She needed this interview. Her career depended on it. Her
plan depended on it. And, as far as she could see, all
that stood in her way were a few burly security guards,
her lack of a backstage pass and close to twenty thousand
shrieking Zeke Woodlow fans.
Summer looked at Zeke on stage. Even from her seat twelve
rows back, his charisma was palpable. His blue jeans and
black T-shirt outlined a lean and muscular physique. He
wore his dark-brown hair longish, touching the collar of
his shirt, and tousled, emphasizing his bad-boy image.
It was his gorgeous face, however, that really got his
fans going. Summer itched to capture that arresting face
with her camera.
Just then Zeke seemed to look right at her, and Summer
held her breath. The connection lasted just an instant,
but she felt his intensity down to the tips of her toes.
She only expelled a breath when he looked away. No doubt
about it. Zeke Woodlow's sex appeal was potent.
Not that he was her type, of course.
She looked down at the round, two-carat, brilliant-cut
diamond engagement ring on her hand.
Not at all.
As she was again jostled by fans, she bit back a sigh of
impatience and looked around.
Madison Square Garden. One of New York City's premier
venues. Host to political conventions, site for countless
sporting events and witness to history. Frank Sinatra,
Elvis Presley, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Bruce
Springsteen...and now Zeke Woodlow — Grammy winner, rock
sensation and current "it" boy of the music world, whose
latest CD, Falling For You, had gone diamond, selling over
ten million copies.
Summer had all the vital information on Zeke. She knew
that he'd grown up in New York but now lived in a Beverly
Hills mansion, that he'd become famous for his sexy lyrics
and that he'd helped start Musicians for a Cure, which had
led to his headlining a Madison Square Garden concert
series to benefit cancer research.
But, while she had all the facts, she didn't have access,
and unfortunately she had her heart set on getting an
interview with Zeke for The Buzz. She'd been thinking for
months about how to win a promotion at work. Her paternal
grandfather, Patrick Elliott, believed even relatives had
to work their way up within the family publishing empire.
So, when she'd come home one day and spotted an
advertisement for Musicians for a Cure among her mail, she
knew she'd found her ticket to moving up from lowly copy
editor to trusted reporter. An interview with Zeke Woodlow
would be just right for The Buzz, which was locked in a
fierce battle not only with its closest rival in format,
Entertainment Weekly, but also with other Elliott
magazines. Patrick Elliott had declared that the head of
whichever magazine in the family empire was the most
profitable by the end of the year would become the new CEO
of EPH — Elliott Publication Holdings — when he stepped
down.
Now, clutching her notepad and pen, she shifted from one
foot to the other. She'd come to the concert straight from
work and she felt uncomfortable. Her toes in her chunky-
heeled boots had been stepped on more times than she could
count. Her pinstriped pants were perfect for the office
but were too warm and out of place among a sea of jeans.
Her turtleneck felt similarly tight and hot in the heat
generated by thousands of swaying, dancing, jiggling
bodies.
Around her, the audience seemed to move like a wave,
swaying toward the stage and back, caressing the outer
perimeter of Zeke Woodlow's spotlight.
Because she was just a copy editor, she knew Zeke's
publicist would have laughed in her face if she'd asked
for an exclusive interview. But she hoped if she got close
to Zeke himself, she could convince him to talk to her.
After all, she was ambitious, articulate and musically
aware, and she worked for The Buzz — even if her position
didn't qualify her for a backstage press pass.
When Zeke finished the song he was singing, the crowd went
wild. He joked with the audience, his sexy voice filling
the arena and dancing across her skin like an intimate
caress.
"More?" he asked, his voice deep and smooth as silk,
teasing the crowd.
The audience hooted and hollered in response. "I can't
hear you," he said, cupping his hand to his ear.
The crowd roared. "All right!" Zeke motioned to the band
behind him, then slung the strap of an electric guitar
over his shoulder. The music struck up, and Zeke started
crooning one of his biggest hits, a ballad
called "Beautiful in My Arms."
As he sang about making love beneath waving palm trees,
with the humid night air pressing around, Summer felt
herself being seduced right along with the rest of the
crowd, lulled into a magical moment. Only when the song
faded away was the spell broken, and, even then, it took a
few seconds before she shook herself and told herself to
stop being ridiculous.
She had to remember she was here for one purpose and one
purpose only, and it wasn't to become another of Zeke
Woodlow's ardent admirers.
Thirty minutes later, when the concert had ended and the
crowd was making for the exits, she pushed through the
throng, intent on getting backstage. Unfortunately, her
progress was halted by a tall and tough-looking security
guard.
"Excuse me," she said, "I'd like to get backstage." The
guard peered down at her, his eyes catching on her ring
for an instant, his arms folded. "Right. You and a few
thousand other people."
"I'm a member of the press," she said. She invested her
voice with the same tone that she'd heard hundreds of
times from the headmistress of the private girls' school
that she'd attended along with her identical twin, Scarlet.
"Let's see your backstage pass."
"I don't have one. You see —"
But Mr. Hefty-and-Imperturbable had already started
shaking his head. "No pass, no access. It's that simple."
She wanted to say, "Can we talk about this?" But since she
doubted that would work, she fished in her handbag for a
business card. She held one up. "See? I'm a staff member —
" she didn't bother identifying which staff member " — at
The Buzz.You've heard of The Buzz, haven't you?"
Mr. Hefty just glanced from the business card to her, not
bothering to take the card from her. "Like I said, only
authorized persons are permitted backstage."
Argh. She should have been prepared for this. "Fine," she
said in exasperation, trying one last gambit, "but don't
blame me when heads roll because Zeke Woodlow lost his
chance at an interview with one of the leading
entertainment magazines in the country."
The guard merely quirked a brow.
Turning on her heel, she marched away with her head held
high. At school, Ms. Donaldson would have been proud.
All right, she thought, so she wasn't going to get to
interview Zeke in his dressing room. She knew he had to
leave the Garden sometime, though, and when he did, she'd
be waiting for him. She hadn't spent close to three hours
getting shoved and poked by his fans for nothing. She
needed this interview.
An hour later, however, she felt as if she'd been huddling
in the chilly, damp March night forever, and she started
to ask herself how much she needed this interview. She was
tired, hungry and wanted to go home.
She started fishing around in her purse for a breath mint —
anything edible, frankly — until a commotion caused her
to look up and notice that Zeke had emerged.
Unfortunately, he was surrounded by handlers and security
personnel. Despite that, she ran forward, knowing she had
only a few moments before he ducked into the limousine
that had pulled up. "Zeke! Mr. Woodlow!"
Just then, the space around Zeke became frenetic.
Paparazzi flashbulbs went off, and some girls started
screaming and jumping up and down.
Her forward progress came to a halt as she collided with a
brick wall — or, more precisely, she realized as she
looked up, the blue-clad form of one of New York's finest.
She took an involuntary step back as the police officer —
one of several near the limo, she now noticed — blocked
her way.
"Step back," he ordered.
Looking over the officer's shoulder, she noticed Zeke duck
into the car, and her shoulders slumped.
Four hours, twenty-seven minutes and twenty-plus songs.
And now, finally, defeat.
She felt like wailing in frustration. As if on cue, a
raindrop hit her cheek, then another. She looked up,
grimaced and then made a beeline for the taxi stand on
Seventh Avenue. Once it started raining in earnest, she
knew there wouldn't be an empty cab in sight.
Twenty-five minutes later, she reached the Upper West Side
townhouse owned by her grandparents and used by them as a
secondary residence.
When she got to the top floor, where she and Scarlet had
living quarters, her sister padded out of her room to
greet her. "Well, how'd it go?" asked Scarlet, who was
dressed in red silk pajamas.
Taking in her sister's sleepwear, she thought again that
she and Scarlet couldn't be more different, despite being
identical twins. Scarlet was known as flamboyant and wild
and crazy, while she was thought of as sensible and
methodical.
"Horribly," she responded, plopping down on the couch and
unzipping her boots. She wiggled her toes in relief. "I
don't know what ever made me think I could land this
interview with Zeke. I couldn't even get near him! The guy
has better security than the pope and the president
combined."
She summarized the events of the evening for Scarlet, then
shrugged. "It was a crazy plan to begin with, but now I
need another career-making scheme. Any ideas?"