Someone’s recording in here. The figure in the other room is facing away from the glass, bent over a guitar like he’s tuning it.
I push aside the bubble of nerves. My focus is on the computer.
“Is ten minutes a long time?” I ask as I set my paperwork and my jacket on the desk. My fingers start to fly over the keyboard.
“It is when he’s here.”
I hit Enter, and the error message goes away.
It isn’t until I straighten that his words start to sink in.
“When who’s here?”
That’s when I’m viciously assaulted.
At least it feels that way because two horrible things happen in such close succession I can barely tease them apart.
Hands clamp down on my bare arms from behind.
Hot breath fans my ear, and a voice rasps, “What the fuck is going on?”
Every hair on my body stands up, my skin puckering, and I do what any reasonable woman grabbed by a stranger in a vice grip would do.
I scream.
It’s not a cry for help.
It’s a bellow of rage and defiance. Like a banshee or Daenerys’s dragons en route to scorch some slave traders.
Channeling strength I didn’t know I had, I whirl on my heel and collide with a wall. My hands flail in front of me, lashing out at my attacker.
I’m not a puncher, I’m a shover. But when I shove, all that happens is my hands flex on a hard, muscled chest.
I trip backward, my grown-up skirt hobbling me as I fall.
I grab for the desk but only get my papers, which rain down like confetti as I land on my ass.
My heart’s racing at an unhealthy speed even before I take in the white sneakers inches from my face.
“Jax. I’m really sorry,” the guy behind me says. “I called Jerry ages ago.”
Sneakers, as white as the carpet, are pointed straight at me. Dark-blue jeans clinging to long legs, narrow hips. A faded olive-green T-shirt stretches across his chest, like it started out too tight but gave out over dozens of wears. Muscular arms—one covered in a sleeve of tattoos—look like they lift more than guitars.
I force my gaze up even though I want to melt into the floor.
A hard jaw gives way to hair the color of dirt faded in the summer sun. It’s sticking straight up in most places but falling at the front to graze his forehead. His nose is straight, his lips full and pursed.
His eyes are molten amber.
Dear God, he’s beautiful.
I’ve seen hundreds of pictures of Jax Jamieson, watched hours of video, and even been to one of his concerts. But the complete effect of all of him, inches from my face, might be too much for one person to handle.
And that’s before he speaks.
“I repeat. What. The fuck. Is going on?”
His voice is raw silk. Not overly smooth, like the Moviefone guy. A little rough. A precious gemstone cut from rock, preserved in its natural glory.
There are things I’m supposed to say if I ever meet Jax Jamieson.
I wrote them down somewhere.
“I’m Haley Telfer,” I manage finally. My throat works as I shove a hand under me, shifting onto my knees to pick up the papers. “But you know that.”
His irritation blurs with confusion. “Why would I know that?”
“You’re standing on my Social Security number.”
One of the papers is under the toe of his sneaker. I grab the edge of it, and his gaze narrows. What is it with me and pissing off these people?
Not that pissing off Wendy comes close to pissing off Jax Jamieson.
(Whom apparently I’m going to refer to with both names until the end of time.)
“Haley Telfer?”
“Yes?” I whisper because, holy shit, Jax Jamieson refers to people with two names too.
“You have ten seconds to get out of my studio.”
The tech and I stand next to each other, peering through the glass studio door into the hall. My jacket’s back on, not that the guy’s coming anywhere near me because he thinks I’m a lunatic.
On the other side of the door, Jax exchanges angry words with a man in a suit.
“That’s Shannon Cross,” I say.
The tech nods, stiff. “Correct. The CEO showing up means one or both of us is fired.”
“Well… which is it?”
We watch as Jax stabs a finger toward me and stalks off.
“I’m guessing you,” my companion murmurs.
The door opens, and Shannon Cross looks at me. “My office. Five minutes.” He turns and leaves.
After gathering my papers, I take the tech’s directions to the elevator to the third floor. A watchful assistant greets me and asks me to take a seat in one of the wingback chairs.
Great. I’ve been here less than an hour, and I’m about to be fired.
Instead of spinning out, I study the picture on the wall and the caption beside it.
Wicked Records’s headquarters. Founded in 1995, relocated to this new building in 2003. Employs two thousand people.
“Miss Telfer.”
I turn to see Cross watching me from his doorway. He exudes strength, but in a different way than Jax. He’s older, for one. Tall and lean, with hair so dark it’s nearly black. The ends curl over his collar, but I can’t imagine it’s because he forgot to get a haircut.
His suit is crisply cut to follow the lines of his body. He was one of the men with all the gold statues in the picture yesterday. Yet on this floor, there are no pictures of him.
Weird.
He’s made millions—probably billions—in the music industry. Formed stars whose careers took off, flamed out. In the golden age of record executives, he’s one of the biggest.
I follow him into his black-and-white office, a continuation of the pristine carpet outside. It should look like something from an old movie, but it doesn’t. It’s modern.
A fluffy gray rug on the floor under a conversation set looks as if it used to walk.
I’m struck by the urge to run my fingers through it.
The photos gracing the walls here are black-and-white, but they’re not of musicians or awards receptions.
They’re fields and greenspace.
Err, gray space.
“Is that Ireland?” I blurt. “It looks beautiful.”
I turn to find his gaze on me. “It is. My father moved here when I was a child.”
I wait to see if he’ll offer me a seat, but he doesn’t. Nor does he take one as he rounds the black wood desk, resting his fingertips on the blotter.
“Miss Telfer, I understand you interfered with a studio recording session. And assaulted one of our biggest artists.”
My jaw drops. “I definitely did not assault him. He started it.”
I realize how childish it sounds. The memory of it has my skin shivering again, and I rub my hands over my arms. “Technically, he startled me. I was trying to defend myself. Every modern woman should have a knowledge of self-defense, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t nod, but he hasn’t kicked me out yet, so I keep going.
“I know I shouldn’t have walked in, but your tech had this ‘FML’ look I know from a mile away. I know the software. I use it in the campus music lab all the time. There’s a compatibility issue with the most recent update, and…” I trail off as he holds up a hand. “I wanted to fix it.”