Love So Tender: Taking Care of BusinessPlay It Again, ElvisGood Luck Charm

by Stephanie Bond

  “Nice try, sis, but you’re not getting your mitts on my new merchandise.” A red, floor-length cape had been specially made by a designer who had spelled out “Elvis Lives” in rhinestones on the back. The garment was pure poetry and had to be kept in a glass case—mostly to keep Rosa from stealing it when Alyssa wasn’t looking.

  At least they had a relationship now. Things were slowly healing after the first year of mostly silent recovery from Rosa, but neither of them ever brought up the old days. Too painful. Too many unresolved hurts.

  After making plans to meet again the following week, Alyssa unlocked the front door and said good-night to her guests. Rosa blew a kiss over her shoulder, her raven-dark hair streaked with skunky white highlights this week. She looked happy and had mentioned things might be getting serious with the new man in her life, but Alyssa could only think about the fact that her sister hadn’t eaten anything despite the wealth of snacks she’d served. Rosa might have gained weight over the past two years, but she remained rail-thin. Couldn’t she have made an effort to munch a few carrot sticks? A scoop of warm Brie and apples?

  Maybe Alyssa should have offered fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

  Peering out at the street, she watched to make sure everyone made it safely to their cars and that Madame Stargazer managed her obscenely large bag of séance paraphernalia without incident. Alyssa was about to go back inside when a shadow caught her eye on the other side of the door she still held wide.

  Hurrying to shut the door just in case that shadow meant trouble, she paused when a man’s voice called her by name.

  “Alyssa. It’s me.” The rich baritone with its smoky note halted her. Which was stupid, considering any brand of street thief or doped-up murderer could easily possess a beautiful voice. But before she could scuttle back into the safety of the store, the man stepped into full view.

  Brett Neale.

  The very recent cause of her séance distraction.

  Her breath caught for a moment, hitching in her throat as she took in his shaggy dark hair half-covering one eye, although even that didn’t dim the mesmerizing blue of his gaze. Tall and lanky, he possessed muscles of the understated variety, the kind that didn’t draw your eye until they flexed right in front of you. The way Brett’s did now as he reached up to grab the door for her.

  She glanced at the tattoo of Graceland on his right bicep. She’d noticed it before when they’d met in a music shop downtown six months ago as they both reached for a copy of Highway 61 Revisited, but she’d never seen the tattoo—or the muscle—up close and personal. Although he’d talked her into a date back then she’d realized pretty quickly over dinner she wasn’t ready to date a guy whose life remained tightly tied to the business she’d walked away from. Still, she’d never forgotten the electric attraction she’d felt for a man who appreciated the classics.

  “I need to talk to you.” His arm braced the door open, keeping him in her line of vision.

  Not that she would have shut him out anyway. She hadn’t returned his last three phone calls, so she couldn’t really blame him for seeking her out in person.

  “It’s a busy night here.” Or at least it had been up until this moment. She couldn’t be outright rude to him, but it wouldn’t hurt to dole out a few excuses to avoid a conversation she didn’t want to have because now he wasn’t just looking for a date. His message hinted he wanted something she couldn’t possibly provide. “I really don’t have time.”

  “Your séance crowd just left, right?” He turned back toward the street that was now almost empty since her guests had departed. The Strip glittered two streets over, the neon lights casting a residual glow that made the streetlamps in front of her store unnecessary. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over a week now. Maybe I can help you pick up and you can at least hear me out.”

  Allow this delectable young musician inside her empty store lit only by a few candles? The idea struck her as unwise given that she’d been without a man in her life since forever. On an average day it didn’t bother her too much that she hadn’t taken a man to her bed in two years. But right now, staring at Graceland as it rippled in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp, Alyssa suddenly felt every moment of those sex-free years weighing on her. If Brett set foot in here now, she’d probably leave claw marks on that tasty young body of his.

  Yeah, she needed to play it cool with him tonight.

  “I don’t need any help. And I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls but I’m out of the music business and I need to put some distance between me and my old life.”

  Some things were better off forgotten. Like how much she’d loved being the power behind the throne when it came to making stars. Like how many ways a man could screw you over—and not in the pleasurable way—when he possessed the potent combination of rock-god good looks and the soul of a poet. That kind of man had always had the power to make Alyssa weak-kneed.

  “I’m not asking you to go back to your old life.” He edged forward, propelling himself up the low step from the street so they stood on level ground. “I’m asking you to think about beginning a whole new one.”

  Brett watched Alyssa consider his words, her dark eyes uncertain. She was probably a couple of years older than his twenty-eight years, but her worn jeans and vintage concert T-shirt from an ancient jazz festival made her look about nineteen. Alyssa had been the talent manager in the rock business just two years ago. With her finger on the pulse of America’s youth and an undeniable business savvy, she’d catapulted one unknown band after another into big-time radio play, and launched her sister Rosa’s solo act.

  She’d become a legend in her own time and then vanished from the scene when her sister hit a personal rough patch. She’d told him on their ill-fated date that she had no intention of returning to the music business, but he hadn’t needed her help then the way he needed it now.

  “Please.” He hadn’t planned on throwing in the personal appeal, but damn it, he needed all the firepower he could muster. “Just hear me out.”

  Her nervous gaze darted over him as he planted himself in her doorway, and Brett regretted having to impose like this. There’d been a current of attraction between them since the first time they’d met in a mutual friend’s used record store, and he couldn’t deny he’d always wanted to get to know her on a more intimate level. But she’d backed off.

  He had respected that. Understood where she was coming from. Still, right now he needed her too much as a professional to allow his business to get mixed up with sex.

  “Five minutes.” She retreated a step to allow him inside, but she crossed her arms over her black T-shirt, not budging another inch. “That’s all I can give you, and then you have to leave.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get and I’ll thank you for it to boot.” He flashed his best grin at her, the one that had probably landed him as many bar gigs as his music, but she simply lifted a haughty eyebrow. Waiting.

  He wanted to tell her what a great place she had, to compliment her on the Good Luck Charm and the truck-loads of memorabilia stuffed into every available corner. But she didn’t seem in the mood for small talk.

  “Look, I know you’re not interested in representing musicians anymore, but—”

  “I’m out of that business for good. It doesn’t have anything to do with talent. I haven’t seen you on stage, but I’ve heard your demo and it’s great. If you want to go out to L.A., I can give you a few names of people who might be willing to take you on.”

  It was more than she’d ever conceded in the past when she hadn’t been willing to keep dating or share any thoughts on his career—even after she’d snagged a copy of his demo from him that first day in the music store. A few months ago, he might have taken the endorsement she was offering and run. But he couldn’t afford to set up house somewhere else. He needed a break now.

  “I appreciate that, but my days as a musician are numbered unless I get a break soon.” When she looked confused, he leaned a
gainst the counter where she kept the register and moved straight to his bottom line. “I set up a savings account when I left my career as a financial analyst, and I allotted myself a certain dollar amount to use to pursue my dreams. That money is almost gone, so I’m going to have to call it quits.”

  Empathy warmed her brown eyes a shade darker. “I’m sorry—”

  “That is, unless I can win the Elvis Legacy competition they’re putting together at Golddiggers Resort and Casino this weekend.”

  “The Elvis Legacy? I thought they were going to hold that next January as part of a birthday bash for him. Isn’t this some kind of American Idol rip-off where they crown a new king of rock ’n’ roll?”

  Brett suppressed a smile at her knowledge of the event despite her insistence that she ignored the local music scene.

  “A new king or queen. And they decided to move it up and cash in on the popularity of those shows before the viewing public gets sick of them.”

  “And you want to win.” She shifted her attention from Brett to a fat burning candle, its three wicks filling the whole store with the scent of cinnamon. She molded a bit of the hot wax around the rim, folding the candle down onto itself so that there would be less to impede its soft light.

  “I’ve got to win, Alyssa. They’re offering the winner a shot at a recording contract. This is my last chance before I go back to New York and kiss the dream goodbye.”

  “Why me?” She straightened away from the candle, shifting against the counter so that she faced him head-on. “Vegas might not be the music mecca of the U.S., but there are other talent managers here. Some of them have probably already approached you.”

  How could he explain the power of gut instinct that told him Alyssa Renato was the woman who could take him to the top? He’d heard her methods for attracting attention to her clients sometimes leaned toward the unorthodox, but how wild could she be to have garnered so much respect in the industry? Brett knew he could handle whatever she dished out, even if the idea of kooky séances gave him hives. He’d learned the hard way that talent wasn’t always enough to propel a career.

  “It has to be you.” Time to lay his cards on the table. “I’ve just got a good feeling about us together. There’s definite chemistry between you and me.”

  “Chemistry?” She suddenly seemed interested in a spinning rack of sunglasses near the register, her finger trailing over a pair of lavender aviator lenses while a tinge of color slowly crawled into her cheeks.

  Or was the candlelight making him see things?

  “Don’t you think we’ve got a good rapport?” If the Good Luck Charm had belonged to anyone else, he might have been tempted to look around the place since he’d been an Elvis fan from way back. But not even the magic of scratchy old LPs recorded without all the high-tech sound gizmos that were now studio staples could lure his gaze away from Alyssa as she tried on a pair of pink rhinestone-studded sunglasses.

  “We hardly know each other.” Her words were as cool as the shades. “I couldn’t say what kind of rapport we have.”

  “Come on, Alyssa. We’ve broken bread together. You know me. Besides, you’re into all that intuitive stuff.” He stalked closer, determined to make his point clear. Reaching for the pink studded frames, Brett slid the glasses off her face so he could see her eye to eye. “Don’t you at least get a sense of how we’d be together?”

  Her glossy dark hair shone in the soft flicker of the candlelight, thick waves tumbling to rest on her shoulders. He stared into those endless brown eyes of hers and told himself he couldn’t be the only one feeling sparks fly.

  “Just what kind of chemistry are we talking about here?” She narrowed her gaze, as if she could somehow see deeper into his motives if she looked long enough.

  “Any kind. Does it matter what sort of chemistry we have as long as we’re on the same wavelength when it comes to music?”

  “It matters.” She edged past him, the sleeve of her T-shirt brushing his arm as she busied herself straightening cubicles filled with ancient metal lunch boxes bearing images of everyone from James Dean to the Partridge Family. “Because I wouldn’t be able to represent someone very well if there was any sexual chemistry involved.”

  “So in other words, you’d consider representing me as long as there’s no sex?” It would be a tough bargain given what flickered between them, but hadn’t Brett promised himself he’d put pursuit of his dreams first while he struggled to make it in this business?

  He could ignore the attraction as long as he remembered Alyssa conjured dead celebrities for kicks. He’d been raised by an aunt who considered herself a psychic and drove their local Brooklyn police station insane with calls insisting she had visions related to every crime they investigated.

  “That is absolutely not what I said.” She settled a hand on one shapely hip and glared at him. All those long, tumbling curls of hers were undeniably feminine, yet her attitude broadcast a clear warning. She looked ready to take him out. “I was merely proposing yet another reason why I won’t ever be representing you. Excuse me for being forthright while you’re busy playing word games.”

  “No games intended.” He held up his palms, surrender-style, surprised at her strong reaction. Apparently he’d struck a nerve, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t be wise to investigate that terrain. “I just thought if we could talk face-to-face maybe I could convince you—”

  “You can’t.” Some of the anger slid off her shoulders, and she ran one hand over a thick feather boa wrapped around a cardboard cutout of Marilyn Monroe before tossing the fluttery accessory around her own neck. “And I think your five minutes are up.”

  Damn. He was no closer to signing on with her than he had been when he’d walked into her store. If anything, he’d somehow pushed all her buttons and ticked her off instead.

  Time to pull out the heavy artillery.

  “Okay. I’m out of here.” He backed up a step as if to retreat, and then lobbed his last bomb. “I just thought since your sister is performing at the Elvis Legacy, maybe you’d be ready to come out of retirement, too.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  WAS THE GUY trying to give her a heart attack? In the flickering candlelight Alyssa stared back at Brett and tried to keep breathing. The feather boa slid off her shoulders to land on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, I must have spaced out there for a minute because I thought you might have suggested my sister is performing somewhere and I know that can’t be true.” Hadn’t Rosa promised not to compromise her health by putting herself in the limelight again? She’d been working at a flower shop for the past few months now that she had recovered. No way would she do something as foolish as sing in the Elvis Legacy contest. Still, Alyssa’s heart thrummed faster with old fears. “Could you run that by me one more time?”

  “Rosa Renato is on the docket to perform at the event.” Replacing the boa around Marilyn, Brett edged closer to Alyssa. “I saw her name on the sign-up sheet with my own eyes.”

  He paused, as if waiting for her response. But Alyssa couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d reached down to yank the circa 1974 lime-green shag throw rug out from under her feet.

  “I assume you didn’t know about this?” He gathered her hands in his broad palms. His warm, strong, sexy-as-hell palms.

  Alyssa yanked her hands free even as she appreciated the sensual contact for snapping her out of dumb-founded shock.

  “No, I didn’t realize. Probably because Rosa doesn’t want me to know.” No wonder her sister had looked so salon-perfect with her new blond highlights. The twit was headed back to the stage without so much as a conversation with Alyssa. A fine how-do-you-do considering all they’d been through together. Didn’t Rosa remember the pressure that had sent her swirling into a dark abyss? If she won this contest, she’d be launching a new career, a comeback that would thrust her right back into all the old problems they’d finally shaken off.

  “You don’t think she should perform anymore?” Brett leaned one
arm along the top of the lunchbox display, his numerous tattoos blending easily with the psychedelic swirl of patterns on the Partridge Family bus.

  “She’s…got issues.” Alyssa couldn’t even think about seeing her sister in the hospital hooked up to feeding tubes without experiencing major bouts of panic. Alyssa loved her adoptive family, but her connection to Rosa went even deeper.

  “Maybe she feels ready to go back on stage. Maybe she misses the music. Hell, I know if I had to walk away from my career, I’d…”

  His words died away as he seemed to catch the implication of her deliberately withering stare.

  “I take it you’re not interested in hearing her side?”

  “I’m interested in keeping her alive and healthy.” She moved through the store toward the register and picked up the telephone. Punching in her sister’s cell number, Alyssa tried to think what she would even say to Rosa if she answered. At this rate, she feared her spinning head would only yank the phone cord out of the receiver.

  But the line rang and rang until voice mail kicked in, leaving Alyssa frustrated and worried.

  “Look, I’m sorry I mentioned the bit about Rosa performing.” Brett had somehow gotten close to her again, his tall, lanky body in perfect ogling range while she fumed and fretted. “I guess I just hoped that if Rosa was making a comeback, maybe you’d want to make one, too. But I sure didn’t mean to cause trouble for either of you.”

  He shook his head just enough to toss aside the hank of dark shaggy hair that had been covering one eye, treating Alyssa to the full impact of that mesmerizing gaze.

  It was enough to distract her for a moment, the lure of his stare too potent to resist. Only one other man she knew had eyes that beautiful a shade of blue. And as she glanced up at the poster of the Fun in Acapulco album cover taped to the wall behind Brett’s head, Alyssa had to admit Brett could give even Elvis Aron a run for his money.

  Her sister would say such a thought was sacrilege, but hell, Elvis was still in poster form while Brett Neale stood before her in the sizzling hot flesh.