by Karina Bliss
“Didn’t you go to the new band’s concert last month?”
“Only to be in the mosh pit when Zander screwed it up.”
“And did he?” she said curiously.
“He was as brilliant as ever,” Franny conceded. “But that doesn’t make him right.”
“Here’s the thing.” Elizabeth stared at the John Trumbull painting on her screen saver. “I live much of my life in the past. I can’t tell you most of the ministers in New Zealand’s current government or memorize my car’s number plate. I’m someone who has to write down all her pin numbers and takes until March to remember she’s in another year. And yet through some extraordinary osmosis, not only do I know who Zander Freedman is, but I know who he dates, who he feuds with and the color of his underwear. That makes him interesting. That makes me curious.”
“By all means go meet him; you can get me his autograph. Just keep in mind that he fired his last two biographers. The second only yesterday.”
“Oh.” Now Elizabeth felt silly.
“I know the publisher who commissioned the memoir,” Franny confided. “He says working with Zander Freedman is like trying to herd cats. Big cats. Don’t put your hand through the bars is all I’m saying.”
Chapter Three
Torrential rain pounded the soft-top of the VW Beetle Cabriolet, all but drowning out the labored squeal of windshield wipers. Hunched over the steering wheel, Elizabeth peered through the deluge for a road sign.
The Western Springs turnoff loomed and she realized the traffic backed up a kilometer in the slow lane was also heading for the stadium. Flashing her indicator she slowed down, hoping for a let-in, but these rock fans had no patience for a queue jumper.
An impatient toot sounded behind her. Increasing speed, she overshot her turnoff and glanced anxiously at her watch. Thirty minutes until she was due backstage for her interview with Zander Freedman.
Taking the next exit she doubled back through suburban streets, gauging her proximity to the stadium by the increasing density of parked cars and people, swathed in raincoats, trudging along the footpath.
Zander’s assistant had mailed her a pass to the stadium’s lot, but getting anywhere near it would take forever, so she squeezed between a van and a BMW, parked and grabbed her fold-up umbrella. Rain assaulted her the second she opened the door. She staggered as the wind inverted her umbrella and she had to wrestle it into shape before joining the trickle of concertgoers.
The trickle became a stream, the stream a river of people, spilling from the footpath onto the road, causing even more traffic chaos. Umbrellas of all colors jostled for space as the crowds merged at the stadium. Rain saturated Elizabeth’s leather mules so they squeaked and itched with every step and the water wicked up her cream linen trousers. She could feel her underwear getting wet. Twice more, her flimsy umbrella inverted.
And yet there was something thrilling in this great march under leaden, pouring skies, the bass beat of the warm-up band almost a call to war. Mentally, Elizabeth filed a couple of sensory details for a battle description.
At the turnstiles she said, “I have a pass,” and started hunting in her handbag.
“No pass, no entry,” said the gum-chewing collector.
“I have it somewhere.” Digging in the deep pockets of her trousers, she noticed ink had leached into the white linen. Great, just great. She pulled out a sodden piece of paper and unfolded it carefully. “Here.”
The guy peered at the pulpy sheet. “Lady, this could be a receipt from a parking meter.”
“Wait.” She pulled out her cell and retrieved her e-mails. “Look, here’s my correspondence with Dimity Graham, Zander Freedman’s PA.”
“I’m gate security, sweetheart, her name means nothing to me.”
“Okay, who’s in charge of you?”
He switched on his walkie-talkie. Someone came. Then someone else. Finally a vast black umbrella approached on a pair of shapely legs balanced on heels so high they could have aerated the entire cricket pitch at Lord’s.
The rim tilted to reveal a pair of pissed-off blue eyes in a beautiful face. “You’re late. And I told you gate six.”
“The traffic made it impossible to park closer. I’m sorry.”
“Save your excuses for Zander, assuming he’s still got time to see you.” As fastidious as a cat trying not to get its paws wet, Dimity picked her way back across the puddled concrete. “Goddamn, my shoes will be ruined!”
Since this was indisputably true, Elizabeth said nothing.
The PA cast her a sideways glance under lashes sweeping enough to act as their own umbrella. “You look younger than the picture on your website. It gives the wrong impression. Update it.”
“What impression?”
“That you had a relative take a snap against backyard shrubbery.”
Elizabeth blinked.
“Thought so,” Dimity said. “If you end up working for Zee, I’ll put you in touch with a professional photographer.”
“I have been meaning to update my site.” She didn’t add, “but I never have time,” because she suspected this self-possessed young woman kicked time’s butt.
They passed several security cordons where Dimity flashed her pass, taking an entrance behind the stadium, then turning almost immediately into a basic office. Chair, desk, laptop, coat rack, potted plant and coffeemaker. Opening the door to an adjoining powder room, Dimity yanked a hand towel off the basin. “Let’s dry you off before you meet Zee.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Elizabeth stood in the doorway, reluctant to drip on the carpet squares. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any spare trousers?”
The younger woman assessed her tall figure.
“Not in an eight…that translates to twelve here, right? The inflated sizes are enough to put you off clothes shopping.” She handed Elizabeth the towel. “I nearly had a heart attack when a sales assistant said I’d need a six.”
That puts me in my size twelve place. Resisting the urge to tell the skinny blonde she’d be less prone to cardiac arrest if she ate a decent meal, Elizabeth patted her face and hair dry, before blotting her sodden trousers. Twisting, she glanced over her shoulder. “Is my underwear showing?”
“Navy gingham under white linen.” Dimity frowned as she stepped out of her ruined heels and lost six inches of height. “What were you thinking?”
“That I’m overdue for laundry.” Ruefully she examined the ink stains on the front pocket. “These pants are probably headed for the rubbish.”
“Soak the stain in milk.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Digging a comb from her bag, Elizabeth dragged it through her tangled curls, then checked her appearance in the bathroom’s small mirror.
Rain had washed the foundation off her freckles and created mascara crescents under her eyes. Her lashes had reverted to their natural red gold and were practically invisible. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She used toilet tissue to clean up as best she could.
“Most of my makeup won’t work with your coloring, but here.” Dimity produced a watermelon pink lipstick.
“It will clash with my red hair.”
“Trust me.”
And what do you know, she was right. They smiled at each other, sharing a female moment.
“Are you married?” Turning to her desk, Dimity started searching through papers. “You didn’t mention a husband in your website bio.”
“Single.”
“FYI, Zander doesn’t get involved with anyone in his employ—ever—so if you’re seeing this as an opportunity to get close to him… You’re smiling, but you’d be surprised how many withdraw their applications at this point.”
“I haven’t applied for anything,” Elizabeth clarified, “and we historians get more excited over dead people.”
“So do necrophiliacs.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I promise not to jump your boss.”
“We’ll see,” was the cryptic reply. “I practically dropped my panties in his la
p within ten minutes of meeting him.”
Some flicker of distaste must have shown on Elizabeth’s face.
“You disapprove,” said Dimity.
“That depends on whether he used his fame to exploit you.”
“I went to the party to seduce him; I’m not some innocent. It worked out better for both of us when he decided to hire me instead. Zee has good instincts. Let’s see if they’re accurate with you.” Her tone was doubtful.
They were of the same mind then.
“Here.” Dimity pulled some papers from the pile. “I need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. Nothing you and Zander discuss today is to be repeated to media or used for commercial gain.”
“Is this really necessary?” Elizabeth accepted the document reluctantly. “Our meeting’s very informal, more of a fact-finding mission.” She wondered if she’d misled Zander by agreeing to meet when she had no intention of accepting the job.
Dimity produced a silver pen. “It’s open on the page you have to sign.”
Elizabeth flipped to the first page.
“We haven’t got time for this.”
“I’m not signing anything I haven’t read.”
The blonde gave a long-suffering sigh, but Elizabeth took her time before scribbling her signature.
“Now we really need to hurry.” Dimity led the way out. “Are you nervous?”
“No… Why?”
“Most people are, meeting Zee.”
* * *
The business end of the stadium was a rabbit warren of long echoing corridors, punctuated by big men leaning against doors. Security, Elizabeth guessed. Everyone else they passed scurried, intent on some backstage task.
Dimity opened a door. “In here.”
Half-expecting a throne room, Elizabeth was disappointed. Though large, the changing room she stepped into was like any sports locker room. Concrete block walls of a scuff-marked white. A red couch and two matching director’s chairs filled one corner, a glass coffee table held water bottles and a bowl of bananas.
The air was as warm and damp as a wet washcloth, and redolent of herbal tea. Her nose picked up ginger and honey accents with an overbite of hair spray. On the other side of the room, large bulbs blazed around a mirror silhouetting the half-naked man sitting in front of it with his knees splayed and his hands resting on black jean-clad thighs.
A brunette with delicate features, in a purple muscle tee and denim cutoffs wielded a blow-dryer over dancing strands that shone like polished silk. I wonder what shampoo he uses, was Elizabeth’s first thought.
Her gaze dropped to the tattooed chest reflected in the mirror. Outstretched angel wings followed the sweep of his collar bone, the tips disappearing over his shoulder, while the lower feathers curved over taut pecs.
An intriguing choice for a man so very, very far from angelic.
“She got caught in traffic,” Dimity hollered over the hum of the hairdryer. “Have you time for this now or would you prefer to wait until after the show?”
“Oh, I can’t stay,” Elizabeth called apologetically. “It’s my sister’s birthday dinner.”
“Then let’s talk now.” A nipple ring glinted as Zander swung in his chair and stood. Now the mirror lights were a halo around his bare shoulders. He smiled.
Elizabeth considered herself an intelligent person. When she’d started kindergarten she’d already been reading six months. She had a BA, MA and PhD in history. Her house was full of books and even the washroom had pithy sayings framed on its walls for the edification of anyone sitting on the toilet.
And yet she hadn’t factored charisma into Zander Freedman.
Theoretically, she understood the guy had to have something to explain why people didn’t simply tell him to take a running jump when he behaved like a douche.
Intellectually, she appreciated that he was “hot” having been listed—twice—in People magazine’s “Fifty Most Beautiful People On The Planet,” and three times as Holy Roller’s “World’s Sexiest Rock Star.” To her mind, it was superficial and meaningless drivel even when conscientiously allowing for her self-protective bias as a lanky “ginga.”
But his smile of welcome was so dazzling she nearly flung up a hand to deflect it.
Yes, there was arrogance and ego and a whole lot of entitlement in that smile, but his charisma was a sonic boom breaking the sound barrier. Sex appeal emanated like a force field that practically bounced off her ovaries.
“Dr. Elizabeth Winston, welcome.”
An involuntary shiver tickled down her spine. His tone had the same combination of gravel, sex and sweetness that characterized his singing voice. He could probably drawl a shopping list and make it seductive.
Her writer’s brain scrambled to find words to describe the impact even as she simpered, as giddy as any schoolgirl. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Dimity’s smirk. Closing her mouth, Elizabeth stepped forward. “Nice to meet you,” she croaked, holding out her hand.
Crystal blue eyes bathed her in charm as warm as a tropical lagoon. “We’re pen pals, we can do better than that.”
Zander drew her into a hug. Her nose squished into a smooth, muscled shoulder and her outstretched hand ended up pressed against a rock-hard thigh—at least that’s what she hoped it was. She wasn’t a woman who flustered easily, but as Zander released her she felt a blush scorch her cheeks.
Behind her, Dimity snickered.
The rocker’s gaze slid over her damp clothes and she half-expected them to steam in its wake. “You’re wet,” he said, concerned.
Instinctively, she covered the ink stain on her pocket, resolving not to turn and flash her gingham underwear. “My umbrella blew out and parking was difficult and—” She stopped babbling. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset your schedule.”
“It makes things tight, but I can give you twenty minutes.” He gestured to the couch. “What would you like to drink…wine, beer, champagne?”
“Hot tea, please. Milk, no sugar.”
He looked at Dimity.
“I’m on it.” She left with the hairdresser, who did a final tweak of Zander’s hair as she passed—possibly because she could. Elizabeth had an urge to touch all that shimmering softness herself.
I am more sensible than this.
Gingerly, she backed up and perched on the edge of the couch. Her trousers would leave a wet patch on the fabric, but maybe Zander was used to that.
His stomach was so flat and hard there was nothing to stop her eye skating down to his low-slung black jeans.
“Mind if I finish dressing while we talk?”
Guiltily, she raised her eyes and was stunned by another blue-orbed bolt of charisma. “Of course. I mean, sure go ahead. Great tattoo by the way.” I was looking at that, honest.
“Berlin, last year. A Resurrection Tour needs a guardian angel.” He turned to pick up his shirt and she took the opportunity to stuff her libido into the bottom drawer of her priorities.
“Let me clarify something straightaway,” she began. “I’m not the right person to write your book.”
“That’s a damn shame.” He shrugged on a soft-collared shirt of red silk, so light it seemed to waft onto his body. “I’ve kinda got my heart set on you.”
One crooked smile opened that bottom drawer. Elizabeth slammed it shut again. “There are a number of reasons why a collaboration won’t work.”
“Let’s hear ’em.”
“Firstly, I have a job.”
“New Zealand’s academic year runs February through November,” he said, “and is made up of two semesters. The first finishes June thirtieth, a month away.” Zander fastened the bottom two buttons of his shirt and began rolling up the sleeves. The golden hair on his forearms glinted. “Given there are three weeks of holiday before the second semester starts, that gives your faculty seven weeks to find a replacement. You take a sabbatical and return for the next academic year.”
He—or Dimity—had done their homework. Elizabeth tried not to feel
special. “Secondly,” she said, “your publisher’s deadline is only six months away, that’s too short a time frame.”
“Not if you stay with me in LA and join the band on the next tour leg. We’ll interview every day, hell, you can shadow me if you need to. You’ll have nothing to do but devote yourself to the book. No cooking, no laundry…” He gestured to the ink stain, “…You’re still frowning.”
“I researched my last book for two years before I even began writing.”
“Your subject was dead.” He picked up a silver hoop from the mirror stand and threaded it through his left earlobe. “Think how much easier it will be to just ask.”
She chuckled.
Zander threaded two more earrings above the first. “All you have to do is write down my reminiscences and shape them into a bestseller.”
“Because bestsellers are so easy to write?”
“With a star subject, sure. Why else would the publisher pay me a five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance?”
Elizabeth stared. “You got five hundred thousand dollars to write your memoir?”
“No, I get a million; the other half is on delivery of the manuscript.”
“Wow,” she said weakly.
Zander studied her. “And your name could be on the cover.”
She started to laugh.
“Too obvious? But unlike the devil, I don’t require worship.” He grinned. “At least not from you, Dr. Winston. I read your backlist and thought, ‘Shit, this woman can write,’ then it hit me. An award-winning literary biographer working with a pop culture icon. It’s intriguing. Gives the book a point of difference. I still get a prickle on the back of my neck thinking about it.”
She experienced the same prickle. Crazy.
He dropped a chain over his head, solid silver links with a cross, then casually added a couple more of varying thicknesses. “I see this book as an opportunity to talk directly to my fans. Remind them why they still love me. So they keep buying my music. Going to my concerts. Continuing our dance of codependency… No, that’s too negative… What’s the word I’m looking for?”
