Fall: a ROCK SOLID romance

by Karina Bliss

  FALL

  A Rock Solid Romance

  KARINA BLISS

  Keep Rage together at all costs…

  Powerhouse PA Dimity Graham is off her game. Her career is everything to her and she never lets anything personal mess that up.

  So how can she explain getting busy between the sheets with Rage’s nice-guy drummer Seth Curran?

  She’s supposed to be keeping this band out of trouble, not getting into it.

  But before she can put everything back where it belongs, Seth needs her help.

  Faking a relationship seemed like a good idea that night, right before they fell into bed together.

  But standing on New Zealand soil, facing the people he disappointed to pursue his dream, Seth doubts he and Dimity will convince anyone they’re hot and crazy for each other.

  To his surprise, Dimity is working her magic on everyone and they’re all convinced this is the real deal.

  The problem is, he’s almost convinced, too.

  Table of Contents

  About FALL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Other Books by Karina Bliss

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Information

  Chapter One

  The day her mother remarried in the Bahamas, Dimity Graham decided to celebrate her freedom by getting laid in Los Angeles.

  No more sending money for another surgical procedure Helena was sure would convince Dimity’s father to leave the bitch he’d ditched them for, and come home.

  No more obligatory visits struggling to breathe because her self-absorbed mother sucked all the oxygen from the room.

  Over the past sixteen years—until Helena had given up hope and succumbed to Floyd, her besotted dentist—her mom had tried to speed Steven Graham’s repentance and return. She began with helplessness, “Honey, you know I’m hopeless with money”; moved onto guilt, “We’re losing the house because I’ve missed too many payments”; and peaked with emotional blackmail, “I’ve told our only child to decide whose side she’s on.”

  At eleven years old, Dimity had chosen to support her mother because—as she’d regretfully told her father over Aegean salmon and a lollipop tree for two at Bloomingdale’s—someone had to. A diplomat with a keen sense of self-preservation, he’d accepted her decision with relief and abandoned her to Helena’s ravaging dependency.

  Dimity wished she’d inherited his selfishness. Unfortunately, she’d picked up a conscience by way of a defective gene—her great-aunt had been a nun. Certainly, Dimity had been living like one lately, and that would change tonight. She was finally free to divert her mental energy into meeting her own needs—once she figured them out. Sex seemed a good start.

  But work came first. Plonking her glass of champagne on the ivory escritoire that held her two laptops, she phoned her rock-star boss in New Zealand.

  Zander answered with a groan. “Fuck, woman, it’s six a.m.”

  “And you’re still in bed?” She didn’t cloak the disgust in her tone. On tour they regularly survived on four hours sleep.

  “I’m recuperating from vocal surgery, remember? Can’t this wait until a civilized hour?”

  “No. Your realtor has an offer of ten million on the New York penthouse but I think we should stall until Entertainment Tonight runs their celebrity crib feature on Thursday.” Offering an exclusive viewing to the show had been her brainchild. The publicity would increase the number of potential buyers.

  “The next payment on the lawyers’ retainer is due when?” he asked. They were suing the insurers of the tour, who were claiming Zander’s vocal polyps fell under a pre-existing condition and were refusing to pay out millions of dollars of cancellation insurance. If the insurers won, he’d go bankrupt.

  “Tuesday. But the proceeds from your Barbados property will cover it.” She looked around her pretty office in Zander’s French Provençal manor in Calabasas. The sale of this one would break her heart. It was the only real home she’d ever had.

  “You know I trust you to make the best decision. What’s this middle-of-the-night call really about?”

  Loneliness. She and Zander had worked eighteen-hour days for close to three years and she missed her mentor.

  “Dimity?” The reason for Zee’s plunge into a balanced life must have grabbed the phone. “Is anything wrong?” Elizabeth Winston was an emotional divining rod, exasperating and lovable in equal measure. Ever since she’d found Dimity weeping in a utility closet during the tour she’d acted like an interfering big sister—when Dimity wasn’t acting like hers.

  “I’m fine. Better than fine. Mom got re-married today and I’m finally free.” All long-term prisoners feel a little panicky stepping outside the cell.

  “That’s wonder—” Elizabeth began to say before Zander’s voice came on.

  “So go celebrate.”

  “I fully intend to go on a sexual rampage.” Dimity wasn’t going to let a little panic stop her from embracing freedom.

  “Now there’s a thought…since you woke us anyway.” The rough tenderness in his voice suggested he was looking at Elizabeth.

  “Zee, no lurrrve stuff during a business call.”

  “This isn’t a business call, you’re bored and restless. Here’s a challenge. Go flirt with my head of security, he’s got a crush on you…Ow, why did Doc just hit me?” Doc was his nickname for his PhD love.

  “Because she knows I’m trouble,” Dimity explained patiently. “Best leave the good men out of it.” Growing up in a dysfunctional household had given her a realistic view of where she sat on the evolutionary scale when it came to sustaining healthy relationships. Idly, she wondered if Bam Bam Rubble from The Flintstones had ever grown up. Her true calling lay in this job.

  “You can’t avoid that conversation with Luther forever.” Zander didn’t believe in tiptoeing around an issue when he could stomp. “You two will be working closely again when Elizabeth goes on her book tour next year.”

  In Bed With A Rock God. There was no one less likely to write a tell-all memoir than a Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer, which was probably why it was the most hotly anticipated book of the year.

  “I have no problem avoiding him for another five days until I fly to New Zealand,” Dimity said. This house was large enough to hide from a clan the size of the Kardashians. “But enough about me. Any update on your vocals?” The band’s future was in limbo until Zander learned whether surgery had repaired his singing voice.

  “Hang on,” he said. She heard the sound of muffled conversation and tried not to read too much into it. The only drawback of her mother’s unexpected remarriage was the time it freed up to worry more about her—the band’s—future.

  Zander came back on the line. “I’ll have news when I see you down under.”

  Her fingers tightened on her cell. “Good news?” It had been seven weeks since Zander’s surgery and they’d hoped for a result after six. But the operation hadn’t been straightforward because he’d done more damage when he persisted in performing, against medical advice. He’d said he’d give his vocals plenty of time to heal before testing his vocals. Given the years she’d spen
t trying to rein in his recklessness, his sensible, conservative approach should have delighted her.

  “Dimity, we make our own luck,” he reminded her.

  It was one of the many things she’d learned from rock’s king of reinvention. “Damn right,” she said, grateful for the reminder. “And on that note, I’d best finish up here so I can go make some lucky bastard’s night.”

  “Leave him alive.”

  “I’ll consider it. Goodbye.”

  “Dimity?”

  About to hang up, she paused. “Yeah?”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Zee, you’re embarrassing yourself,” she said coolly, but she was smiling as she cut the connection. At least there was one person she could rely on. Helena was still punishing her with coolness for not making the wedding. Dimity’s smile faded as she replaced the handset.

  Zander Freedman was recognized as one of rock’s greatest vocalists, and the king of reinvention. He’d brought his mega band, Rage, back from the dead by re-populating it with musicians he’d handpicked through a smash-hit reality show, immediately followed by a sell-out world tour.

  He also had a deserved reputation as the most selfish egomaniac in rock ’n’ roll. Meeting Elizabeth had changed him for the better. As long as his killer instinct was still intact, because they’d never needed it more.

  To protect the livelihoods of the many people dependent on the tour’s success he’d pushed his voice to the max, even lip-syncing the national anthem in front of the President at a war vets’ fundraiser two months ago.

  When the news broke, his haters had delighted in attacking him when he was literally voiceless, unable to use his considerable powers of chutzpah and charm to fight back. Combined with the lawsuit, her boss was in one of the darkest periods of his twenty-year career, the future of Rage in doubt. But, with Dimity’s help, he’d risen from the ashes before and they could do it again.

  What if his singing voice never comes back?

  She caught herself nervously tugging at her false eyelashes and forced herself to pick up her task list. Why worry about worst-case scenarios when she could keep things running smoothly pending his triumphant return?

  The rumble of Luther’s Hummer distracted her ten minutes later, and she crossed to the window in time to catch the glow of the taillights disappearing into the six-car garage.

  Ever since Zander had drunkenly let slip that his bodyguard had a thing for her a few months earlier, she’d avoided being alone with Luther. Particularly since he’d returned from New Zealand a couple of days ago, after reviewing Zander’s security there. With all other staff on leave, the two of them were rattling around the mansion by themselves. Part of her was flattered by his crush. Inspiring such an upright, honorable man to carry a torch made her feel…validated.

  Ugh. She’d been contaminated by Zander and Elizabeth’s love cooties.

  The motorized whine of the garage door made her draw back from the window.

  You can’t avoid that conversation with Luther forever. Zander had a point. Pausing to remember where the bodyguard would be at any given time felt like a weakness. And Dimity abhorred weakness in herself. Her mother lived to dodge personal responsibility, and her daughter was never taking that path. Besides, if Zander had noticed her wimpiness, other people would, too.

  To hell with it. She powered down her laptop, resolved on telling him she wasn’t in the market for a relationship. Then she’d have cleared her entire emotional in-tray and could focus on being slutty. And if she hurt his feelings…no, she wouldn’t let those qualms stop her again.

  Seizing her tote, she gave her appearance the obligatory check as she passed the hand-carved baroque mirror next to the door. In the music industry, image was everything, and she had her brand down to a fine art—an uptown girl dressed in Salvatore Ferragamo cut-out pumps the exact shade and softness of her tan leather jacket.

  In a nod to rock ’n’ roll she’d teamed her cream jeans with a glitzy belt, a tiger-patterned silk blouse and chunky gold jewelry. She didn’t freshen her makeup—that would make the coming conversation too important—only raked a hand through the shoulder-length hair she paid her hairdresser a fortune to differentiate from every other faux blonde in this town. She’d touch up her war paint in the taxi en route to the club.

  It took four minutes to stride from her office, down the grand staircase, through the entrance hall and conservatory and along the corridor in the sprawling left wing of the house to Luther’s private apartments, plenty of time to decide on her approach. Really, she had three styles of delivering unpleasant truths—the jab, the hook, and the uppercut. Luther was man enough for the uppercut.

  She had to knock twice before he opened the door—a rugby game blared excited commentary on the big-screen TV beyond him.

  His dark gaze sharpened as he looked down at her. “Something up with Zander?”

  “No. This is personal. Can I come in?”

  Nothing changed in his expression but she sensed an immediate wariness. “Sure.” He gestured her inside. “The test is on, All Blacks versus—”

  “I’m not here to watch the game.” Unlike the French Provençal opulence of the rest of the house, the furniture in his suite was both modern and sparse. A monster couch and armchair faced the TV. Between the two, a coffee table held a bowl of guacamole and nachos, a nearly empty bottle of tequila and a full shot glass. She hadn’t pegged Luther as a solitary drinker. It made him more accessible…and maybe easier to hurt? But she couldn’t chicken out now.

  “Remember when Zee was drunk and said you had feelings for me and—”

  “This isn’t something we should talk about right now.”

  “It won’t take long.” Grabbing the remote from his hand, she hit pause to silence the overexcited commentator. “You know I think you’re a great guy—” in the dead air, her voice rang like a clarion and she softened her tone “—but you and I? It’s not going to happen.”

  He looked pained. Oh God, she had hurt him. “Dimity—”

  “It’s okay,” she soothed. “I’m sure it’s just a proximity thing…two attractive people working together. I don’t even mind admitting I’m tempted. But you’re the type of guy who’d want to put a ring on it, and I’m married to my career so—”

  “Dimity.” Luther held her gaze, waiting until he had her full attention. “Zander was wrong.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “I am in love with someone. It’s not you.”

  “Oh.” For the first time in forever she felt a blush heat her cheeks, starting warm and rocketing in temperature until her face flamed. She never revealed a want without first ascertaining if she could have it. She opened her mouth, scrambling for a joke, an insult, anything to mitigate the damage, but even her survival instinct had ducked for cover.

  She could only stare helplessly as her blush leaped across the few feet separating them and spread across Luther’s normally impassive face.

  “Which is not to say,” he said, with the delicacy of a man tiptoeing around a land mine, “that I don’t find you attractive.”

  Her whole body broke into a sweat. He should be pretending he didn’t know how humiliating this was for her, not staring into her soul with awful, insightful compassion. Kill. Me. Now.

  “So, mate.” Seth’s voice made her jump. “If it’s not Dimity, then who?”

  Rage’s Kiwi drummer rose from the sofa and stretched lazily. His crumpled plaid shirt rode up, revealing a lean, taut belly. Judging by the tangles in his tawny hair, the lint on his shirt and the red-gold stubble on his jaw, he’d been lost down the back of the sofa for several days. He looked at Luther. “Who’s your mystery woman?”

  The bodyguard’s gaze finally shifted, and she could breathe.

  “None of your business,” he growled. “Forget everything you just heard.”

  Seth’s broad shoulders rose in a sigh. “I wish I could.” Astute blue eyes met hers. “Dammit, woman. I thought I was the only guy yo
u brushed off.”

  “Exactly why I’m spreading the rejection around.” He was throwing her a lifeline and she was desperate enough to take it. “I don’t want you thinking you’re special.”

  “Of course not,” Luther said kindly.

  Now she had to get out of here before she killed him. “I’ll let you two get back to watching your barbaric national game.”

  “That’s okay, it’s finished.” Reaching over the sofa, Seth took the remote from her and absently wiped her palm-sweat dry on his jeans, before switching off the screen.

  The first time she’d met Seth after the reality show auditions to repopulate the band, she’d been amazed that Zander had shortlisted him. “He’s waaaay too straight for rock ’n’ roll.”

  “Wait ’til you see him perform,” Zander had said.

  Behind a drum kit, Seth metamorphosed into a beast. “Like Animal off The Muppet Show,” Dimity told Seth, trying to shame him into a makeover. Working with rock stars was like taming tigers—both jobs required fearlessness and the ability to assert immediate dominance.

  He’d laughed at her.

  Given most people were intimidated by her take-no-prisoners approach, she’d been startled by that. Worse, he’d encouraged the other new band members to tease her, too, and over the following months the whole tour family had degenerated into the Brady Bunch. Their relationship had settled into pretend-flirting on his part and scathing put-downs on hers.

  Though he remained stubbornly resistant to getting a stylist, they’d become friends—and she didn’t have many who could handle her abrasiveness.