"What do you mean, he didn't show up?" Sam Drexel stopped
dead in the middle of the polished executive hallway of the
CrownCraft offices, causing two people behind her to have to
scramble to avoid a collision.
The renowned L.A. photographer on the other end of the call
declared he had waited for three full hours before shutting
down his equipment and letting his crew go. And, no, he was
not available for a reschedule. But, yes, he would
be sending her
the full bill. The last thing Sam
heard as he hung up was "damned rock stars."
Damned rock stars. The words drummed in her head as
she punched her phone off, did an about-face and made
straight for the elevator. Part of her was reeling, but part
of her was already calculating how much damage this would do
to her strained project budget. What kind of jerk blew off a
photo shoot costing tens of thousands of dollars? Who the
hell did he think he was?
But the minute she stepped out of the elevator on the
thirty-eighth floorโhome of CrownCraft's marketing
departmentโthe sounds of Nick Stack's music throbbing
through the corridors reminded her exactly who the hell he
was. The king of the driving-hot beat and libido-ramping
lyrics. The master of sexy signature sounds. The pied piper
of rock, who led impressionable young college girls into a
labyrinth of desire and sexual discovery. At least,
he
used to.
She told herself that her heart was racing because she was
angryโjustifiably so. But her footsteps synchronized with
the music, and by the time she reached the marketing
department workroom she had to stop and lean against the
wall to collect herself. The bass-heavy rush of Nicholas
Stack's biggest hit invaded her skin, loosened her bones and
threatened to take over her heartbeat.
Damned music. She was determined not to let her potent
visceral reaction to it undercut her anger.
He hadn't even shown up.
Taking a deep breath, she rolled around the door frame and
charged into the workroom, coming to a stop with her hands
on her hips.
"Will somebody turn off that howling before I throw the
damned speakers out the window?"
Her assistant and the two designers on the floor in the
midst of a sea of greeting card layouts looked up in
surprise. Parts of the sexy groove thumping away on the
stereo would soon fill a number of the musical valentines
spread in a mock-up stage all around them. And the whole
project, especially the music, had been
her idea.
As they shook their heads in disbelief, her face reddened.
She couldn't blame them for being confused. Two months ago
she couldn't get enough of Nick Stack's steamy ballads and
sexed-up dance numbers, and had even broken into a few
exotic dance moves during his vocal riffs.
She lunged for the off button in the middle of one of
Stack's patented, knee-weakening
"bay-beeee's," and
the silence that followed was so deep it seemed as if the
room had just been dropped down a well.
"Whoa." Dale Emerson pushed away from the worktable. The
project's head designer wore a gray-streaked ponytail and
was talented enough to get by with saying whatever he
thought. "What set you off?"
"He didn't show," she said, her face now glowing hot. "Stack
didn't bother to put in an appearance at the photo shoot
this afternoon. So, as of now, we have no poster, no ads and
no CD cover."
"But we've
got to have photos," graphic artist
Sarah Casey moaned.
"The jerk didn't even call to make excuses," Sam said,
surveying the line of cards at her feet and feeling the
pride she'd taken in the concept being eroded by an
all-too-personal feeling of betrayal.
"Why would he miss a chance for such publicity?" her
assistant, Renee Morgan, asked.
"Besides the obvious? That he thinks the whole world
revolves around him? Who knows?" Sam squeezed her eyes shut
for a moment, then expelled a huge breath. "I
hate
Valentine's Day."
"We've noticed." Dale tried to lighten the mood. "And why is
that? Not enough valentines in your shoe box in the third
grade?"
"I got
plenty of valentines, Dr. Freud." She
crossed her arms and focused an incendiary gaze on one
particularly romantic-looking layout. "I just get sick of
seeing sappy red hearts wherever I look and hearing songs
that rhyme 'baby' with 'lay me.'"
She realized they were giving each other speaking looks and
struggled to give her reaction a more businesslike slant.
"Besides, the Valentine's campaign is a pink collar ghetto.
Have you noticed that they always give it to a woman? Me,
specifically? Three years running?"
"Maybe they give it to you because you do such a good job
with it." Sarah held up a pair of layout boards in evidence.
"I mean, these are damned good designs and the music you
chose fits so perfectlyโ"
"Face it, kiddo," Dale said with a hint of mischief. "There
just aren't many Wharton MBAs around with a great eye for
'romantic.'"
Sam flinched. Stiffening, she turned on her heel and strode
out, but not before she heard a chuckle and Dale's
irreverent conclusion.
"Somebody needs a date."
So much for keeping it strictly professional.
This whole project had become a cautionary tale on the
hazards of mixing her professional life with her personal
one. If she hadn't been floating around in a romantic fog,
she would never have gotten the bright idea to build a line
of musical valentines around Nick Stack's signature sounds
and phrases.
By the time she got to her office and slammed the door, she
was trembling. Renee, Dale, Sarahโฆeverybody knew her love
life had gone to hell. How could they not? She was riding a
romantic skyrocket one week and barely dragging her butt
into work the next. She caught her reflection in the window
as she headed for her chair.
She was on edge. Overworked. Exhausted.
Embarrassed.
The memory she'd been trying to suppress boiled up to
threaten her composure. Rich Collierโbouquet-of-roses
Richโhad been in Chicago on business and given her a call
out of the blue.
She winced. Okay, not exactly "out of the blue." She had let
an old classmate know she was interested in finding out what
had happened to her ex-boyfriend, and a month laterโ
voilร โhe called. Apparently he thought they had
unfinished business, too. She'd taken it as proof that her
manhunting strategy of "mining the list of old boyfriends"
was a winner.
Manhunting.
What the hell had she been thinking?
As if decent, rational, gainfully employed heterosexual
males just roamed the landscape, waiting to be bagged,
banded and domesticated.
She refused to allow the pricking in her eyes to turn into
tears. Two doors down, somebody punched the play button
again and Nick Stack's smoky, compelling invitation filtered
through her office wallsโฆ muted, but still powerful enough
to conjure the memory of Rich showing up at her apartment
that first night with "their album." A few bars of that
sexy, driving beat and that mesmerizing voice, and she was
putty in his hands.
It was the music.
It got into her blood and lowered her defenses. It always
had. She couldn't help thinking that she hadn't fallen in
love with Rich Collier so much as she had been seduced by
that damned musicโ
twice.
Still, she should have known something wasn't right. Who the
hell left Chicago on the weekend to go home to Muncie,
Indiana? Nobody. Unless he was expected home on Friday
evening. By his
wife.
Where was her judgment, her business-honed instinct for
subtext, nuance and deception? Where was her bullshit meter
when she needed it?
Drowned out by raging hormones, a scorching set of male
vocals and a hypnotic 4/4 beat.
What was the female equivalent of "thinking with your dick"?
Crimson with humiliation, she hit the intercom and dug deep
into her reserves for some heavy-duty attitude.
"Get me somebody in Legal," she ordered when Renee answered.
"Nick Stack is going to rue the day he violated this contract."
Four weeks later
"This goes against everything I'm trying to do, Stan." Nick
Stack stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as they emerged
from the Drake Hotel on Chicago's Miracle Mile. His leather
jacket collar was flipped up against the November wind, his
shaggy hair was blowing wildly, and his glare was hot enough
to sear meatโฆ all of which made him look very bad-boy
rocker. A label he no longer appreciated.
"It's
money, Nick." Agent Stanley Ripken waved his
client toward the limo waiting at the curb with the door
open. When Nick balked, Stan produced a glare from under
wiry brows. "Get in the damned car."
"They'll flash these pictures all over the country," Nick
growled.
"We should be so lucky. It's called publicity. And you need it."
"Not like this, I don't. It's my old sound. I'll never be
taken seriously in jazz until that crap is six feet under."
"After this shoot, they'll cut you a nice check and we'll
hold a nice wake. Then you'll get on with the new demo, and
we'll all get rich again."
"Is that all you think about? Money?"
Stan squared on him, glaring.
"No. Right now I'm thinking of a photo shoot that you blew
off and a lawyer screaming in my ear about failure to
perform contracted services. You told me to get you some
moneyโI got you some. 'Just tell me where to show up,' you
said.
Only you didn't show up!" Then, like the
father figure he'd often been to Nick, he pointed to the
open car door. "Quit being such a diva and get in the car."
Muttering, Nick climbed into the back of the limo. This, he
told himself, was payback for all the pointless excesses of
his former career. He was having his crimes against music
and artistic integrity emblazoned on a valentine and hung
around his neck for the whole world to see.
Stan was rightโthis was his fault. He needed money for a new
demo album and was desperate enough to think he didn't care
how he got it.
It turned out he did care. A lot.
But his boycott of the L.A. photo shoot had only made
matters worse. When they demanded a reshoot, CrownCraft
insisted it be done in Chicago so it could be properly
"handled" by their marketing department.
When the car stopped in front of a skyscraper, Nick rolled
out and stood looking up at the place in horror. Sixty
glass-paneled floors of tedium. He groaned. His last photos
as an A-lister had been shot by an up-and-comer in Greenwich
Village who took him out on the streetโshirtless and holding
his guitarโand captured what happened as he stopped traffic
and sent most of lower Manhattan into gridlock. Now he was
so far off the cutting edge that he was being funneled into
an advertising photographer's queueโฆjust after the laundry
soap and right before the mouthwash.
In that delightful state of mind, he emerged from the
elevator onto the thirty-second floor and found a woman in a
steel gray suit waiting with feet spread, arms crossed and
chin out. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
She had damned fine legsโwhat he could see of themโand an
attitude like the helmeted fat lady out of a Wagnerian
opera. She was a little intimidatingโฆ and sexy as hell.
"We've been waiting," she said in a deep, resonant voice
that made his ears tingle.
"You know what they say. 'Good things come to those who
wait,'" Stan said with his most disarming smile.
"Whereas, we get
your client." She shot Nick a
glare that sent a jolt of electricity through him, then
turned briskly toward a nearby hallway.
This was his "handler"? Nick shook off the lingering sensual
buzz, stuck his hands in his pockets and stalked after Stan
and the Dungeon Mistress. Clearly, she wasn't a fan.
Probably a major corporate ladder climber. She sure had the
legs for it. He followed them down to a pair of black spike
heels with wicked red soles. There were probably men all
over CrownCraft with matching puncture marks on their backs.
Watching the sway of her prime asset down the long hallway,
he found himself experiencing a growing tensionโฆin response
to her hostility or her long-legged presence? Given the fact
that this was photo shoot number
two, it was
undoubtedly the former. Her dismissive look and snide
comment said clearly that she doubted they were going to get
their money's worth. And that came as something of a shock
to him. Women usually appreciated him. In fact, they
generally threw themselves atโ
He slid his hand to his chest to explore the odd sensation
developing there, then caught himself, scowled and jammed it
back into his pocket.
Who the hell was she toโฆ
He glared at her erect shoulders and superbly toned butt.
Fine. She expected a rock starโby damn, he'd give her a rock
star. A no-holds-barred bad boy with ego and libido run
amuck. With a little luck, the experience would be so
obnoxious and the photos so bad that the company would use
them sparinglyโฆ or not at all. Just what he wanted.
Brunhilda led them into a warehouse-size studio that was
already warm from racks of overhead can lights.
Showtime. Before he had gone ten feet, he whipped
off his leather jacket and tossed it to her. She caught it
by reflex.
"Thanks, babe." He hung his hands on his waist, giving
everyone an eyeful of "rock star" while he surveyed the
studio. "It's hotter than hell in here. I'll need some
Lauquen. Can't work when I'm dehydrated."
"What?" She held his coat well away from her, her hackles
rising.
"Lau-quen? Designer water? Ring any bells?" He
pointed at the lights. "And some of this wattage has got to
go." He caught Stan trying to make for the door. "It's in
all my contracts. Tell 'em, Stan." As Stan muttered a
confirmation, she tossed the coat aside and struggled with
her temper. She was hot? He smiled. She was going to get
even hotter.
"First of all, my name is Samantha Drexel, not
Babe," she bit out in those husky tones that made
his fingertips vibrate. "I am the marketing manager who came
up with the idea of using your music in our valentines. It
was someone else's bright idea to issue a full CD of your
songs, and we're having to 'crash' production. So if you
don't mindโ"
Nick whirled on Stan. "A CD? You let BMR sell them full tracks?"
Stan mouthed the words
money, money, money as he
rubbed his thumb and fingers together and ducked out the
door. It was all Nick could do not to charge after him and
throttle the old rat bastard until his hairpiece went
flying. They were reissuing his old stuff!
For a minute he grappled for control. For the past six years
he'd labored in small clubs and worked endless studio
sessions and jazz festivals, trying to bury his hard rocking
reputation and forge a new identity for himself and his
music. Then an ambitious corporate climber gets a bright
idea and all his hard work goes down the tubes. He stared at
her.
She was so going to regret that creative impulse.
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