But it wasn’t Brenda who was on his mind now. “You don’t seem very happy, Lacey,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem at all,” she spat back at him, all teeth and bravado.
“Good,” he said, feeling better than he had in quite a while. “I’ll see you at nine, then. Just come on up to my room.”
“Of course.” She gave him a thin-lipped smile, and he didn’t miss the hint of sarcasm in her voice. “If you can dream it, it just might come true, right?”
Dante felt his eyes widen. “That’s from—”
“One of your songs. I know.” Lacey pushed back her chair. “I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Falcone.”
Chapter Four
Lacey squared her shoulders as she stalked down the long, plush corridor, realizing for the fifth time since she’d entered the hotel that she was clutching her business tote to her breasts like a frightened little girl. She peeled the soft leather satchel away from her suit and raised her chin another notch, forcing herself not to wobble in her borrowed four-hundred-dollar stilettos. She could totally do this. She absolutely could. By the time she finished with Dante Falcone tonight, he’d be eating out of her hand.
Slowly. Rapturously. With his soft, sculptured lips trailing kisses up her—
Lacey suppressed a groan. She’d been fighting back easily fifty separate daydream scripts since Falcone had dropped his little bomb this afternoon and appointed her his interim manager. But this was showtime, not fantasyland, and she needed to focus on the rock star in front of her … not the one who’d serenaded her in her angsty teen dreams.
Cheeks flaming at her inability to balance her teen self with the career woman she’d become, Lacey halted in front of Falcone’s club floor suite, unsurprised to hear the rock ballad from Dante’s latest CD, DeathFire, blaring from behind the door. Dante had gone quintuple platinum with that disc, and she knew every word of every song by heart. The agency hadn’t asked any questions about how Lacey had memorized Dante’s bio information so quickly, and she hadn’t thought it would be wise to mention that she was the ultimate fangirl for their newest, hottest client.
Nothing mattered now except that she not screw this up for the agency. Or herself.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. Hopefully Dante hadn’t started the party so early that he wouldn’t be able to sign the contracts. If she could just close those deals before tomorrow’s meeting with the account team, she’d get the agency off her back. Brenda, for all her impressive skills, hadn’t been able to get Dante to sign anything. And she’d been working on him for six months.
Lacey’d been on the job only six hours, but she was highly motivated. It had taken only a triple shot of espresso for her to work the angles. She couldn’t fail and go scraping back to the agency. That would make IMO look responsive, but her weak and ineffective. She had no choice but to succeed. And, with just two weeks on tour with Dante, her career would be set. Same result that she’d wanted in the first place, just a little trickier to navigate.
But she could do this.
She lifted her fist to bang on the door to Dante’s suite when it opened suddenly in front of her, two women falling out of the doorway in a perfume-soaked haze of blonde extensions, sequined microminis, and heels so high they made Lacey’s Blahniks look like nursing clogs. “Dante!” the one on the bottom giggled with a high-pitched yelp, and Lacey barely scrambled out of the way as both women sprawled gorgeously on the sea of white carpet.
A moment later Dante Falcone slouched into the doorway, draping his long, elegant body against the frame like he was a movie star, not a rocker. His sleek brown hair waved luxuriously over his fine, sculpted cheekbones, and his smile was cool and condescending. Dante’s crisp white button-down shirt, so elegant at the meeting earlier, was now hanging open, revealing buttery bronzed skin, the very tip of a deep black tattoo, and a delicate spray of dark hair. He’d rolled up his sleeves, displaying his thick, expensive watch. The tails of his shirt now hung over silky black trousers. His feet were bare, and he was drinking something unidentifiable from a sparkling crystal tumbler.
“Ms. Dawes,” he said, raising the glass to salute her. “I was wondering if you’d keep our appointment.”
“Of course I have.” Lacey’s glance slid sideways to the heap of women at her feet. “I trust you found a way to entertain yourself while you were waiting?”
Dante chuckled, and his gaze swept the scene before him with casual amusement. “You should know, they were sent to me compliments of IMO.”
Before Lacey could react, he gestured at them lazily. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid I have a meeting. You’ll forgive me, I hope?”
The women looked from Dante to Lacey, their sharp eyes knifing through her summer-white Chanel suit with practiced disdain. She hadn’t changed from her work attire—she didn’t want Dante to think she was anything other than professional this evening. But Lacey kept her smile pleasant, her attitude gracious. Brenda hadn’t told her that she’d arranged for a warm-up committee. Had she decided to prep Dante before her own big “date,” then forgotten to call off the show? And if so, how would Lacey ever broach that subject with her?
The women pouted gracefully as they pulled themselves to their feet. “But we just opened the champagne!” the first one exclaimed.
“It’ll keep, sweetheart. Maybe we can have a nightcap later.”
That seemed to cheer them up. “You’ll come get us before you drink it?” the one on the right asked.
“Maybe. Nick and Tony are hosting a party down in 1436, though. I know they’d want to meet you both. You have the card?”
“Oh, Dante, of course!” The blonde on the left giggled and held up a plastic card as her sister (cousin? Robot clone?) swooped in on him for a lingering kiss. “Don’t wait too long?”
Dante caressed the clone’s brow with another smooch before stepping away. “Enjoy the party.” He opened the door wider, and looked at Lacey. “Ms. Dawes?”
The girls were savvy enough to acknowledge their dismissal, and linked their arms together before executing a festive twirl. They sauntered down the corridor, the very low backs of their dresses leaving only a sliver of cloth between the swell of their hips and the start of their mile-long legs. Feeling suddenly as sexy as a garden gnome, Lacey looked back to Dante with cool disinterest. “Are there any other meetings you need to finish before we talk?”
“I’m all yours.” He stood aside and gestured her into the suite.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Lacey breezed by him with as much nonchalance as she could muster, remembering to keep her case down at her side, not plastered to her chest. She scanned the space quickly. The music appeared to be confined to the bedroom, while a small seating area was arranged around a table at a far distance from the bathroom, with a commanding view of the harbor. “Shall we set up there?”
Dante shrugged. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Lacey preceded him up the short flight to the table, pleased beyond all measure that her hands didn’t shake as she slid the folders out of her case. “Mr. Falcone, I’m so glad you were able to meet with me tonight. I’m sure you realize how—”
“Would you like a drink, Ms. Dawes? And please, call me Dante—and I’ll call you Lacey. As I believe we’ve already discussed, we’ll be working together very closely after tonight.”
Lacey frowned as the shiver of reaction skated through her, so quickly she might have missed it except for the long, tingling warmth that lingered in its wake. She looked up at Dante, disconcerted at how tall he suddenly seemed. She was in three-inch heels, for heaven’s sake, and he still towered over her. Weren’t most rock stars short? She’d memorized his stats from every fansite bio she could find since he’d first started performing, but six-two had never struck her as quite so … tall before. “A drink would be fine,” she said. “But I don’t expect to take too much of your time.”
“That would be a pity.” He held up an uncork
ed bottle of champagne, fizz still bubbling at its rim. “The twins just opened this. Seems a shame to waste it, no?” Before Lacey could respond, he was pouring her a glass. “Please, sit down.”
He pulled his own chair up close. Too close, Lacey realized with a flurry of panic. Way too close. Unbidden, her seemingly endless supply of Dante Falcone fantasies began another chapter, this one in real time.
The lights go dim to a warm, golden hush. Dante looks into her eyes, covers her hand with his, and forms his mouth into a sexy half-smile as he sighs softly. “Lacey, my love, I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” he murmurs. Then his tone changes, suddenly serious. “Is everything okay?
“What?” Lacey blinked as Dante’s actual voice brought her back to reality. “Yes! Yes, of course, forgive me. A long day, I’m afraid. Now.” She tapped a pen on her folder. “I’m sure you realize how important it is to give your new partners a display of good faith that you’re on board with the new sponsorship deals. It would mean so much to them if you could sign the contracts tonight—assuming you’ve had a chance to look at them?”
“You know I have.”
His tone was just sharp enough to put Lacey on her guard, and she chose her next words carefully. “Well, I know that Brenda has brought them to your attention, but I don’t have record of your signature as yet.”
“Ms. Harris and I never got that far, I’m afraid,” he said, shrugging away the subject. He handed her the champagne flute. She took it and his smile returned, warming her even more, as the faintest alarm began to chime in the back of her head.
She gently pushed the contract toward him, and her mind rushed forward unbidden as he glanced down to her hand.
Why, Lacey, you’re not married, I see. That’s such a tragedy.
Oh, it’s fine, Dante. I’ve just never found the right man, I suppose.
Perhaps that’s because you hadn’t found me yet.
Lacey grimaced. Lifting her champagne flute in a silent toast, she took a long, steady pull on her drink. That particular fantasy was vintage sweet sixteen, no doubt about it.
“So tell me, Lacey,” Dante said suddenly. “I know why Brenda wanted my name on those contracts. What’s in it for you if I sign?”
She jerked her eyes up, the soft glow of nostalgia disintegrating. Dante’s eyes were level, his luxurious lips quirked into a knowing smile.
“I’m sorry?” she managed, furrowing her brow with what she hoped looked like confused dismay. “We need your signature to move forward, Mr.—Dante; nothing more to it than that. We wouldn’t want to take one step further without your okay.”
His nod told her he wasn’t buying her explanation. “But you, specifically. Do you receive a bonus if I sign?”
“No, I just don’t lose my job.”
Dante frowned, and Lacey forced herself to laugh with a sophisticated chuckle. “Kidding, I’m just kidding,” she said. “However, if you don’t sign tonight, then my effectiveness as your, ah, interim manager will be immediately thrown into question. You could say this is my first key deliverable in our relationship.”
“So it’s important to you, then?”
He’d gotten closer to her, somehow, and the pressure of his gaze had returned. Lacey felt another wave of heat prickle at her neck. “Well, my work is important, and I want to serve you—” She winced. “I mean, I want to provide the best service—” Still not good. “Ah, the best work that I can,” she said, finishing lamely.
“I want that, too,” Dante said, and Lacey bit her lip. Did he realize how embarrassed she was? Did he realize she was nanoseconds away from turning into a delirious teenager again and admitting her undying love for him? “I think we can come to terms, don’t you?” Dante continued, his smile turning slightly … predatory. “Perhaps tonight we get to know each other a bit better, have a few laughs … and then in a few days, we can revisit the subject of the contract. Does that sound good?”
… A few days?
Lacey straightened in her chair, every last one of her fantasies evaporating. The alarm in the back of her brain had gone from soft alert to full klaxon blaring, and Dante’s easy confidence now felt like tacit deceit.
This was all a game to him. From the model-pretty groupies to the crashing music to his close, heady presence, pushing all of Lacey’s boundaries. Brenda had been right—he merely wanted to have “the new girl” as his handler because he thought he could control her, and here Lacey was, falling right into his trap. Even if she got to keep her job working with him, the next few weeks suddenly stretched out before her like a dream gone terribly wrong, with Dante taunting and teasing and manipulating her at every turn.
That couldn’t happen. Lacey needed the signatures, tonight. More than that, however, she needed to manage their relationship on a professional level.
And only a professional level.
Dante’s phone rang, and he cursed quietly, pulling it out. He frowned again at the screen, just like he had in the meeting. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he looked like he meant it. Again, just like in the meeting, which meant it was probably his bookie. Or his parole officer. Or maybe his priest. That would be good. “I need to take this.”
“No problem at all,” Lacey smiled, all teeth. “I’ll be right here.”
He stood and strode away from her, and she watched him move into the bedroom portion of the suite. He left the door open, and she could just see the creamy, silky coverlet of what was no doubt a massive bed beyond.
“You are so not going there,” she reminded herself grimly. But her eyes lingered on the bed a minute longer than she planned, and it was only with unusual difficulty that she pulled her attention back to the contracts. She took another drink of champagne. She needed to keep her mind on business, and not on Dante’s nonsponsored assets. No matter how many years she’d longed for this moment as a starry-eyed teen.
By the time Dante emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later, Lacey had all of the paperwork lined up in a careful row—and she straightened the stacks once again for good measure. And then again. She frowned as she blinked hard, and glanced at her watch. He’d only been gone ten minutes, but it’d seemed like hours. She reached again for her champagne glass, vaguely startled to see it was empty.
When had she taken another sip?
And why did she suddenly feel not quite right?
“You like the champagne?” Dante asked, then frowned as he picked up the bottle. “But you’ve only had the one glass, Lacey. I thought you were going to relax.”
He really is … beautiful, Lacey thought, the thought blurring a little in her mind. He poured her more champagne as she grinned up at him, then quickly repositioned her lips into a more professional smile. Fortunately, he missed the rapid change of her expression, and she pressed her hands on her thighs, breathing intently.
“Mr.—”
“Dante,” he reminded her.
She swallowed. “Dante,” she began again. She had to focus to keep her pronunciation crisp. “I really would like to get these signatures from you first, to clear all the business out of the way.”
Had she totally just said that? Dante’s brows shot up, his eyes warming with interest as he sat down, again far too close to her. “And what would we have to talk about, after we finished up all that … business?” he asked.
His words slid over her like silk, and Lacey breathed in the heady scent of him, an erotically spicy blend of cologne that represented contract number six—or was it seven?—in her stack of documents. She knew she was losing control of the conversation, but she also needed the contracts signed. How was she going to do that?
The Idea that next flashed into her mind was wrong. Dead wrong. It made her the worst kind of Brenda, and she shouldn’t even be considering it. Never mind that she’d lusted after this man for six long years—longer if you counted her early teens. Never mind that she had imagined this precise moment for her entire adult life. Still, she needed to get a hold of herself. This was her work, this was her
career, this was her—
Lacey blinked, hard, as a wave of vertigo swept over her. Suddenly, everything she was thinking tilted and slid away, and the only thing left in her brain was The Idea. And it was such an amazing opportunity. Right here, right now. All she needed to do was say—
“I’m going to make you a deal, Dante,” Lacey breathed out.
The sixteen-year-old inside Lacey clutched a pillow to her chest, eyes huge. The nineteen-year-old Lacey’s skin blanched further under her glittery concert-ready makeup. The twenty-one-year-old college student Lacey held on to her stack of mail with white-knuckled hope at spying the crisp envelope from IMO Worldwide. And all of them hugged themselves in blind, crazy hope, as the newest and best-ever fantasy played out in real life.
A fantasy that suddenly made perfect, amazing sense.
“Tonight you’re going to sign the contracts that you’ve already examined and reexamined, at least a dozen times,” the twenty-two-year-old all-grown-up Lacey now said slowly. “And tomorrow, when you’ve had some time to consider it, you can contact the agency and advise them that you insist that I be your handler for the entire length of your tour, no matter what other arrangements they suggest. That our initial contract session was so successful, you couldn’t imagine anyone taking my place.”
“And why would I do that?” Dante asked, his lips teasing toward a smile that made Lacey’s blood fairly sing with anticipation.
“Because not only am I brilliant at what I do, but you are convinced that I will not be a distraction to you and your band as you prepare for what is, arguably, the most important promotional tour of your career to date.” She drew in a deep breath. The words came so easily to her, it was as if they had been scripted. But none of her fantasies had ever sounded this good. “And to make sure that I won’t be a distraction to you—or you to me—we’re going to make love. Right here, right now. Tonight.”
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