had it, all right.
When Halcyon called that he was ready, Stack sprang up from the chair, took a swig of his expensive water and grabbed the prop mike. She had Renee punch the sound system and braced as the riveting, bass-heavy introduction of “Baby, Tonight” went rumbling through the studio.
They all watched, growing spellbound as he did a few deft slides, steps and hip thrusts that carried him through the opening bars.
“A man that tall shouldn’t be able to move like that,” Renee said from beside her, sounding a little breathless.
Sam shivered and clamped her arms fiercely around herself. Between Stack’s aphrodisiacal music and eye-popping exhibitionism…she had to get out of there…maybe slip upstairs to her office…
She took two steps backward, tripped on a fat power cable and nearly went down on her rear. Her flailing caught Stack’s eye.
He halted and the recording went on without him, sounding thin.
“This isn’t working,” he declared. “I don’t just sing, I sing to an audience.” He glanced around the studio. Before anyone could point out that there were half a dozen assistants standing around, he fixed on Sam.
“Brunhilda. Come on down.” He made for her.
“I have work to do. My assistant can—”
“This was your idea, right?” He grabbed her by the wrist and snagged a stool as he headed for the backdrop. “See it through.”
“This is absurd,” she growled, trying frantically to pull back.
“Actually it’s not.” Halcyon appeared at her elbow to usher her toward the stool. “It will give him a focus and keep his energy up.”
“I don’t want to—” keep anything of his up “—be in these photos,” she said, digging in her spike heels.
“Just sit still and keep your hands to yourself,” Halcyon said with a chuckle. “I’ll shoot around you.”
It was a nightmare; she was stuck on a stool under hot studio lights with Stack bombarding her with provocative lyrics while pictures were snapped all around her. She hung her heels over the top rung of the stool and tucked her arms tightly, trying to make herself a smaller target.
Just an hour or so, she told herself frantically. Ignore the heat. And the beat. And for God’s sake keep your knees together.
Then Stack put the mike to his mouth and began to belt out lyrics.
Ohhh.
Damn.
At point-blank range, his voice was deep and full of earthy undertones and had an edge of raw half-pained pleasure not unlike the burn of hot chilies sliding down her throat. The sound seeped into her blood and co-opted her heartbeat, replacing it with a steady quarter-time rhythm. Her exposed skin went taut and began to vibrate as if it were a drum head, and she trembled as he crooned about how he wanted to make love to her until he couldn’t tell her body from his own.
He moved in, swaying, undulating as he ground out the raw, erotic invitation that had made him famous.
She looked away, but he danced himself in front of her, filling her vision and dragging her gaze toward his. It took heroic effort, but she swiveled on the stool, giving him her side and shoulder. There was a tug at the back of her head and she felt her hair slide out of her ponytail. Shocked, she reached up to feel her shoulder-length hair hanging free.
“Loosen up, ’Hilda.” He tossed the elastic band in her lap.
It was a small but telling encroachment, a declaration that nothing—not even her person—was out of bounds where this man was concerned. Stiffening with panic, sh
e sent him her hottest glare and prayed he couldn’t tell how the liberty he’d just taken affected her.
As the serenade continued, her legs ached with erotic tension and sweat droplets trickled down the side of her face and between her breasts.
“Getting hot, are you?” Stack gave her a wink.
Flirting? More like taunting, she thought, fanning herself with the sides of the jacket she was afraid to shed. Her nipples stuck out like hood ornaments beneath her thin sleeveless sweater.
Looking from Halcyon to Renee and the rest of the crew—all watching eagerly—she felt her face flame, lowered her feet and tried not to squirm on the stool. She had to gut this out.
Another song came and went, and then came one that was slower and more evocative, a steamy ballad she knew well and had been dreading.
Halfway through, she was jarred by the feel of her jacket sliding from her shoulders. She was shocked to have Halcyon direct his assistant to take it from Stack. She had apparently drifted into a memory-upholstered lull.
A shudder rippled through her as she folded her arms to cover her breasts. The Stackman went down on one knee beside her, engulfing her with his seductive presence and suggestive words. Then he pulled her gaze into his…ran a hand over her shoulder…massaged his way down her spine. Could he feel her body trembling?
She swayed, gripping the edges of the seat, wishing she could give him a shove to back him off, but Halcyon was in close now, working furiously. The camera was whirring and snapping just over her shoulder.
She closed her eyes and began to repeat the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner” over and over in her head. When the barrage of sensation ended, she opened her eyes and found Stack looming over her with a smug twist of a smile. What was he…? She froze.
Something wasn’t quite. Her breasts felt…loose. The memory of his hand moving down her back suddenly made a very different kind of sense. Her face caught fire as the realization hit.
The son of a bitch had unfastened her bra!
