For a beat he just looked at her, but then his innate politeness kicked in—it wasn’t in Clint Bailey’s makeup to be rude to a woman. “Come. Sit.”
She perched on the chair opposite his and rooted around in her bag for the memory stick while he sat back down.
“I’m sorry to hear about Lester.”
“I’m sorry too. I’m organizing a private funeral at Woodlawn, I’ll let you know the details when I have them.” She breathed in deep, and willed her hands to stop shaking. “Work is going well on the movie. I’ve written a couple of extra songs.” She shoved the memory stick across the desk. “Lester told me he’d passed on the other songs, but I’ve included them here as well.”
Clint’s brow creased like an accordion at a music festival. “The other songs?” He reached for the memory stick and tapped it on the desk.
Oh no. Not another lie.
“The songs Lester sent you.”
Clint’s frown deepened.
“I told Lester I didn’t want to record any more songs written for me, I wanted to record my own material. He told me that if I did the movie in Ireland, you would let me. That you’d listened to the material.” Panic made her voice rise, and she fought hard to keep control.
“He sent me over some songs from you, and Alex and I listened to them. Some of them are quite good, but I sure didn’t agree to anything.” His jaw tightened. “Alex has been working on some new material for your next album.”
Alex had written all her songs to date. “I don’t want to record any more teenybopper songs—I…”
Clint shoved the memory stick back to her. “You don’t seem to get it, Stacy. I don’t want to be hard on you, you’ve been one of our artists for a long time, but the only way you’d be offered a new contract is if you do things my way.”
“Lester said I could record my new material.” She crossed her arms.
“Lester isn’t calling the shots any longer. I am, and I’m not allowing you to commit career suicide by taking a completely different direction. Alex was impressed with your songwriting skills, but he agreed with me that the songs needed to be tailored to your audience…”
“Of teenagers.”
“They buy your records.” Clint’s jaw tightened. “They’ve made you a star.”
“I’ve grown up.” She was flushing her career, the most important thing in her life, but didn’t seem to be able to stop herself talking. “Lester may have been lying to me, but he told me Star Records was excited to have me sign the movie contract. He said you benefited from it.”
Clint stared her down, as if annoyed that his country princess had turned into a queen bitch. “At the time, you were one of our artists. Under contract. In consideration of the fact that we were freeing your time up to make the movie, we received a fee. They also offered a cut of the soundtrack, so yes, it was an important deal for us.”
“And you’re saying now that you never agreed that I would be able to record the album I want in exchange.”
“You don’t have it in writing, do you?” His mouth curved in a smirk. He knew damn well she didn’t, and even if she had anything in writing from her manager it wouldn’t be worth anything at this point.
“I deserve better. I’ve worked hard for you for over a decade. You said I was important to you.”
“You were. Before I had every journalist in America hassling me for answers about how you dumped your family. Before I had people asking if you abandoned Lester the way you kicked them to the curb once you didn’t need them any longer.” He stood up, towering over her. “Knuckle down and do what you’re told, sweetheart. Without us, your career is dead in the water. You’re deluding yourself if you think anything different.”
*****
Cole’s house was the perfect refuge. The high walls and discreet security team kept the press at bay, and his housekeeper had prepared a spare bedroom with everything she might need. But there was one thing missing—Adam.
She wanted to call him. Needed to talk over all the conflicting emotions that warred within when she watched her mother on television, a stranger spinning an untrue story for a paycheck. Her chest ached at the memory of Clint’s harsh words. She couldn’t do what he asked, but not doing so signaled the death of her career. The end of life as she knew it.
Adam would be there if she called, but she didn’t want to be this way, didn’t want to be broken, something that needed fixing. So instead, she obsessively wrote lists of things to do and did them. The funeral was organized. She’d managed to escape to a local store with Apollo—lying on the floor of his SUV under a blanket to avoid detection by the news crew camped outside the gates. The simple black dress and low heels weren’t designer, but were fit for purpose.
The nights were hard.
Adam called a few times, but she didn’t answer, too fractured to talk to him without letting her feelings, her need bleed out.
Cole came back the night before the funeral. He really was a sweetheart. The moment he strode into his house, he came straight to find her in the bedroom which had become her own private haven.
“Hey.” He stalked in and enveloped her in a bear hug. “How you doing, Stace?”
Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. “Better for seeing you.”
He grabbed her hand and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”
Downstairs he snagged a couple of glasses from the kitchen cupboard, filled them with ice, and poured shots of golden tequila over them.
He leaned his jean clad butt against the counter. “Have you seen the news today?”
She sipped her drink. “I decided to stop watching the news, or looking online. It gets boring seeing my face.” The tequila tasted deliciously smoky and intense. She took another sip, wondering if her mother even registered the taste of alcohol or if she was too intent on chasing the buzz to bother.
Cole grimaced. “Okay, well. So there are photos in the news today. Photos of that guy you married.” He touched her shoulder. “Photos of him taking his clothes off with some skank. Cheating on you while you were married.” His head tilted to the side as his intense blue eyes searched hers. “You knew?”
“I know all about it.”
“Jesus, that snake.” Cole tossed back his drink. “I really liked him. He seemed so into you. I can’t believe he…”
“They’re fakes.” A week ago she’d been desperate to see the photos, but now she was too tired to even bother looking. “Lester faked them somehow.”
“So why isn’t Adam here with you?” Cole squeezed her shoulder. “He should be here. Especially tomorrow.”
“I told him not to come.”
Chapter Fourteen
The funeral was a quiet affair. Lester had no family to attend, and many of the people who had been invited decided to skip it. Lester’s lawyer, Alvin Beesley, sidled over to Stacy after the burial.
“You’re the only beneficiary of Lester’s will,” he told her in a whisper. “The usual procedure is for the will to be read at my offices at some time after the funeral, but I thought I should bring it with me today instead. What with the press and all.”
They’d driven through a rabid mob of photographers desperate to catch a shot of her wearing black for their gossip sections.
“We’re going back to Cole Tempest’s house. Do you want to do it there?”
All through the service, and seeing Lester’s body planted in the ground, she’d ached with bone deep exhaustion. She’d been numb for days, running on autopilot until the moment she could collapse and sleep. But the mystery of what exactly could be in Lester’s will sparked curiosity to life.
While Cole entertained the small group who had accompanied them from the cemetery, Stacy led Mr. Beesley into Cole’s home office. Bookshelves lined the walls, and rather than expensive leather bound hardbacks, the shelves were filled to bursting with paperback novels.
He’d always been a reader, spending hours on the tour bus with his nose stuck in the latest crime novel. She co
uldn’t count the times they’d joked he was in the wrong job, that he should be either a private investigator or a cop. Heck, the guy even loved Agatha Christie.
His antique desk looked like a movie prop.
She sat, and Beesley took the chair opposite. He opened his briefcase and dropped a file onto the desk. “The last will and testament of Lester Jones,” he read.
She barely concentrated, until he mentioned her name.
“I leave all my worldly goods, whatever may be left of them, to my friend and client, Stacy Gold.”
Beesley shoved up his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose with a long finger. “I’m sorry to tell you that there isn’t much. It appears the money he stole from you was to settle a debt he owed gambling, and it’s gone.”
No surprise there.
“In his hospital bed, he dictated this letter, which he wanted me to read to you.” He picked up a single page, and placed a brown envelope in front of him, squaring it with his fingertips.
“Dear Stacy. It’s confession time. I want to tell you I’m sorry. That you didn’t deserve the way I treated you, the things I did. I never meant for things to get this bad, for things to go this far. I’d been stealing from you for years, and I know you never suspected. I wanted to make things right before you found out, that’s why I sold your house. I was sure Jay Cressley would win Best Male Artist. I put everything I had on it.”
Stacy gasped.
“When Cole Tempest won, I knew it was all over. I thought I could placate the people I’d placed the bet with, but they tracked me to the hotel in LA and left me a note threatening to kill me unless I produced the money. I got on the next flight to Bali. I’d got away, but the addiction had me in its grip. I couldn’t resist the urge to gamble, and I ended up here as a result.” Beesley stopped and ran his finger around the collar of his shirt. “I treated you badly. I know that. A year ago, Adam Logan was digging, turning you against me. I was in too deep with the gambling to get help, and I felt so threatened I did some awful things. I manipulated you into divorcing him by finding an Adam lookalike and getting a photographer to take pictures of him with a woman. I should go to hell for what I put you through. It’s too late now. I’ll never see you again, and I know you’ll never think fondly of me again. You should hate me. I hate me. But Stacy, you need to know this: you’re young, you’re talented, you’ll be able to recover from this. Next year it’ll be you taking home the award for Best Song. You’re a damn fine artist, I should have told you that more. I’m sorry.”
Beesley folded the letter and looked into her eyes. He shoved the brown envelope across the table to her. “The photographs.”
*****
“So if I get the job, it’s a three month contract being housekeeper and general assistant to this author who’s having a crisis.” Amy sprawled on her sofa. “His current person is going on maternity leave and—” She stopped. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”
“Honestly? No. I couldn’t care less.”
With a moan, Amy sat up. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to talk to me? I can’t help if you don’t let me. You are no fun anymore, do you know that? I can’t believe you’re letting Stacy mess with your head again. She’s not answering your calls, is she?”
“No. She isn’t.”
It had been a week. Lester’s funeral had earned a small paragraph in the middle of the paper, and still she refused to respond to his texts. A local magazine had reprinted photographs supposedly showing him fooling around, and she’d remained steadfastly silent. His mother was in full meltdown mode, first because of the evidence of his cheating, and then furious when she learned the truth that they weren’t him.
Damn fine fakes though. Adam really couldn’t blame her for being fooled when his own mother had been taken in.
“Plaxtair is playing hardball. They want to terminate her contract because she’s bringing their studios into disrepute. I need to fix this before they activate the get-out clause and dump us.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “If they do, what will happen to the company? To the film? You and Sean have put everything you have into this; you can’t lose your business just because she can’t be bothered to answer her phone.” Amy was really getting into the rant now. “She destroyed you once, don’t let her do it again.”
“She wants space. She said she needs some time.”
Amy growled like a threatened Rottweiler.
“I’ve given her space, and she’s had enough time.” He’d arrived at Amy’s apartment half an hour ago after a quick visit to his parents’ house. “I didn’t come here to talk to you, I want you to drive me to the airport and look after my car while I’m away—I don’t want to park it, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Amy’s grin was so wide all her teeth were on display. She bounced off the sofa and enveloped him a hug, making a noise that could only be described as a girl squeal. “You’re going to find her?”
“Damn right I’m going to find her.”
Amy searched under the sofa for her shoes. “What time’s your flight?”
With one hand on the wheel and one eye, it seemed, constantly on him, Amy wove through the traffic, talking every second. She wanted to know everything, every little aspect of his big plan. He didn’t have one. He was winging it all the way, but kept that nugget to himself; the last thing he needed was any more sisterly advice.
She gave it anyway. “You need to change at the airport, you’ll be sweaty after the flight, and those clothes…” She scanned him head to toe as he climbed out of the car in the drop off zone.
“Thanks for the lift, Amy.”
He swung the bag over his shoulder, and walked into the airport.
*****
Stacy’d spent the days since Lester’s funeral in a funk. Cole was charming, but she really couldn’t stay in his house any longer. So when the call came asking her to appear on one of the biggest chat shows in the country she didn’t hesitate, and agreed to appear.
The media buzz had quieted a little, but untrue stories sprouted in the tabloids and magazines every night, to be digested every morning over breakfast.
In the latest, she was pregnant and shacked up with Cole. The persona Lester had built so carefully for her over the past ten years was being systematically dismantled. The name Stacy Gold, instead of glittering like the precious metal, had become dirty and tarnished with the accusations flying around, and for the first time ever, she had nothing left to lose.
She wanted to climb aboard a plane and fly back to Ireland. To have Adam’s arms around her, to know that she was cared for and loved. To be appreciated for her talent and finish the voice-over work she’d started. To be the squirrel, rather than the person the tabloids portrayed. A dishonest has-been with a car-crash life.
This was her chance to put her side of the story. The chance to tell the truth. Adam and Sean had warned her that Plaxtair had threatened to replace her, and she’d seen the worry on Sean’s face at what that might mean for their company.
Adam had wanted to come with her, but she’d pushed him away, just as she had done when their marriage was in trouble. She didn’t want to be the one who needed propping up, the one who was so fractured and needy she leaned on him. So instead, she’d ignored his texts, wanting to have good news before she spoke to him again. Wanting to be able to stand before him as a partner with their shit together.
But things had gone from bad to worse. She’d found it difficult to sleep, and when she had managed to fall into slumber, she’d woken in pulse-racing, heart-pounding sweats, caught in the grip of nightmares where shadowy figures from her past taunted her for being so arrogant to believe she could escape them.
So this was it. Make or break time. She could anticipate some of the questions that Jay Dix, the charismatic talk show host might ask, and the thought of answering them honestly made her stomach clench with nerves, but she had to do it. She had to try.
Cole had made his private jet available, and she and
Apollo would fly to New York for the interview, and back to Cole’s house when it was finished. She’d raided the lockup containing her belongings and selected a short silver minidress and matching heels to wear for the interview, and booked a hairdresser to cut and style her hair in soft curls before she faced a live studio audience. If she were walking to the gallows, she might as well look good doing it.
Standing on the tarmac, she summoned all her courage to call Adam. After the way she’d left and the way she’d treated him, he may never want to see her again. He had a good life now, with true, real friends and family to support him. Winning him back might be impossible, but she had to try, because the alternative, living without him, was too hard to imagine. And if all went well with the interview, if she managed to placate Plaxtair and keep her role on the movie, she’d be on the first flight to Ireland to finish it, and to be with the man she loved.
She felt lightheaded, sick with nerves, as she called him.
It went to voicemail.
Chapter Fifteen
Adam hailed a cab at the airport and went straight to Cole Tempest’s house. Stacy hadn’t kept him in the loop, but he’d managed to learn from Apollo that they were staying there.
It was early evening. Late to call on someone without warning. But there was no other option.
On arrival, he gave his name to the security guard, and within minutes the ornate golden gates swung open to allow them access.
Cole met him at the front door. “You should have told me you were coming.” He enveloped Adam in a bear hug. “Long time no see, man.”
“I’ve come straight from the airport, and I’m hoping I can stay.” Adam looked at the small suitcase at his feet. “If it doesn’t suit, though, I can grab a hotel room.”
Cole stepped back. “No way. You’re welcome in my home. I’m glad you’re here, she needs you.”
Not enough to meet him at the door. Adam swallowed his disappointment. Things would never be easy between them. He needed to tell her how he felt, make her see his point of view. He peered past Cole into the house’s interior.
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