by Anna DePalo
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
T he 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.
This time, though, the notes of the song sounded more clearly. It was as if the woman standing in front of him were calling them forth. She even looked like the woman in the photograph—the woman of his dreams. She was slender but curvaceous, and had long, auburn hair, though a shade or two lighter than the woman in the picture. And, he’d recognize those astonishing green eyes anywhere.
The major difference was that the woman in the anonymous photograph that he’d purchased at a street fair was dressed as a Greek goddess, while this one was certainly twenty-first century and doubtless a rock groupie at that. He didn’t know who the photographer or the subject of the photograph was, but he did have one hint: the photo was called “Daphne at Play,” according to the handwritten inscription across the bottom of its white matte frame.
Awareness stirred within him, and his muscles tightened. Whatever it was about this woman, she called to him. In his dreams, he’d imagined her hair splayed across his bed, her arms and legs wrapped around him, drawing him in.
Feeling himself grow hot, he asked brusquely, “You didn’t answer my question. What’s your name?”
Her eyes darted away before returning to his. “C-Caitlin.”
He released the breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. So, she wasn’t Daphne. Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Have you done any modeling?”
Her brows drew together. “No.”
“Well, you should consider it.” Definitely not Daphne.
She raised her brows. “Really?”
“Really.” He gave her a slow, appreciative smile as he walked toward her. “You’ve got the body and face for it. And your eyes are unusual…captivating.” He’d often wondered if the pale green eyes of the woman in his photograph had been real or a trick of lighting or computer technology.
“I could say the same thing about you.”
He laughed. She was bewitching. He realized she must be one of those rock groupies that Marty sometimes sent backstage after a concert. Girls clamored for access to rock stars like him, and Marty thought it was good PR for him to appear accessible to some extent.
If Caitlin was the key to unlocking his creativity—and, hell, even if she wasn’t—he knew he had to get to know her better. He’d never experienced such a profound connection with someone so fast. She was nearly the living embodiment of his fantasies.
He gestured to a couch. “Have a seat.” He looked around. “Do you want a drink?”
“Th-thanks.”
He quirked a brow. Made her nervous, did he? “To the seat or the drink?”
He watched in fascination as a telltale flush rose from the tops of her breasts to her face. “Yes to both,” she said as walked over and sat on the couch, dropping her coat and handbag beside her.
“Beer okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Turning away to pull two beers from a small fridge and pop the caps off, he puzzled over her reaction. Usually, women were all too ready to throw themselves at him in situations like this. Caitlin, however, was the picture of reserved politeness.
Surprisingly, he found he was turned on by it. He gave himself a mental shake. He needed to get a grip. Her resemblance to Daphne was muddying his mind.
He handed her a beer as he sat down next to her. She looked as if she wasn’t sure what to do with it for a second, then, after watching him take a swig, delicately tipped the bottle to her lips and took a sip.
He felt that sip straight down to his groin and shifted. The room felt as if it were getting hotter and smaller by the second.
Still not looking at him, she quickly took another swallow of beer, causing even more foam to appear near the top of the bottle.
He smiled. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to drink from a beer bottle?”
“I’m doing it wrong?”
He touched his bottle to hers. “Yeah,” he said with mock gravity. “Look at the foam that’s forming.”
She tilted her bottle to the side for a better look. “Oh.”
“Watch,” he commanded. “Don’t create any suction. Part your lips just a little and don’t cover the whole opening.” He brought the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. He prayed the cold beer would help cool him down.
She raised the bottle to her lips and imitated him.
“That’s right,” he said.
When she lowered the bottle, she looked at him, and he knew he wanted to ki
ss her. Her lips were pouty and red but still had an innocence to them.
In fact, though she was dressed provocatively, something didn’t seem to fit. He could have sworn she was more pearls and cashmere than leather and spandex.
“Tell me about you,” he said.
“What would you like to know?”
Everything. “Did you like the concert?”
“Yes. I liked hearing you sing ‘Beautiful in My Arms.’”
“Did you?” He eyed her. It was the song he’d written on the day he’d purchased “Daphne at Play.” “What do you like about it?”
She shifted, her gaze falling away from his. “It’s just…nice.”
“Just…nice?”
“Magical. It makes me think about—”
“Making love?” he joked.
Her gaze jerked to his. “No.”
He sobered. “I’m kidding. You know all the stuff that’s in there about making love under the palm trees?” At her nod, he said, “It seems to make a lot of people think about sex.”
When she broke into a smile, he sank fast.
“No,” she said slowly, “it makes me think about holding tight to one special person—the person you want to cling to on the darkest days.”
Lord, she surprised him. Most people stopped at the sex part, but then most people weren’t straight out of his fantasies.
“Do you usually let strange women into your dressing room?” she asked suddenly, then looked horrified the minute the words had left her mouth.
He fought a smile. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “My manager seems to think my being accessible to fans to some extent is good for PR.”
“Is that why you’re here now?”
He shrugged. “It’s part of the job. I flirt and play nice. Usually the women will turn around afterward and gush about meeting Zeke Woodlow. It keeps a nice, positive buzz going out there among the public and the press.”
She nodded.
He couldn’t believe he was being this honest with her, but she had the type of face—classically beautiful and innocent—that spoke to him. He just found it easy to tell her things. Marty, he knew, would be wincing right now.
“Which part of your job do you like the most?” she asked.
“The songwriting.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Not the performing?”
“No,” he said curtly. She had a knack for homing in on sensitive subjects, he’d give her that.
Clearing his throat, he nodded at her beer. “Drink up.”
She took another sip.
He took another swig himself before offering a small explanation. “The concerts are just icing on the cake.”
“Isn’t it a little unusual for singers to write their own songs these days?”
“Rare,” he concurred.
She looked around. “What about the parties? Don’t you have an after-party to go to right now?”
“Yeah, but I prefer hiding out in here with you.”
Her head swung back toward him. “Oh.”
It was true, he realized. She radiated an aura of sweetness and purity that was all too rare in his world. “Sometimes I skip the parties, especially when I’ve got a busy schedule the next day.”
“What do you do when there aren’t any parties?”
There was always a party somewhere for someone like him, he wanted to say. Instead, he admitted, “Finagle an invitation from some staff member to a family dinner.”
Her answering smile lit up her face.
They stared at each other until her smile slowly faded.
He felt the urge to kiss her rise again.
He started to lift his hand to her face when a knock sounded at the door.
Damn.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
One of the tech guys for the band stuck his head around the door. “Car’s here. Marty wanted me to let you know. He’s already left for the hotel.”
He stood. “Right. Ten minutes.”
With a quick look from him to Caitlin and back, the tech guy said, “Great” and then shut the door.
Zeke reached for Caitlin’s beer while she stood up. Their fingers brushed as he took the bottle from her, sending a bolt of awareness shooting through him. From the look in her eyes, she felt it, too.
“Do you want to leave with me?” he asked.
Tell him, tell him. Tell him that you’re here to get an interview.
Instead, Summer heard herself say, “Okay.”
He looked satisfied. “Great.”
When she’d walked into the room, some instinct that it was too early to blurt her true purpose had made her give him her middle name—Caitlin—when he’d asked. After that, it had been a quick and easy slide to the point of no return. He obviously thought she was a fan, and the more time passed, the harder it got for her to correct his misinterpretation.
Since she’d walked into the dressing room, she’d been hit with an awareness of him that was powerful and overwhelming. At first, she’d been nervous and jittery, then they’d slid into the type of personal conversation that happened between people who’d known each other forever and a day.
But the strange thing was, she did feel as if she knew him. Maybe that feeling was due to all the research that she’d done on him, or maybe it was due to going to his concerts.
Nevertheless, looking at him now—at his blue, blue eyes, chiseled features, broad shoulders and muscled physique—she couldn’t stop her heart from thudding or the shivers that chased over her skin.
She might feel as if she’d known him forever and a day, but her body still clamored for a carnal knowledge that was more than the illusion of remembrances.
Zeke picked up her coat and bag from the sofa. After giving her the handbag, he held her coat for her.
The gesture both surprised and pleased her. Who’d have thought a rock sensation like him would have manners worthy of Ms. Donaldson’s comportment school class?
Turning, she slid her arms into the coat sleeves. When he released his hold on the collar, his hand brushed her neck, and heat zipped through her. He had an intoxicating effect on her, and she found that she didn’t want it to stop.
Turning back to him, she gave him a bright smile.
“Ready?” he asked, reaching over to pull a leather jacket off a hook.
She nodded. At some point—soon, very soon—she knew she’d have to tell him that she was a reporter looking for an interview. In the meantime, though, she could buy herself some time to find the right opening for that revelation.
Zeke led the way down a corridor and to an area behind the concert stage. Bodyguards and handlers soon joined them, one of them opening a door that led outside, where she was hit by a blast of March cold air.
Looking around, she realized they were still in an enclosed area, though the driveway sloped down to the street. “Where are we?” she asked.
He must have noticed her shivering, because he asked, “Cold?” He put an arm around her as a limo pulled up.
She shivered again, though not just from the cold.
As he glanced down at her, the corners of his lips tilted upward. “To answer your question, this is the ‘secret’ exit out of here. The driveway leads down to a parking area for loading and unloading equipment. Both the driveway and the parking area have limited public access.”
“It’s not the way you left last night,” she blurted, then felt her face turn hot with embarrassment.
He grinned. “Watching, were you?”
“Maybe.” Standing pressed against him, she was acutely aware of the heat emanating from him. Traitorously, her body wanted only to snuggle closer.
“Last night, I left through the suites and clubs entrance. I went up to some of the private boxes after the concert in order to thank some of the big donors to the event.” He winked. “It pays off in future fund-raising efforts.”
“Oh.” In her naiveté, she’d just assumed most stars left through the lofty-sounding suites and clubs entran
ce. Now she realized that catching sight of his departure last night had been pure luck.
“Of course,” he said, “it had the added benefit of throwing off some of the fans and paparazzi.” He nodded at the limo that had pulled up in front of them. “Once the car hits the street outside, don’t be surprised if there are photographers trying to hold up high-powered lenses to the tinted car windows.”
“Sounds awful.” Not only did it sound awful, she knew it was awful. Though her life was nothing like Zeke’s, as a member of the wealthy and powerful Elliott clan, she’d had some experience with photographers snapping unexpected pictures of her.
A guard with a walkie-talkie in his hand reached over and opened one of the passenger doors to the limo for them.
“In you go,” Zeke said.
Once they were inside and the car was moving, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“The Waldorf-Astoria,” he said. “I always stay there when I’m in town.”
Oh. She just prayed she didn’t run into an acquaintance of her grandparents or one of the other Elliotts. Dressed as she was and in the company of reputed bad-boy rocker Zeke Woodlow, she’d definitely raise some eyebrows.
As soon as the limo cleared the guard’s security post and hit the street, flashbulbs started to go off—just as Zeke had predicted. Fortunately, the stoplight at the corner was green, so the limo was able to make a clean getaway before anyone could press a camera against the car window. Summer fervently hoped no one had gotten a photo of her.
The Waldorf-Astoria was a different matter. When they arrived at its front entrance, security guards and handlers got out first from a car that had preceded the limo to the hotel.
She was soon thankful for the extra protection. As she and Zeke alighted from their car and hurried to the front door of the hotel, several security guards held back photographers and squealing fans.
Summer kept her head down and tried to shield her face with the raised collar of her coat and with the hand that she kept cupped over her eyes. She didn’t want to be too obvious about avoiding photographers because she didn’t want to make Zeke suspicious. On the other hand, she didn’t even want to think about the repercussions of their photo landing on Page Six of the New York Post in the morning.
