But he didn’t seem to mind making mistakes in front of her. The thought sent a wave of warmth through her body. He trusted her.
“Inspirations?” Dalton repeated the question. “Hmmm … for guitar, Jimi Hendrix, of course. Also Joe Perry, Eric Clapton, and Steve Stevens. For straight-up rock star ability, I’d have to go with Freddy Mercury, Bowie, and David Grohl.”
She nodded. “That’s a solid list.”
“What about yours?”
“You have to give Janis Joplin a nod,” Kynley said. “But I relate more to Pat Benatar or Amy Lee.”
They spent the next hour discussing their favorite musicians, and from there the talk turned easily to their own lives—their childhoods, their families, and especially their hopes and dreams. Kynley told Dalton how the band had hired Sebastian for the express purpose of securing a recording contract.
“I’d wondered,” he said.
“What do you mean?” She asked, instantly on the alert.
“He seems very … corporate. Doesn’t really go with your image.”
“But that’s good. He has the connections to get us a recording contract and corporate sponsorship,” Kynley pressed.
Dalton frowned. “Okay, but why do you want a recording contract and corporate sponsorship? It seems to me like you’re doing fine without it. Your shows are always sold out.”
It was the same argument she’d had with the rest of the band. “Yeah, but our venues usually have two thousand seats max. Katy Perry and Taylor Swift play at stadiums, with seventy thousand seats.”
Dalton’s look was unreadable, but it certainly wasn’t approval. He twisted to reach the guitar in the back seat. “Well, we’d better get to work, then.”
It was evening by the time the Denver skyline came into view, and Kynley slowed to let the Escalade pull ahead of her. The traffic became heavier as Marco guided them through a series of freeway exchanges and into the downtown district.
“We’re swinging by the theater,” Sebastian said over the phone. “I want to check the banner.”
The Paramount Theater stood sandwiched between two taller buildings on Glenarm Place, its art deco façade adding a touch of glamour to the street. The red and white Paramount sign was already lit and a giant banner hung in the space between two windows. It was a picture of Kynley, three stories tall and wearing one of her black leather and lace stage costumes. Written underneath her image in tall letters were the words Jilted Storm, March 14.
“Wow!” Dalton breathed.
Kynley pretended not to notice. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the banner; it was evidence of everything she’d worked so hard for. It was just she didn’t know what to say. Thrown out there like that, what was there to say?
Sebastian had evidently found the banner satisfactory, because the Escalade turned the corner and continued down 14th Street to the Four Seasons Hotel. They pulled around the back and Kynley couldn’t help the dart of disappointment as the road trip came to an end. It was as if she’d been suspended in a bubble with Dalton for two wonderful days, but now the bubble was about to burst and the chaos of real life would flood in.
Valets in black uniforms and crisp white shirts ran to meet them, and a few minutes later, Sebastian led them through the winding tunnel of the VIP entrance to the private tower elevator that would take them to their suites on a floor not accessible to regular hotel guests.
“The band’s here,” he said. “I told them we’d see them in the morning.” Though they weren’t originally due to arrive in Denver for two more days, the guys had come early to get some rehearsal time with Dalton.
“We should see them now,” Kynley said.
“It’s been a long day and you need rest,” Sebastian objected. “It can wait until morning.”
Kynley bit her lip. She hadn’t talked to anyone in the band since Mick had called to tell her Leeson quit. Sebastian had been in touch with them, but she probably should have called them herself. Great. One more wedge in the cracks threatening to break them.
“No, I want to see them now,” she insisted.
The elevator arrived and the doors slid smoothly open. With a noncommittal shrug, Sebastian led them inside and pushed the button for their floor.
Chapter Eight
Kynley’s suite overlooked a clock tower with a gold top that the brochure on the desk identified as the Daniels and Fisher Tower. It even had a bell that hopefully didn’t ring first thing in the morning.
She turned from the window and made her way across the plush white rug. The suite was almost as big as her apartment in LA, with a bedroom, sitting room, and a full kitchen. There was even a stone fireplace taking up an entire corner of the sitting area.
Throwing the jetted marble tub in the master bath a regretful look, she brushed her teeth and freshened her makeup, then changed into yoga pants and a Jilted Storm T-shirt. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, and her hands shook slightly as a dozen ways this could go wrong raced through her brain.
Sebastian’s suite was down the hall from her own, and Dalton waited outside the door. He’d changed into a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves that he’d left untucked. She read the nervousness behind his smile.
“Why are you lurking in the hall?” she teased.
“Waiting for you,” he said, going for casual but not quite pulling it off.
She peered at him closely. He looked a little green. “You okay?”
“Yup.” He managed a tight smile. “Bit more nervous than I’d expected, but okay.”
“It’s going to be fine.” On impulse she reached out and put her hand on his arm. Under her palm, his skin felt warm and firm. She looked up into his brown eyes and saw the nervousness melt, to be replaced with something else—a look that sent her heart racing. She yanked her hand back. “Give me a minute alone with them first, okay?”
Dalton nodded.
The band was sprawled on the furniture in Sebastian’s sitting area. Mick, the drummer, was stocky, with thick, meaty arms covered in tattoos and a gleaming shaved head. Even in the coldest weather, he always wore shorts. Jilted Storm’s lead guitarist, Trevor, was as skinny as Mick was stocky. He wore his blond hair shaggy around his face and was never without the studded leather cuff on his left wrist and his too-tight jeans. And Corey, the bass player, in cargo pants and a faded t-shirt, his black hair swooping over one eye and his goatee a bit on the long side. They nodded at her by way of greeting, but their skepticism was obvious.
“Hey, guys.” She took a seat on the sofa. “How’s it going?”
“We’ve had better weeks,” Trevor said dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” She cracked a tentative smile. “Has anyone talked to Leeson?”
“Not yet,” Sebastian said, coming in from the bedroom. He still wore his expensive suit and shiny shoes and did not look at all like he’d just spent a day on the road. “I’ve left several messages, but he doesn’t answer.”
The band members looked at each other as the unspoken question floated in the air among them. Had Leeson ever answered Sebastian’s calls?
“I tried him too, and no answer,” Mick said, breaking the silence. “But he’s tweeting, so we know he’s okay.”
“He’s having a diva fit,” Sebastian said bitingly. “He’ll get over it.”
“I don’t think so,” Corey cut in. “He’s been talking about leaving for a while.”
This revelation was news to Kynley, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat. She used to be as close to these guys as if they were siblings—they treated her like a little sister and dished out plenty of teasing, but also a lot of love and support. They rehearsed together, traveled together, performed together, and fought together. When had that changed? The realization she’d been cut out of their confidences stung, a lot.
“I’m dealing with Leeson,” Sebastian said. “The immediate concern is the show.”
“You hired someone, right?” Mick asked.
Sebastian’s eyes flitted towa
rd Kynley. “That was my plan. But—”
“I hired someone,” Kynley broke in, her voice higher pitched than usual. She cleared her throat and continued. “He’s got performing experience and he’s spent the last two days learning the music. He’s good.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent as Kynley went the door. In the hallway, Dalton’s eyes shot to hers. Fighting back her nerves, she ushered him into the suite. “This is Dalton Parker,” she said. “Dalton, this is—”
“Mick Jones, Trevor LeGuire, and Corey Hernandez,” Dalton said, as he nodded at each of the guys in turn. “Wow, this is such a trip. I feel like I’ve won some kind of radio contest.”
The guys laughed and a bit of the tension drained away.
“Dalton is a friend of mine and he’s a fantastic guitar player,” Kynley said. “He blew me away when I heard him play at my friend’s wedding.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The guys hesitated, and Trevor scowled. Great. Now they thought he was with some kind of wedding band.
“He also played lead guitar in his own rock band,” she added quickly. “They were mostly regional.” Her eyes bounced around the room, trying to read their faces. Was she making it worse?
Dalton gave her a quick grin, then turned back to face the guys. “Kynley’s being generous. I played lead guitar for several years in college with a band. We didn’t get much beyond the bar gigs, but we had fun and I learned a lot.” He ran one hand through his hair, destroying any attempt at order, and made eye contact with each of them in turn. “I’ve spent the last two days going over every chord of your music, and it’s beyond cool to have this chance. But it’s up to you. If you’re not convinced after a practice session, no hard feelings. Promise.”
A silence greeted those words and Kynley dug her fingernails into her palms, holding her breath.
Then Mick shrugged. “Works for me. Welcome aboard.” He leaned forward in his chair to stretch out a hand to Dalton.
As the two men clasped hands, Kynley sighed quietly in relief. For the moment, at least, they’d decided to trust him … and her.
Chapter Nine
Dalton fought the urge to squirm under Gabbi’s critical stare. He’d had too little sleep last night and too much coffee this morning to sit still while she gave him the once-over. But he didn’t dare move. Even though it was early, Gabbi had burst into his room half an hour ago with Kynley in tow and announced she needed to work on his stage look.
“Is she always this, uh … thorough?” Dalton asked Kynley as Gabbi ran her fingers over his scalp.
“Yes,” Kynley said, shooting him a grin. “She’s the best.”
Gabbi pretended not to hear them. Or maybe she was so immersed in evaluating his hair that she really hadn’t heard. He offered a silent prayer he didn’t have dandruff.
Not that it didn’t feel good to have someone play in his hair, though he did wish it could be Kynley’s fingers instead of Gabbi’s.
Finally, Gabbi stepped back. “I think we can work with this.”
This? As in him?
“What a relief,” Kynley teased. “I’d hate to have to toss him back where I got him.”
“Hey now,” Dalton protested. “If I were going to be tossed back, it’d have to be in the same manner I was acquired. Which would mean another road trip.” He winked at Kynley.
She looked so cute this morning in a pair of black leggings and an oversized red and black plaid shirt. Her hair was in a loose braid down her back, the color change from black to silver blurrier than when it was loose. Speaking of running fingers through hair, he’d like the chance to run his fingers through her hair.
“Absolutely. A road trip would definitely be required,” Kynley said with a grin. “But since Gabbi has given her stamp of approval, I guess you’re stuck here.”
As if there was anywhere better than being with Kynley and about to perform with Jilted Storm. The icing on the cake would be if he could call Erin and tell her. But she and Matt were still on their honeymoon, and it would probably be bad form to interrupt them.
Probably.
“So, I have a question,” Kynley said, refocusing his attention. “When you were coming down the aisle at the wedding, I could have sworn I saw a hint of a tattoo on the back of your neck. True or false?”
She’d been watching him walk down the aisle? Dalton did a mental fist pump. “True,” he said with a light laugh. “A leftover from my misspent youth.”
“Come on, let’s see it,” Gabbi demanded, making an impatient motion with her hand.
He peeled off his shirt and turned around so they could see it—a black and red electric guitar bathed in a spotlight that started at the base of his neck and ended just above his right shoulder blade. “I got it shortly after the band broke up,” he explained as Kynley and Gabbi studied it. Someone’s fingers brushed lightly over his back and he swallowed hard.
“That’s really cool,” Kynley said, her breath warm on his neck. “Did everyone in your band get one?”
Dalton shook his head. “I didn’t tell them about it; I’m not even sure what made me decide to do it in the first place. But I’d just started working for my dad, and …” He turned around and crossed his arms over his chest, surprised at the sudden rush of emotion. Fresh pain at the loss that had never really left him. “I guess I wanted a way to remember something special,” he finished, his voice a bit raspy.
“I think it’s perfect,” Kynley said softly.
She was close enough that he could smell her lilac perfume and see the tiny white lines radiating from her pupils into the dark gray of her eyes, like minute darts of lightning.
He dropped his gaze to her lips, then quickly looked back to her eyes. Speaking of lightning, he was absolutely on fire.
“Okay, you two, knock it off. We’re here for a makeover,” Gabbi said, her voice breaking the silence. Dalton had forgotten she was even in the room.
Kynley stepped back while he put his shirt on, then watched as Gabbi ticked items off on her fingers. “Black T-shirt and jeans, black combat boots, maybe a jacket if I can find one I like. I’ll spike your hair—just a little bit, nothing too crazy. And don’t shave.” She pointed her finger at his whiskers. “I might want to sculpt them a bit, but you definitely need facial hair or you’ll look like a baby face.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dalton said with a half grin.
“If I can’t find a jacket, I’ll want to put something on your arm.” Gabbi reached out and traced a spot midway up his forearm. Her fingers were deft and warm, but brought none of the zing Kynley’s did. “Right about here. Black ink.”
“Wait a minute, are you talking about a tattoo?” Dalton asked. His father would have a fit if he came back to work with a giant black tattoo on his arm.
“Sharpie,” Kynley cut in with a grin. “A real tat wouldn’t have time to heal before the show.”
He nodded, feeling a little silly. Of course it would be fake. He was letting himself get carried away. Like the drawn-on tattoo, this gig would most likely be temporary.
“The costume trailer won’t be here until tomorrow, so I’ll need to go shopping,” Gabbi declared. She whipped out her phone and pulled up a blank note. “Give me your sizes.”
Dalton rattled off his sizes to Gabbi, who put them into her phone and left, promising to be back later with some clothes for him to try on.
“I’m sorry about your band,” Kynley said when she’d gone. “It must have been really hard.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t my favorite thing,” he admitted.
They stood looking at each other in silence for a minute, and Dalton’s gut churned. The connection that had come so easily in the car seemed as fragile as spider webs. She was still Erin’s friend, Kynley, but now she was also Jilted Storm, an entity almost of itself. She wasn’t the carefree girl singing along to his music in a car and popping into a Chevron for a cherry Coke. She was a performer headlining a sold-out concert and bearing the weight of all that entail
ed. Her face was even on the side of a building.
“Do you want to find a little diner somewhere and get some breakfast?” he asked, wanting more time alone with her.
Her face fell. “I can’t.”
“Oh, okay.” He beat back the surge of disappointment. Now they were here, was it to be all business?
“I’d really like to,” Kynley said quickly, earnestly. “But people know we’re here and I can’t go out without security.”
How must that be? To be so famous your face is everywhere, making it so you can’t even go out for a simple breakfast without fear of being mobbed. It looked—his eyes met hers, and he caught the flash of vulnerability—it looked lonely.
It would only take a few steps and he could wrap his arms around her. A deep, pounding ache went through him, a need to be closer to her, to smell her perfume again and rest his cheek against her hair as he held her in his arms. She was taller than most girls he’d dated; it wouldn’t take much of a dip for their heads to be together, for their mouths to line up. Did he dare take that step—literally and figuratively?
“I should let you go,” Kynley said before he could decide. “Sorry we woke you so early.”
His hormones stalled. “No problem,” he said. “I need to get a workout in anyway. Rehearsal at ten?”
“Does that work for you?”
“Of course,” he said in a rush. “Why else am I here?”
He’d meant it to sound casual and matter-of-fact. Of course rehearsal at ten works for me. I’m here to play, right? But it came out sounding slightly harsh, bitter.
Kynley flinched and hurried to the door. “I’ll send someone to tell you when the cars are here.” Without waiting for his answer, she let herself out and he heard her footsteps hurrying away down the hall.
Kynley clenched her hands into fists and she rushed to the elevators and pressed the button for her floor. Since these floors were restricted access, she was allowed to roam free without bodyguards. While she waited, Kynley caught her reflection in the large mirror, housed in an ornate gold frame on the wall behind the elevators. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were very pink and fuller than normal. If she got close enough, she could probably see her pulse pounding under the skin of her neck.
The Glamorous One: A Billionaire Bride Pact Romance Page 7
