Dynasties: The Elliotts, Books 1-6

by Various Authors

  Now, clutching her notepad and pen, she shifted from one foot to the other. She’d come to the concert straight from work and she felt uncomfortable. Her toes in her chunky-heeled boots had been stepped on more times than she could count. Her pinstriped pants were perfect for the office but were too warm and out of place among a sea of jeans. Her turtleneck felt similarly tight and hot in the heat generated by thousands of swaying, dancing, jiggling bodies.

  Around her, the audience seemed to move like a wave, swaying toward the stage and back, caressing the outer perimeter of Zeke Woodlow’s spotlight.

  Because she was just a copy editor, she knew Zeke’s publicist would have laughed in her face if she’d asked for an exclusive interview. But she hoped if she got close to Zeke himself, she could convince him to talk to her. After all, she was ambitious, articulate and musically aware, and she worked for The Buzz—even if her position didn’t qualify her for a backstage press pass.

  When Zeke finished the song he was singing, the crowd went wild. He joked with the audience, his sexy voice filling the arena and dancing across her skin like an intimate caress.

  “More?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth as silk, teasing the crowd.

  The audience hooted and hollered in response.

  “I can’t hear you,” he said, cupping his hand to his ear.

  The crowd roared.

  “All right!” Zeke motioned to the band behind him, then slung the strap of an electric guitar over his shoulder. The music struck up, and Zeke started crooning one of his biggest hits, a ballad called “Beautiful in My Arms.”

  As he sang about making love beneath waving palm trees, with the humid night air pressing around, Summer felt herself being seduced right along with the rest of the crowd, lulled into a magical moment. Only when the song faded away was the spell broken, and, even then, it took a few seconds before she shook herself and told herself to stop being ridiculous.

  She had to remember she was here for one purpose and one purpose only, and it wasn’t to become another of Zeke Woodlow’s ardent admirers.

  Thirty minutes later, when the concert had ended and the crowd was making for the exits, she pushed through the throng, intent on getting backstage. Unfortunately, her progress was halted by a tall and tough-looking security guard.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’d like to get backstage.”

  The guard peered down at her, his eyes catching on her ring for an instant, his arms folded. “Right. You and a few thousand other people.”

  “I’m a member of the press,” she said. She invested her voice with the same tone that she’d heard hundreds of times from the headmistress of the private girls’ school that she’d attended along with her identical twin, Scarlet.

  “Let’s see your backstage pass.”

  “I don’t have one. You see—”

  But Mr. Hefty-and-Imperturbable had already started shaking his head. “No pass, no access. It’s that simple.”

  She wanted to say, “Can we talk about this?” But since she doubted that would work, she fished in her handbag for a business card. She held one up. “See? I’m a staff member—” she didn’t bother identifying which staff member “—at The Buzz. You’ve heard of The Buzz, haven’t you?”

  Mr. Hefty just glanced from the business card to her, not bothering to take the card from her. “Like I said, only authorized persons are permitted backstage.”

  Argh. She should have been prepared for this.

  “Fine,” she said in exasperation, trying one last gambit, “but don’t blame me when heads roll because Zeke Woodlow lost his chance at an interview with one of the leading entertainment magazines in the country.”

  The guard merely quirked a brow.

  Turning on her heel, she marched away with her head held high. At school, Ms. Donaldson would have been proud.

  All right, she thought, so she wasn’t going to get to interview Zeke in his dressing room. She knew he had to leave the Garden sometime, though, and when he did, she’d be waiting for him. She hadn’t spent close to three hours getting shoved and poked by his fans for nothing. She needed this interview.

  An hour later, however, she felt as if she’d been huddling in the chilly, damp March night forever, and she started to ask herself how much she needed this interview. She was tired, hungry and wanted to go home.

  She started fishing around in her purse for a breath mint—anything edible, frankly—until a commotion caused her to look up and notice that Zeke had emerged.

  Unfortunately, he was surrounded by handlers and security personnel. Despite that, she ran forward, knowing she had only a few moments before he ducked into the limousine that had pulled up. “Zeke! Mr. Woodlow!”

  Just then, the space around Zeke became frenetic. Paparazzi flashbulbs went off, and some girls started screaming and jumping up and down.

  Her forward progress came to a halt as she collided with a brick wall—or, more precisely, she realized as she looked up, the blue-clad form of one of New York’s finest. She took an involuntary step back as the police officer—one of several near the limo, she now noticed—blocked her way.

  “Step back,” he ordered.

  Looking over the officer’s shoulder, she noticed Zeke duck into the car, and her shoulders slumped.

  Four hours, twenty-seven minutes and twenty-plus songs. And now, finally, defeat.

  She felt like wailing in frustration. As if on cue, a raindrop hit her cheek, then another. She looked up, grimaced and then made a beeline for the taxi stand on Seventh Avenue. Once it started raining in earnest, she knew there wouldn’t be an empty cab in sight.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she reached the Upper West Side townhouse owned by her grandparents and used by them as a secondary residence.

  When she got to the top floor, where she and Scarlet had living quarters, her sister padded out of her room to greet her. “Well, how’d it go?” asked Scarlet, who was dressed in red silk pajamas.

  Taking in her sister’s sleepwear, she thought again that she and Scarlet couldn’t be more different, despite being identical twins. Scarlet was known as flamboyant and wild and crazy, while she was thought of as sensible and methodical.

  “Horribly,” she responded, plopping down on the couch and unzipping her boots. She wiggled her toes in relief. “I don’t know what ever made me think I could land this interview with Zeke. I couldn’t even get near him! The guy has better security than the pope and the president combined.”

  She summarized the events of the evening for Scarlet, then shrugged. “It was a crazy plan to begin with, but now I need another career-making scheme. Any ideas?”

  “That’s it?” Scarlet asked disbelievingly. “Just like that—” she snapped her fingers “—you’re giving up on Zeke?”

  “Not just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers right back. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

  “Isn’t there one more concert scheduled for tomorrow night? You’ve still got a shot at getting the interview.”

  “Scar, hello?” She was used to administering a dose of reality to counter her sister’s exuberance. “There isn’t going to be an interview.”

  Scarlet rested her hands on her hips. “Well, not with you dressed like that there isn’t.”

  She looked down at her clothes. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

  “You’re dressed like a nun.” Gesturing with one hand, Scarlet added, “You’re practically covered from head to toe.”

  “It’s cold outside,” she said defensively. “Besides, are you seriously suggesting I’d get anywhere by showing some cleavage?”

  “Well, it can’t hurt.”

  “Right, and I suppose it would help if I borrowed a few things from your closet,” she said dryly.

  Her sister’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s an idea.”

  Scarlet’s love of fashion was well known. She often sketched designs and sometimes made her own clothes, and Summer admired her for it, th
ough her own taste in clothes was more sedate.

  “Forget it.”

  “It’s perfect! Why didn’t I think of it before?”

  “What?”

  “The way to get past Zeke Woodlow’s security. Dress up as a rock groupie. They’re always allowing attractive women backstage.”

  “Why?”

  Scarlet sighed in exasperation. “Summer, sometimes I swear you were born with the mindset of a fifty-year-old. Why do you think? Sometimes it’s sex, sometimes it’s fawning attention and sometimes it’s just positive publicity, because the women will later gush to reporters about talking to a rock star.”

  “Oh, please! You want me to dress like an airhead? I’m looking to inspire respect as a reporter, not lust as a bimbette.”

  Scarlet spun on her heel. “Come on! Tomorrow night you’re going to be dressed to seduce. The serious part can come after you get your stiletto in the door. You’re going to a rock concert, not doing an interview at the United Nations.”

  Summer sighed, but she got up and trudged after her twin. She could easily imagine what Scarlet had in mind—and that was the problem.

  As one stiletto-heeled foot hit the pavement, Summer steeled herself for what lay ahead. She looked up at the Garden as she emerged from the cab and chanted Scarlet’s advice from earlier.

  Release your inner goddess…. Release your inner goddess.…

  She kept up the chant as she walked toward the entrance to the Garden.

  At five o’clock, she’d left her desk at work and taken the elevator at EPH’s headquarters down to Charisma’s offices, where her sister was employed. Scarlet had helped her dress in the clothes that they’d pulled from the closet last night, then had applied her makeup and styled her hair.

  Summer didn’t have to wonder how she looked. She’d stared at her image in the full-length mirror at Charisma’s offices long enough.

  Dramatic. Sexy. In short, a different person. Her lips twisted wryly. A different person who happened to look a lot like Scarlet herself. Not surprisingly, of course, since she was dressed in Scarlet’s clothes, and Scarlet—whether by design or subconsciously—appeared to think that sexy meant a lot like the look she herself wore when hitting the town hard.

  Summer touched her hair. It was down and loose, its curls cascading past her shoulders.

  Beneath her short, belted pea coat, she wore a black suede skirt that ended above the knee and black boots that ended right below. If Scarlet was to be believed, knees were sexy.

  Her deep-red top plunged low, revealing tantalizing cleavage, and her face was made-up. Normally she favored a natural look, using matte lipstick with just a hint of color. But tonight, her lips were a dark red and had a lovely sheen due to the smattering of gold dust in her lipstick.

  Apparently, gold of twenty-three karats or higher was edible. Who’d have known? Certainly not her. But as assistant fashion editor at Charisma—EPH’s answer to Vogue—Scarlet was in a position to know.

  As she walked into the Garden, Summer looked down at her ringless hand. There was no telltale pale band on her skin to give her away.

  Her sister had insisted that she leave her engagement ring at home. When she’d protested, Scarlet had taken her hand and tugged at the ring herself.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Summer,” her sister had said. “How do you expect to impersonate a rock groupie?”

  “What’s the ring got to do with it?” she’d shot back, trying to pull her hand from Scarlet’s grasp.

  “Haven’t we been over this? Groupies are allowed backstage because they’re young, sexy and single. Are you going to go to all this trouble just to be done in by a ring?”

  In the end, she’d let Scarlet take the ring. But the whole thing still didn’t sit well with her. It felt as if she were being disloyal to John.

  That feeling was ridiculous, of course. Tonight wasn’t a date. She just happened to be trying to lure a rock star to do an interview by using some sex appeal. What the heck was wrong with that?

  In fact, she had almost convinced herself. Almost.

  She thought about John again. He’d be returning from his business trip soon—which was a good thing, since they had a wedding to plan.

  She was a meticulous planner and list keeper, and getting engaged at twenty-five put her right on target as far as the five-year plan that she’d drawn up for herself.

  It read like this: twenty-five, become engaged and rise to full reporter status at The Buzz; twenty-six, get married; twenty-eight, make name for self as hotshot entertainment reporter; thirty, rise to management position at The Buzz and become pregnant.

  So far, so good. It helped, of course, that John had his own five-year plan. It was one of the things that had helped her pick him from the field of men that she used to date and that she had eventually winnowed down to The One.

  Like her, John was serious and ambitious. At twenty-nine, he was already a partner at his advertising firm and had an impressive clientele that required him to fly around the country on business.

  He was her perfect complement, and by this time next year she’d be Mrs. John Harlan. After nine months of dating, John had popped the question to her over a romantic dinner on Valentine’s Day.

  The perfection of the proposal had been the last proof she’d needed that she was making the right decision: she’d been thinking that Valentine’s Day would be the right time to get engaged, but the comportment-school grad in her had been too polite to drop hints. But then John had gone ahead and proposed.

  So what if, late at night, alone in bed, she experienced the occasional twinge of unease? Weren’t all brides supposed to be nervous?

  Turning her attention to the concert as it finally started, she soon found herself swept up in the dreamy mood that she’d fallen into the night before.

  If she’d been tempted to dismiss last night’s concert as a fluke, this time there could be no denying Zeke Woodlow’s power as a performer and, more importantly, his ability to affect her.

  Occasionally, she stopped to write in a small notebook, searching for the right adjectives to describe his performance and his electric effect on the audience.

  When Zeke got to “Beautiful in My Arms,” she again felt magically transported and as if he were singing just for her. It was almost like the feeling she’d experienced in one other situation—when she’d let herself do something totally out of character….

  She jerked her mind back from the direction of her thoughts. No sense thinking about that now. It was her little secret. Tonight was about getting a job done.

  This time with some luck—and insider tips from a coworker at The Buzz—she managed to sneak out of the arena at the end of the concert and locate the hallway that led to the performers’ dressing rooms.

  She had her coat unbuttoned—as Scarlet had said, “Show them the goods”—and a small suede handbag dangled from one hand.

  She steeled herself as she approached the first burly security detail standing guard. You can do this.

  She flashed him a breezy smile, noticing his eyes did a quick dart up and down as she approached. His face relaxed a fraction, male appreciation replacing cold stoniness.

  Well, well. Scarlet was right.

  Feeling suddenly empowered, she kept her smile in place and flicked him a coy look. “I’m here to see Zeke. He said to look him up when he was in New York.”

  “Did he?”

  She nodded, standing close. “I spoke to Marty—” she’d made sure she knew the name of Zeke’s manager, since, if you were going to lie through your teeth, there was no sense in being wrong “—and he said to come right up after the concert.”

  “You know Marty?”

  “Only for the last five cities. I’ve seen Zeke play in L.A., Chicago, Boston….” She trailed off, then added significantly, “We’ve always had a great time.”

  Mr. Burly nodded over his shoulder. “Third door on the left.”

  That was it? She felt like crying with relief. Instead,
she smiled and said, “Thanks.”

  She thought she could get used to life as an auburn-haired bombshell. She felt liberated, almost reckless.

  In front of Zeke’s door, she took a steadying breath and knocked.

  “Come in,” said a male voice through the door.

  Turning the doorknob, she stepped inside the softly lit dressing room.

  From the other side of the room, his voice reached her. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  His voice went through her like a heady shot of vodka. Deep, sexy, rich and vibrant, it was even more potent up close and personal than it was on stage.

  His back stayed turned to her as he picked up a cell phone from a nearby table and pushed some buttons. “I’ll be ready to leave for the hotel in about ten minutes. Is that okay with you, Marty?”

  She could see he was still dressed in the black jeans and T-shirt that he’d worn on stage. His tight rear end was nicely defined beneath the denim, and the cotton of his shirt stretched across his muscular back and shoulders.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m not Marty.”

  He swung around and stopped, staring at her.

  His face was striking. Good-looking, yes, but also compelling. And then there were the eyes. Oh, Lord, his eyes. They were as blue and fathomless as the ocean. She’d have said his face tended to harshness if it were not for them. Despite his reputation in the press for being somewhat surly, he had sweet eyes.

  With the part of her brain that still functioned, she noticed he remained motionless. Was it just her imagination or was he as dumbstruck as she was?

  “Yeah,” he drawled finally, “I can see you’re definitely not Marty. So who are you?”

  Two

  The notes of the song drifted through Zeke’s mind again. It was the same song that sounded in his head whenever he dreamed of her. It would linger tantalizingly at the edges of his memory when he awoke, but dissipate into nothingness before he could grasp it, write it down and make it his own.