Читать книгу Rock Bottom - Cate Masters - Страница 6

Chapter 2

He couldn’t stop staring. Rude, yeah, but something about her got to him. Like the second she’d walked in. Bam, straight to his core.

“Did you know about her?” he asked Stu.

His manager tugged him along the hallway. “What about her?”

“Being female. When you said Billie Prescott, she is not what I imagined.” The best he’d hoped for was someone new, a fresh face. Someone to hang with, drink a beer, talk about music. Life. Women.

Forget that.

As they continued outside, Stu droned on about the schedule, other stuff Jet could care less about. Stu had a good head for details, but didn’t work as hard as he pretended to.

Every so often, Jet interjected a grunt or nod so his manager would think he listened. Or gave a shit.

With Jeff gone, he hadn’t talked to anyone about things that mattered. Issues. Opinions. He knew better than to bring his new songs to the band. They’d grown so lazy, they were fine with being pigeonholed as Jet, the once-great band.

No one gave him an honest opinion, anyway.

Stu’s elbow connected with Jet’s side. “Why the long face?”

“Ah. You know. All this.”

“What, you’re depressed because you’ll have gorgeous girls hanging on your every word again?” He gave a false wince. “Come on.”

“Yeah, it’s great. Really. But it would be nice, just once, to find someone–” He shrugged. “–to talk to, all right? For once, it would be nice to feel the passion in my lyrics for a girl who’s beautiful and intelligent.”

“You want the package deal, eh? Forget it. You don’t want someone who understands you. She’d blow your whole mystique.”

He blew raspberries. “I’m just a guy, Stu. It’s not impossible–look at McCartney. He’s miserable without Linda. Or…” He cast about for another example of a successful long-term marriage.

“The public loves Jet Trently–rock star. Not Jerry Trently from New Jersey. Anyway, rock stars aren’t supposed to find real love, or their muses become jealous and abandon them.”

“Right.” He should’ve known better than to broach this subject with Stu. Divorced three times himself, Stu had no idea how to talk to anyone without an angle. Blowing smoke up asses was Stu’s specialty, his talent. He couldn’t set it aside if he tried.

“Look, you made it into your thirties. You’re healthy, and thanks to me, wealthy. You have millions of fans. Women throw themselves at you, would leave their husbands for you. What the fuck are you complaining about?” His mouth curled in disgust. Probably because he wished he could change places.

“Nothing. You’re right.” He blew out a breath and lied, “Just nervous about this next round, I guess.” Especially after reading the contestants’ bios. They might well have been the same as last time, for all he knew.

“No worries, bro. You’ll knock ’em dead like always.” Stu winked. “I have to check in, make sure everything’s set up in the edit room. My work is never done.”

“You’re the man.” Such phrases placated Stu. Got him off his back.

“Catch you later.” Stu stepped inside and closed the door.

Jet stood there, a trickle of sweat reminding him to get out of the hot sun. But to where? His studio? He could practice, he guessed. Or work on the song that had been nagging at him.

Or go back in the house. Where Billie was.

Hit the studio, man. Yeah, probably should.

Having another woman around didn’t raise his expectations for real conversation. Most women told him what they thought he wanted to hear. Season one gave him his fill. It was like falling into pheromone quicksand. Almost cozy at first, then it closed in tight, squeezed away his breath and left him nowhere to turn.

And now there was one more to deal with. Billie Prescott. A reporter, to boot–someone he could never speak to without selecting his words carefully. Guarding against misquotes or misconceptions. Mis-whatever.

He couldn’t deny she made a hell of a first impression. Something in the way she looked at him contradicted her screw-you attitude. Ah, shit. With women, it was always the same. Some sort of con to gain a foothold. They all wanted something he couldn’t give. Total devotion. He gave all to his music. Girls provided inspiration, for a while. None had ever gotten to him the way his songs made him think they should. He’d never fallen in love like that. Probably never would.

Still, maybe he should go check on Billie. Make sure she had everything she needed.

* * * *

At Cindy’s summoning via walkie-talkie, a man in a polo bearing the Rock Bottom logo begrudgingly dragged Billie’s luggage through the dining room to the spacious eat-in kitchen beyond. She followed him out the French doors to the patio. Between the doors stood an outdoor fireplace, its mustard-hued chimney flanked by tall concrete pineapple statuary. In front, cushioned seating around a low coffee table, then two oversized chaise lounges with matching umbrellas sat atop an outdoor rug.

“Because they can’t decide whether to tan or not?” she joked to her unhappy valet.

“If they’re anything like the last batch, it’ll be the least of what they can’t decide.”

Foreboding words, if she’d ever heard them. She followed her guide down a wide stretch of patio leading to the ceramic-tiled pool. Beyond the pool, eight woven wicker chairs surrounded a teak oval table canopied by tree branches. She could only imagine what those gatherings must be like. Jet holding court over contestants, the glow of candlelight not softening their glares at one another through the overflowing flower centerpiece.

Past the cabana at the far end of the pool, the flagstone patio funneled into a walkway lined with shrubbery. At the back of the cabana, a door stood open, and two guys wearing identical polos worked at a long table loaded with equipment.

Slowing, she asked, “What’s that?”

The guy glanced over. “An ad hoc editing room.”

“Cool. Could I check that out later?”

“Check with Cindy.” He veered off onto a side path leading to a small cottage. From there, the walkway wound around and out of sight.

Unlocking the door, he set her suitcase inside the door and handed her the key. “Cindy said to let her know if you needed anything else.”

“Thanks.” The way it sounded, Cindy could be her best friend here, or her worst stumbling block. The gatekeeper to Stu, who controlled access to Jet.

The cottage appeared tiny from the outside, but actually had two stories if the bedroom loft counted. A boomerang-shaped overstuffed sofa dominated the main floor, and cabinets topped with bookshelves lined either wall. In a small nook sat a ceramic-topped iron bistro table and two chairs.

As cozy as a beach getaway.

She swung her carryon bag atop the tufted ottoman. Turning to retrieve her suitcases, she stopped short.

Jet leaned against the doorway. If his presence had been palpable in the house, he overwhelmed this small space.

His lopsided smile appeared almost shy. “Need any help settling in?”

The personal touch. If he hoped to make it literal, he could forget it. Despite her resolve, she found him overwhelmingly distracting. She had trouble recalling what she’d planned to do.

Glancing around, she thought she’d be pretty pathetic if she claimed to need help. “Nope, I think I can find everything.”

Stepping inside, he closed the door and moved toward her slowly. Purposefully.

Her pulse quickening, she tensed, but couldn’t find her voice to ask what he wanted.

He touched the cabinet. “There’s a small fridge under here. I’ll have Cindy stock it for you.”

Nodding, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Great. Thanks.” She felt sure he must hear her heart pounding. And think her an idiot. “It’s an adorable little place. You’re saving the magazine a bundle by letting me stay here.”

When he moved closer, his crystal blue eyes felt like a laser piercing her own.

To clear her head, she turned away. “It’s situated perfectly too. Right next to the house.” Could she possibly sound any more brainless?

She sensed him directly behind her. His soft tone made her muscles go fluid. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining his famous voice singing to her alone.

“If you look out your bedroom window, you can see into mine. Right over there.” His arm lifted beside her and pointed.

His warmth penetrated her skin. He smelled like ocean and musk. An impulse struck her to guide his arm around her, fit herself against him. Fill her senses with him.

Snapping to reality, she fumed at his flirting, but made her voice sweet as honey. “Oh, over there? I appreciate you telling me.” Smiling, she turned. “I’ll be sure to keep my curtains closed.”

Tensing, he straightened, and his nostrils flared.

Her muscles drew taut in response. You shouldn’t have made him mad–not the first day.

But his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he cocked his jaw and nodded. “Billie Prescott.” He said her name with a kind of wonder.

Not quite knowing what to make of it, she gave a giddy laugh. And wanted to die. “Jet Trently. We finally meet.” As though she’d been waiting. Or it had been prearranged. By whom? The universe?

To recover her composure, she went to her bag and pulled out her laptop. “Any internet connection in here?”

He flopped onto the sofa and extended his arms across the back. “Wireless, pretty much from everywhere.” With a kind of amused curiosity, he watched her. “We need to talk.”

Her mind blanked. The way he spoke sounded so intimate, as if he wanted to discuss their relationship. His gaze seared into her, and she had trouble remembering they had no relationship. “About what?”

His mouth curled into a smile. “The show. Don’t you want to interview me?”

She felt her face flush. He played a cat and mouse game. And he’d trapped her already. “Yeah, absolutely. I need to review the materials to get some notes together first.” And her head. She couldn’t let him mess with her mind any further. She’d come to do a story. And she intended to make it great. Get it over with, so she could go home.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I could give you the grand tour.”

“Yes, great.” Damn, his intense focus wiped clean her slate of thought. She stepped away to retrieve some semblance of dignity. “But what about the cameras? I have to be invisible. I’m not part of any of this.”

He rose slowly. “The show doesn’t start until tomorrow.”

“Right.” She must be making one hell of an impression. Stu would regale Everett with her complete idiocy. Maybe the flight had dehydrated her. Or the time difference had thrown her off balance. “Could I see the kitchen first? I’m really thirsty. My day started at four thirty this morning Eastern.”

“Sorry. Why didn’t you say something? Did you come straight from the airport?”

“Yes, I didn’t think the driver would want to stop along the way, even if I offered to buy him a drink.” Ah. The return of the old Billie. The girl not impressed by rock stars. Not starstruck like some teenage fan.

He went to open the door and inclined his head toward the outside. “Let’s go raid the fridge.”

“Are you sure you have time?” What, like he needed to study a script? All he had to do tomorrow, it seemed, was roll out of bed on time.

“Absolutely.”

Egotistical, but also a gentleman. Interesting combo.

Grabbing her messenger bag containing the essential digital camera and recorder, she followed him back the way she’d come. Much nicer walking beside Jet than following the Rock Bottom worker. Jet made eye contact when he spoke. Strolled along as if he enjoyed her company.

He kept the conversation going. “So you’re from Philly?”

A true marketing pro, pretending interest in her life.

“Yes. Pennsylvania born and bred.” God, she made herself sound like a crop of corn. “Where are you from?”

“Jersey, mostly. Though my dad lived in Philly, so we split our time with him.”

“That must have been tough. Do you have brothers and sisters?” The instant she said it, regret snapped her attention to him.

“A sister. My brother, Jeff, died a few years ago.” A catch in his voice, then he flashed a smile, though his pain still came through.

“That’s right. I’m so sorry.” The news came to mind then: the death of Jet’s brother, the lead guitarist, had nearly destroyed the band, already almost lost in obscurity. Then Jet launched the group anew, though Chalmer Freeburn, Jeff’s replacement, caused immediate friction within the band. The media couldn’t get enough news about his wild partying. Onstage, Chalmer’s presence loomed as strong as Jet’s, and his searing guitar licks sometimes overshadowed Jet. With the public’s interest renewed, Jet’s musical career slid back on track. Or rather, back into the same tired old track. “That must have been terrible for you.”

He paused at the door, his expression unreadable. Surprise? Wariness?

Pushing open the door, he gestured. “To the right.”

She knew when to drop a subject. Jet obviously drew the line at discussing his family. Surprising for someone who’d made every move of his personal life open for public discussion. Good for him. Some celebrities didn’t know when to keep the public out of their lives.

On her earlier walk through, she hadn’t noticed the state-of-the-art kitchen. “Do you cook?” Or did anyone, she wondered. Such a waste of sleek, overpriced appliances–for show only. Like everything in the place. Especially the people.

He shrugged. “I’ve been known to scramble a mean egg. Not much beyond that.” Opening the refrigerator, he bent to look inside and named the contents. “Or I have these mini bottles of wine–a nice Riesling. Want to try one?”

“That sounds nice. To take the edge off my frazzled nerves.”

He popped open two and clinked his bottle against hers. “Cheers.” He leaned an elbow against the counter.

She didn’t mind the unhurried nature of the tour. A nice contrast to her nonstop rush of a day.

When her phone buzzed, she slid it from her pocket. Everett texted: Glad you arrived safe and sound. Looking forward to news from the West Coast.

Erasing it, she could almost taste her bitterness. Right. I miss you too.

“Boyfriend?” Jet renewed his intense focus.

She dropped the phone in her bag where she’d be less likely to hear it. “No. My editor checking in. Sometimes I loathe the person who invented cell phones. Not a moment’s peace.”

“Part of the biz we’re in, I guess.”

“Speaking of which…” From her bag, she pulled the Canon Rebel. “Do you mind if I get some still shots for the blog?”

“Not at all. The house has been filmed so many times I’m surprised people aren’t tired of it.”

“Not at the start of a new season. People can’t get enough.” Other people, not her. She couldn’t admit to the star of Rock Bottom she hated reality shows, thought them a total bore.

He made a noise of acknowledgment, the sound of a thought held back.

“That doesn’t thrill you, huh?” Curiosity piqued her interest, and she leaned on the counter beside him.

“Oh yeah. I’m happy people want to watch the show.” Straightening, he gestured. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Following him through the dining room, she let the subject drop. Whatever his thought, he obviously had no intention of sharing it. She’d have to make him feel at ease again. “Amazing house.” Snapping random photos, she couldn’t imagine wanting to purchase such a monstrosity, but he probably needed something this large to house his reportedly oversized ego.

“Isn’t it? The architecture’s 1930s, tweaked by a designer to modernize it. We’d planned to set the show in LA, but someone told me about this place.”

“You bought this place specifically for Rock Bottom?” She aimed the camera at him.

He leaned against the back of a chair, legs crossed, and aimed those amazing blue eyes at her. Snapping a few shots, she thought his smoldering gaze might melt the lens, but had the odd sensation he looked beyond the camera–to her.

Strolling into the hallway, he continued, “Actually it’s a rental. A little large for my taste, but the additional rooms come in handy for the girls to stay in.”

Ah yes. The girls. His personal harem. A good reminder not to get too caught up in the Jet mystique.

To keep the casual conversation flowing, she asked, “What sort of house do you prefer, if not one like this?”

He flashed a wry smile. “Something cozier, less flashy. I always thought McCartney had the right idea, living in a small house where the entire family had to watch TV in the same room.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “You have kids?” She hadn’t heard that. Maybe he’d kept them secret. She gripped the camera more tightly, awaiting his response.

“Not yet. I hope to someday.”

Whatever knot twisted inside her released. Instinctively, her palm went to her belly. What did she care if he had kids? “Ah, after you find your soul mate.”

His voice thickened. “Ideally, yes.”

Surprise made her turn. Her open mouth clamped shut when she realized the emotion he struggled to restrain seemed to be amusement, not yearning.

Grinning, he leaned in. “What about you?”

He had a way of zeroing in on her, catching her off guard. “Sorry?”

“Any kids?” His casual tone conflicted with his sharp gaze.

She turned away, pretending interest in the abstract painting hanging over the dining room credenza, red squares within other red squares, echoing like a tunnel. “No.”

He moved behind her. “Don’t want them?”

The space between them crackled to life like a science experiment. If she touched him, she felt sure the resulting zap would have damaging consequences to her psyche. She stepped away. “Yes. But not now.”

Following, he asked softly, “When you find your soul mate?”

A blush burned her cheeks. “Let’s stick with you, shall we?”

“You’re more interesting.”

Did he always pursue women so relentlessly? Probably her lack of interest made her seem more interesting to him.

“Can you turn it off, at least for the interview?” It came out more sharply than she’d intended, and she ducked her head.

“My charm? Sorry, it’s natural.” He smirked.

“Mmm.” Her noncommittal grunt neither confirmed nor denied it. If pressed, she’d admit he had charm–but not to him, of course. For Billie, a man’s charm diminished when overshadowed by ego. Someone should school Jet in the less is more concept. Though right now, she needed more space between them to clear her head.

* * * *

Following her, Jet chuckled to himself. Billie Prescott was not what he expected in any sense. Female. Smart. A little shy–cute, he hadn’t run up against a shy girl in a while. Even cuter, she tried to hide it by acting tough. Despite the act, she had another quality he hadn’t come across in too long. She was genuine. Grounded. She knew what she wanted, apparently, and wasn’t easily impressed. Because of that, he found he could relax. It felt good. So good, he wanted to keep teasing her.

In the front hall, she touched the banister. “I think I’ve seen most of the first floor. Can we go upstairs?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured near her ear. His hand grazed the small of her back.

She stiffened at his touch. Adjusting the strap of her bag, she ascended the steps.

Huh. Not the usual reaction. A contestant would have draped herself around him and pulled him down to the steps. “Would you like me to carry that? It looks heavy.”

“I’m used to it. But thanks.” Her look of surprise disappeared and she started upstairs again. “So all the contestants stay here while you’re taping the show? How many to start?”

Okay. Strictly business. So be it. “Six. They stay in these three bedrooms.” He jogged to the top of the steps and swung to the right.

This house fit the show. Each bedroom held two double beds, two vanities and had its own small bathroom. Less for the women to share, so presumably less to fuss about. Or so he’d thought.

As they strolled past, Billie shot some pics. “Nice. So where do you stay?”

He held back a grin at her formality. “On the other side.” He walked past the stairway and opened the first door. “This is a getaway space. To read, whatever.”

Her gaze took in the L-shaped overstuffed sofa facing the French door to the balcony to the staircase winding to the first floor.

“Read?” She bit her lip as if realizing her insult.

Too late. No retractions. He pursed his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes I even read Strung Out.”

A faint blush tinged her cheeks. “Where does that lead?” She nodded toward the stairs.

“To the downstairs office, where we first met.” He opened the door behind him. “Through here is my room.”

Taking in the view, she caught her breath.

Almost the same reaction he’d first had at seeing the three sets of double French doors that opened to the balcony, framed by the branches of the towering Cypress trees. Beyond, a rocky bluff, where ocean waves crashed and exploded upward like a geyser.

“It’s incredible. Almost like a tree house.”

He turned to her. “Exactly. That’s what I thought the first time I saw it.” He eased past her. “Sometimes I spot dolphins playing in the waves, or a whale in the distance. It’s really something.”

“I can only imagine.” Delight filled her face.

His gaze steadied on hers. Something in her look reached inside him, and unearthed a deep yearning in need of release. He could swear she felt it too.

Abruptly, she turned away. Faced with the four-poster bed, she stammered, “Nice… fireplace.”

The mantle sat beside the bed. She strode past the loveseat and coffee table near the balcony, then turned toward the alcove. “What’s down there?”

“Bathroom.” He affected a bored tone.

After taking a few shots, she strolled through. At the entrance, she halted and laughed breathlessly. “Are you kidding? This is amazing too.”

One of his favorite rooms. Golden-red Mexican tile spanned the floor. To one side, a walk-in shower, bordered by a wide picture window. Weathered white stone climbed half the adjoining walls, topped by a botanical print wallpaper.

To the left stood a double-sink vanity encrusted with seashells. She ran her fingers along their whorls and curves.

He leaned on the doorjamb. “Pretty cool, huh? According to the realtor, the former owner collected those shells.”

“Nice touch.”

“Yes.” Nicer if he could give her a demonstration of the shower.

She stood at her full height, eye level with him. “So this concludes the tour, I guess?”

“It usually ends up here, yeah.”

Her eyes glazed over. “Fascinating. But I should get back to my room and settle in. What time is it?”

He shrugged. “Six thirty? Seven?”

“No wonder I’m starving. Do any local places deliver here?”

Wincing, he straightened. “Takeout? No, I’ll take you to dinner.”

“No, I can’t let you.”

“Come on, there’s a great sushi place not far from here. You need to re-energize and unwind.”

After a beat, she agreed. “All right. But it’s on me.”

“No.” He laid a hand on her arm.

She grasped his shirt. “Yes. Strung Out will pay.”

Shifting his hips, he eased closer. “Since you put it that way. It’s a date.”

A fleeting look of horror crossed her face. Releasing him, she stepped back. “No. It’s an interview, or the magazine won’t cover it.”

Pretending surrender, he clucked his tongue, but he was the one who’d won. “You drive a tough bargain.” He wished more women would challenge him once in a while. For now, he’d enjoy the company of Ms. Billie Prescott.

* * * *

Billie let herself relax when the hostess seated them in the noisy front room. Her fears of Jet’s public appearance causing a stir proved unfounded. At least three other major celebrities sat in the restaurant with a few minor stars forming a less impressive constellation. No one would bother them during dinner.

Ordering the sushi, Jet recommended it to Billie, and appeared pleased when she followed his recommendation. The waiter returned with the bottle of wine and poured.

Raising her glass, she toasted. “To Rock Bottom.”

“Cheers.”

Odd he didn’t echo her toast. Had season one stripped the luster from his quest to find love?

“So what happened to the first set of contestants?”

His smile appeared forced. “They went on to lead their lives, relatively unscathed by their short association with me.”

He probably intended for his self-deprecating humor to deflect her questions. “I didn’t mean–”

“Cindy could tell you their last known contact info if you need it.”

Actually, she hadn’t thought of it, but not a bad idea. “Throughout the show, you put them through their paces, so to speak, and eliminate a girl every other week?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“The final contestant–what happened to her?”

With a shrug, he sat back.

The waiter delivered their food, refreshed their wine and left.

Jet’s sudden coyness wouldn’t deter her. Still, she inflected a casual tone to make it seem like conversation rather than an interrogation. “She apparently isn’t your soul mate, but did you date for a while after the show ended?”

Averting his gaze, his mouth turned down. “A while, yes.”

“What happened?”

“She moved on.” He clammed up tighter than the sushi roll he put between his lips.

Nice lips, she noted. Not too full or too thin. Too bad so many other mouths had tasted them.

Again, her train of thought had veered off track and she struggled to regain it. “To where?”

“Another reality show. Tanya’s a serial contestant. If a new show’s proposed, Tanya will be in line ready to compete.”

“So her interest centered on merely participating, and not in having a relationship with you?” At his noncommittal shrug, she probed further. “Don’t you screen the contestants ahead of time?”

His chest swelled with a deep breath, and his nostrils flared. Oops. Must have touched a nerve.

She sat back. Body language for I’m not here to cut you open, even though she hoped to do exactly that. Metaphorically. “Sorry, I’m trying to get a feel for the mechanics of the show.”

With a quick glance, his blue eyes appeared laser sharp. “We altered it for this season.”

Ah, progress. An in, however vague. Nodding, she sipped her wine. “How will this year differ from last?”

“Throwing people together in a social setting doesn’t allow them to get to know each other. Not in important ways.”

Maybe her brain still circled waiting to land, but she couldn’t follow. “So you didn’t get to know the contestants by dating them?”

“To a degree, sure. But this year, we’re including other… activities.”

Besides making out? She forced a straight face. “Such as?”

“Things I like. It’s the only way to know if I’m compatible with someone.”

“But what sort of activities?”

His voice turned teasing. “You haven’t read your packet, have you?”

“I haven’t had a chance.” I’ve been with you, she wanted to say. It now struck her as odd. They’d been together practically every minute since meeting. Talking as easily as friends.

Jet’s gaze swept her face. “Mmm.”

The grunt somehow had an underlying meaning.

“Stop doing that.” The words slipped across her tongue before she could trap them.

His eyes crinkled in amusement.

So unprofessional. Shame crept over her. “Sorry. I–”

“–don’t travel well, I know.” He reached across the table and his hand enveloped hers.

His warmth sent a buzz of energy along her nerves. “Thanks for remembering.” Captured in his gaze, she felt the bustling restaurant around them fall away.

Until the waiter reappeared and asked if they needed anything else.

Sliding her hand away, she fidgeted with her napkin. What the hell was wrong with her today?

“Dessert?” Jet sounded as casual as a business associate.

Sipping her wine, Billie declined. “I’m sorry, my nerves really are frazzled. I’m exhausted from the trip.” Though saying it made her realize she felt fine. Good, in fact.

“We’ll continue the interview some other time. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your boss.”

Everett. She hadn’t thought of him in hours. That felt good too.

“You’re very generous.”

He held her gaze. “Only with people I like.”

Her insides tightened as if drawn up along a tether toward Jet. Compliments flowed freely, she reminded herself, because he had schooled himself in self-marketing. People in power extended grace. Every bit as much as flexing his muscles, it was a show of machismo. She’d have to be very careful around him. In many ways.

Forcing her focus out the window allowed her to clear her head. “What a shame the windows don’t face the sunset.”

“Contrary to popular belief, most of Malibu faces south, not west. I think that’s why there are so many windows in my house. The colors of the sunset permeate the house, light up the walls. But next time, I’ll take you to the Sunset Restaurant.”

Her breath hitched in her chest. Next time?

He signaled the waiter, oblivious to her stare.

An offhand remark, obviously meaningless.

They drove back to the house, the sky a multicolored light show.

Driving down his street, he glanced over. “It’s a shame you’re so tired. It’s a great night for a walk along the beach.”

Unable to admit her inexplicable second wind, she shrugged. “I could handle a walk.”

Arching his brows, he smiled. “Well, all right. We’ll make a traveler out of you yet.”

Unconsciously, her grip tightened around her bag. She hadn’t intended to stay long enough for him to make anything of her.

He hit the gas and sped past the gate. “We have to go down a mile or so. The bluff behind the house is useful for keeping people out, but it’s a little too high to climb down.” He pulled off the road. “If you want, I can stash that bag. Unless you want to lug it around.”

“That would be great.” Before handing it over, she decided to bring the camera. Such a gorgeous sunset might make for a great shot, all the better if she could work Jet into it. The more photos she snapped for the blog the less she’d have to write. Tonight, her initial post would say something like: The Bu. Anything more might come out as gibberish.

He climbed out, lifted the locker lid behind the seat and stowed her bag.

She’d unlatched her seat belt and was reaching for the handle when the door opened.

Smiling, Jet waited.

They crossed a short expanse of brush to the sand. The warm, salty breeze wafted over her, filled her senses. Better than the Jersey shore, she had to admit.

“So how do you like living in Malibu?”

He wrinkled his nose, his aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. “It’s nice.”

“So enthusiastic,” she chided.

Chuckling, he jammed his hands in his pockets as he strolled. “It just doesn’t feel like home. Occupational hazard, I guess. Not many places do.”

“What about your sister? Did she settle anywhere, or is she a drifter too?”

He gazed to the horizon.

“Sorry, if family’s off-limits, I won’t write about them.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

She nodded. “I won’t.”

“Off the record…it’s another reason I wanted the show to be based here. She lives less than an hour away, so when there’s any downtime, I’ll be able to visit.”

“Nice.”

His protectiveness touched her. So many things about him surprised her. For a rocker, he seemed surprisingly down to earth. Authentic, like his earlier music.

“I remember going to see you play many years ago. Even then I was struck by the quality of your sound. Not overwhelming like some bands who crank up the speakers to blast the audience from their seats.” An unusual attention to detail, signaling a perfectionist. An artist who cared about every level of the performance.

“No, our music never set out to deafen anyone. Unlike The Who. Did you know someone measured their decibel level at a concert, and it equaled the noise of an airplane takeoff only fifteen feet away?” He glanced over.

She’d read something like that, but forgotten it. “No kidding.” She liked to hear him talk. Liked the way he leaned toward her as he spoke, the wind ruffling his hair. It made her want to run her fingers through it. Instead, she raised the camera, framed him against the orange-pink sky and bracketed several shots.

He chuckled. “Makes me wonder how many Boomers walk around with hearing aids now because of The Who.”

Reviewing the pictures, she thought they’d be perfect for the first blog, along with the photo of him in the dining room. Something clenched inside her to think she had to share that shot with others. It felt so private. Intimate. Don’t be an ass. Do your damn job. If she intended getting anything done tonight, she needed to settle in, make sure no technical issues reared their ugly heads.

Halting, she hugged her arms. “I should probably get back.”

“Already?”

The disappointment in his tone came as another surprise.

Turning away, she dug her toe into the sand. “Yes, I have a lot of homework to do. I haven’t even unpacked.”

“Mmm.” His mouth turned down. “Sorry.”

She grinned. Another odd thing he remembered.

As slowly as they’d come, they strolled back to the Jeep. When Radiohead came on the radio, he uttered, “Oh!” and turned up the volume, drumming on the steering wheel.

When he glanced over, he caught her smile. “What?”

“Nothing. I see you’re a Radiohead fan.”

His voice was infused with enthusiasm, and his gestures became livelier. “Did you see them at the Grammies? He played this song with a marching band and it sounded fantastic.” He shook his head, as if he’d never thought of such a thing.

“I did. It amazed me too. Really inventive.” Music still moved him, made him come alive. The genius of other bands must inspire him, why didn’t it move him to create new songs of his own? A question better left to another day, she thought as they reached the house. Discussions about music could last long into the night, and she still had work to do.

Shadows darkened the walkways, the light draining from the sky.

He walked her to the cottage, leaned on the jamb. “Anything else you need?”

She unlocked the door and gripped the knob. “Can’t think of anything,” she lied. If he were anyone but Jet Trently, she could think of plenty.

Easing away, he gazed down the path. “Guess I’ll go find my guitar then.”

“Good night.” She stepped inside.

He stood, hands in his pockets. “Mmm.” Dropping his chin to his chest, he walked on away from the house and disappeared around the bend.

After closing the door, she slid the deadbolt across. A key wouldn’t get anyone inside.

With a sigh, she turned. Unpack, she told herself. Frowning at the suitcase, she instead sank into the overstuffed sofa, her muscles reminding her how many hours they’d put in.

“Better not get too comfy yet.” Scooting to the edge, she dug out her laptop and powered up. Sure enough, the internet came up on the first try. She downloaded the photos and skimmed through them. The beach photo would be as big a hit as the dining room pic. She could almost hear the collective sigh of Jet fans across the globe.

He hadn’t aimed that million-watt smile at them, though. Or taken them to dinner.

She shot off a text to Zinta. Malibu better than expected.

In a few minutes, her cell buzzed. Zinta’s name showed in the display.

“Spill.”

The events of the day bubbled forth from Billie’s mouth, somewhat incoherently. Zinta’s silence unnerved her. “Hello?”

“You do know he’s playing you.” Zin’s words stung sure as a slap.

“What?”

“Buttering you up. To get you on his side.”

“He’s not like that.” Irritated at her for ruining a nice day–unexpectedly nice–Billie hadn’t intended to snap her response, but felt no shame, either.

“Billie, my sweet. Don’t fall for it.”

Despair welled up. But he likes tree houses. Such a ridiculous thought, it snapped her to the realization she was heading for disaster. The kind of disaster she swore she’d never get into again. “God, you’re right. It’s like I landed in Oz instead of Malibu.” Maybe the two were closer than she’d thought. “My brain got lost in the whirlwind, but it’s on straight now. Thank you.”

“I know you’d do the same for me.”

And had several times, but she wouldn’t rub it in. In this business, the buddy system proved critical for survival. “Listen, I have to get this blog up. I’ll talk to you later.” She clicked off, thankful for her best friend, the person who knew her intimate secrets.

Zin was right. Jet made a living from practiced charm. And she made a living from guarding against it. How careless could she be?

She downloaded the photos onto the laptop, and scrolled through. Not bad, considering she had no photography training other than on-the-job. The pictures captured the house in a warm light, and Jet’s striking good looks. His ocean-blue eyes reached out from the screen and pierced hers as they had when she’d snapped the shot. Yes, the pic would get great reader reaction. But posting it on the blog felt almost like sharing something personal.

Drafting an accompanying entry proved more difficult. She typed a sentence, read it over and deleted it, sickened by its gushing. Did the Malibu breezes infect her brain? Disconnect her thought process? She came across as an empty-headed fool with stars in her eyes. True to her original thought, she left it at: The Bu.

Logging off, she yawned. The time difference had caught up to her, and her energy faded.

After rummaging some items from her suitcase, she changed in the bathroom and climbed the stairs to the loft.

Windows ringed the space, and she wound them open to let in the night air. Muted music sounded, and a light shone through the trees. Jet’s studio? Another thing to investigate. Tomorrow.

The house stood in the opposite direction, a light on the far side silhouetting it, Jet’s bedroom dark and empty.

Weariness washed over her. She laid her head on the pillow, and the soft strains of his guitar lulled her to sleep.

* * * *

Muted musical tones caused her eyes to flicker open. Much too bright sunlight stabbed them closed again. Instinctively, she reached for her cell phone. Unable to read the display in the morning glare, she flipped it open. “Billie Prescott.”

“The one and only?” Everett teased.

At hearing his voice, she sat up. “Hey. What’s up?”

The washed-out blue walls crowded the king-sized bed, which seemed suspended in space. Like one of her nightmares where she awakened naked in public. But she wore a tank top and shorts, and no one else was in sight. All seemed quiet. So where the hell was she?

“Apparently not you. But I’ll let it slide, since you worked so hard yesterday.”

“Oh.” Cobwebs slowly dissipated from her brain. “Thanks.” Rubbing her forehead, she couldn’t think straight. The enthusiasm in his voice confused her more than her surroundings. “What are you talking about?”

“The blog–fifty-some comments already. Did I seriously wake you?”

“Uh, yeah. Like you said, yesterday went late.” At the window, the sprawling mustard Mediterranean house reminded her: Jet Trently’s house. And the curving walkway below beckoned her to follow it, though the soft music had long ended.

“I didn’t say that.”

Uh-oh. A hint of irritation in his tone.

“Jet kept you up late, huh?”

And maybe a touch of jealousy. California might be just what she needed to get back on Everett’s Lust Have list. “A little. The time difference poses a challenge. After dinner–”

“He took you to dinner?”

“I hadn’t eaten all day, Everett. We started an interview.”

“But the walk on the beach and the house tour interrupted?”

“No.” He wasn’t letting her finish. “Look, the trip fried my brain. I have notes, but I’m not putting anything out there until I can make it coherent.”

A sharp exhale came as his only response. Time to change subjects.

“So the blog’s a hit already?” The pics of Jet–she knew viewers would love them.

“They’re clamoring for more. Keep the camera handy and post as many shots as you can.”

“I’d planned to.” Why so stiff all of a sudden? Had she exhausted his patience already? That usually came later.

“If you plan to post any substantive text, run it by me first.”

“That’s not exactly blogging.” Did he not trust her to post professional entries? His comment about her writing going stale stung anew. Had that only been two days ago? Already it seemed like forever.

“Rock Bottom isn’t exactly reality, either. Everything needs polish and spin.”

“Right.”

“Okay, gotta go. Great job.”

“So when can I come home?”

“You just landed yesterday, babe.”

Babe. Now he turned on the charm, just before leaving. A pattern was taking shape… Irritation boiled up. “Everett…”

“I’m late. Talk to you soon.”

Late? A glance at the clock showed nine twenty. Six twenty in Philly. “But how long do I have to stay? Everett?”

Holding the cell out, the display showed the call had ended. With an aggravated groan, she descended the stairs to the main floor and closed the blinds, though outside the walkway appeared deserted and the house quiet. Staying in the cottage would keep her out of the camera’s range. Better than upstairs with the bimbos. And Jet.

It reminded her of what he said yesterday. Jogging upstairs again, she peeked out the window. His blinds stood closed. No seeing into his room this morning. Plopping on the bed, the events of yesterday replayed in her head. The interview with Jet had surprised her. What other surprises awaited, she now looked forward to finding out.

“Not so boring as I thought.” Another interview–or more–would provide her better insight. It felt more like a conversation with an old friend than an interview. He had a way of putting her at ease and exciting her at the same time. Those blue, blue eyes seared into her. Standing next to him felt like standing next to a bonfire full of crackling heat and energy. Scorching her skin.

“Yeah, you and every other female.” But every other female didn’t have press credentials, and weren’t living in his guest house.

Everett hadn’t liked her spending time with Jet. Giggling, she lay back. “You sent me here, babe. All in the line of duty.” Groaning, she sat up. “Speaking of which…”

After a shower, she powered up the laptop. A few emails cluttered her inbox, and the blog’s comments now numbered more than eighty. She jotted down a few of the questions posed.

A commotion outside grabbed her attention. A squabble, so early? She peered through the blinds. Three women strutted down the walkway toward the house. All appeared high-maintenance, done up to the hilt. Right–the contestants. She’d managed to block them from consciousness, but now they’d occupy front and center whether she willed it or not. Their incessant high-pitched chatter, their preening and nudging to get closer to the camera. Her earlier dread returned. She’d spend lots of time with these females.

The Rock Bottom guy who’d helped her yesterday hauled their luggage. He caught her watching, rolled his eyes and shook his head. She didn’t envy him.

The contestants’ arrival prompted her into action. After dressing in black slacks and a silky tee, banging made her pause the blow-dryer.

“Hello?” called a woman outside.

Barefoot, Billie ran to the door.

Cindy shot her a tight smile. “Hope we’re not interrupting. Just here with supplies.”

A man stood behind her holding a plastic crate.

Opening the door wide, she stood aside. “Not at all. I appreciate it.”

The assistant went straight to work unloading into the refrigerator. Cindy opened a cabinet and revealed a coffeemaker.

“Oh, bless you.”

Static erupted on Cindy’s walkie-talkie. “Anything else you need besides the basics?”

“Fruit yogurt would be great. And power bars.” At Cindy’s skeptical look, she added, “I work late a lot.”

“Me too. I’ll let you know when we’re doing a takeout run.”

Though Cindy appeared calm on the surface, a harried woman lurked beneath, Billie suspected. And she might be the only person to talk to. Jet’s time would be occupied now by his Bimbo Brigade. At that thought, her insides gave a familiar twinge.

Cindy frowned. “Are you all right?”

A flush went through Billie’s cheeks. “Yes, great. Hey, we’ll have to have a drink by the pool some night.” Her cell buzzed. Zinta’s name appeared. “Excuse me, I should take this.”

“Sure. I need to get back anyway.” Cindy ushered her assistant out.

Billie flipped open her cell. “Hey, you’re up early.”

“I needed to check on you. Are you all right?”

Last night. She’d practically drooled into the phone. “Yes. I’m well rested, and my head’s clear now.” Especially now that the Bimbo Squad had invaded, bringing reality with them.

“Whew. You had me worried. You sounded…different.”

She couldn’t admit that yesterday, some naïve version of herself overwhelmed world-wise Billie. She reminded herself what she’d learned long ago: life didn’t give anyone sunshine and roses. Not without taking something in return. “Thanks for worrying. I miss you.”

“It’s weird not having you here.”

“Yeah, I’m hoping bad ratings will kill the show early so I can get the hell out of here. Hey, if you hear of any good bands playing out here, let me know, will you?” Already she felt starved for good music. New music.

Zinta promised to call.

After starting a pot of coffee, Billie settled on the sofa with the Rock Bottom packet of information. Last night hadn’t left much time for actual work. An image of Jet leaning in the doorway, saying good night, returned vividly. Startled her from her thoughts. It seemed like a dream.

Or like a reality show, she reminded herself. Too unreal to be true. Oh, he was good–he must make every girl believe he wanted only her. His mesmerizing gaze probably convinced every female he only had eyes for her. Beautiful eyes, clear blue as the Caribbean.

Coffee. She needed coffee. The time lag must have gotten to her more than she realized.

Voices outside returned her to the window for a peek. The remaining divas had arrived.

Now the show would begin in earnest.