And I damn sure wasn’t leaving this conversation hanging on that note, not with her thinking that she was no different to me than any other attractive, warm-blooded female.
“But none of that has anything to do with my current state of arousal,” I said carefully, weighing each word, gauging her reaction.
Her shoulders stiffened, as if steeling herself before she turned around to face me. Oh yeah, someone had done a number on her. Probably lured her in with soft words and empty promises. There was a hint of innocence in those eyes, innocence that had been abused at some point but still clung valiantly to life.
This was all new territory for me, this sensitivity and speaking of raw truths. I went for it anyway. No guts, no glory. And I was all about the glory, especially if it would keep her talking until I figured out who the hell she was and why she had every last nerve in my body firing up and taking notice.
“It’s you,” I told her honestly. “The way you smell. The subtle bit of cleavage you reveal whenever you put your hands on your hips and your blouse pulls open slightly. The sexy, feminine way your hips flare out and then curve into that tiny waist.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath before she turned away. “It’s called spandex and a push-up bra, Mr. Logan,” she quipped. “Both available at Target and generally not needed by nubile, young groupies.”
Hmm. Definite bitterness there but revealing. It confirmed that the asshole who had hurt her was a musician with a weakness for groupies. Not unheard of, surely. I knew plenty of guys who lived for that sort of thing.
But if she were sporting spandex, I was wearing a thong. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.
“I don’t think so.”
I took a chance, moving up behind her, crowding her personal space. Not touching her, but getting close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. I caught the soft hitch in her breath and wondered how many men had managed to get this close. Not many, I guessed.
“I’ve seen enough phony body parts to be able to spot them a mile away,” I said softly. “And you, Ms. D’Agolino, are the real deal.”
My hands went to either side of her waist, a featherlight touch but enough to prove my theory. “I knew it,” I breathed against her ear. “Nothing but silk beneath silk.”
Eva stepped quickly out of my grasp and moved to the other side of her desk. A beautiful, rosy glow painted her cheeks.
“You know what? I’m late for ... something. I’m going to call Ted. He’ll take you to your hotel and make sure you get settled in.”
“I don’t want Ted. I want you.”
Again, she dismissed me with a wave of that delicate hand. “He’s a huge fan, and he’ll be able to get you whatever it is you need.”
This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. I had no desire to spend the rest of the afternoon with Ted. We’d met the overanxious assistant when we first arrived, and our lead guitarist Kurt had joked that Ted reminded him of an overexcited puppy. Maybe other guys got off on the hero-worship thing, but after nearly twenty years in the business, we’d seen more than our share of Teds.
No, I wanted to stay with Eva. How else was I going to convince her that I wasn’t the man-whore she thought I was?
“Ted? Yeah, it’s me. I’ve got Jace Logan in my office.” She held the phone away from her ear for a moment, wincing at the loud whoop that came through the sensitive speaker. “Can you—”
The door suddenly burst open, and a younger man—shit, was he even eighteen?—stood in the doorway with a cell phone to his ear. A very eager young man.
“Ted, take good care of Mr. Logan. Whatever he wants.”
“You got it, Ms. D’Agolino. I’m on it,” Ted gushed with stars in his eyes.
She triumphantly looked at me.
Well-played, Ms. D’Agolino. Game on.
Chapter 2
Dear Ida,
Why do hot, sexy men have such big egos? – Irritated in LA
* * *
Dear Irritated,
Because they’re hot and sexy.
~ * ~
Eva
I heaved a huge sigh of relief when the door closed behind them. The sound of Ted’s voice grew mercifully fainter until it disappeared completely, leaving only the soothing, soft hum of air vents in my climate-controlled office. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep, calming breaths. Jace Logan left me feeling off-kilter.
Dealing with clients directly was Ross’s forte, not mine. I preferred to work behind the scenes, and most of the time, I did.
Today was an exception. Ross had been called away, and Jace Logan and his band were in town on hiatus. The plan was for them to lay down new tracks and do some promo for their upcoming album before they went back out on tour in about six months or so. Dark Wing was currently our most lucrative client, and Ross refused to trust them to anyone else.
Now that I’d met him in person, I had a better understanding of why Jace Logan was hounded and mobbed wherever he went. The man was drop-dead gorgeous—not a lot of digital editing required there—with a lean, hard body and a voice that could make women come just by singing a few notes.
And, dear Lord, if there was such a thing as an aromatic form of raw male sexuality, he had it in spades. Maybe he sprayed himself with pheromones or something. As a promoter, I could appreciate the brilliance of such a move. Too bad it was wasted on me.
For one crazy moment, I wondered if male pheromones tasted as yummy as they smelled, and then I realized how ridiculous I was being. Whether they did or not didn’t matter, beyond perhaps an interesting, academic study into the sexual allure of some men over others.
Jace Logan was absolutely, unequivocally in no danger from me. So what if he had hypnotic golden eyes, an endearing, crooked smile, and managed to fill out that pair of faded jeans like nobody’s business? I wasn’t some crazed groupie. I was a mature, professional woman, and no matter how thick the legendary front man laid on the charm, I knew a wolf when I saw one.
Deep within the recesses of my feminine psyche, a tiny part did appreciate his interest, I was ashamed to say. At my age and in my position, I didn’t hear a lot of flattering compliments these days, even if they were a load of BS.
Before you judge me for a lack of self-confidence, let me just say this. It was very hard not to get hung up on the age thing when you were surrounded by stars and divas every day. I was generally isolated from the front lines, but it was impossible to stay completely out of the fold. In the age of digital media, tight and young ruled; old and saggy drooled.
As for the uncharacteristic bout of word vomit I’d spewed in his direction, well, I could only claim temporary insanity brought on by Jace Logan’s innate sexiness.
I dropped down into my desk chair, covered my face with my hands, and groaned into the empty space, recalling some of the things I’d said.
Pheromones, I decided. Had to be. My office must have been saturated with them because I didn’t usually have a problem remaining professional—“usually” being the operative word. Today was an exception, apparently. Jace Logan messed with my circuits. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it; it was just part of the rock star Romeo package.
I reached into my desk drawer and grabbed a protein bar from my stash, biting into it with more force than necessary. Damn Jace Logan for stirring up my dormant hormones. I should have called in reinforcements earlier.