by Anna DePalo
“What did happen on Thursday night, Summer?” Zeke asked, his voice deep and smoky.
“I—I still don’t know.”
“It was incredible. We were incredible.”
“Stop it. You promised—”
“What did I promise?”
She remained silent.
“I don’t remember promising anything. I remember saying I wanted to see you again.”
“For an interview,” she clarified. He was twisting around the conversation that they’d had. “Your manager and publicist called yesterday after you did, and they peppered me with questions about the timing and substance of this interview.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
She looked around. “Where are they, by the way? I had the impression they wanted to be here.”
His eyelids dropped, concealing his expression. “They both had things to do.”
She thought that was odd, but decided not to remark on it. Instead, she brought out the tape recorder that she’d carried along with her. He was making her nervous, and the only way to avoid any more dangerous conversation was to get down to business. “Well, let’s get on with the interview, don’t you think?” she asked briskly. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
The look that he gave her was an invitation to sin. “You’re not wasting my time.”
A shiver chased down her spine. She cleared her throat and switched on the tape recorder. “What’s your biggest challenge as a musical artist?”
He laughed. “Diving right in, aren’t you?”
She raised an eyebrow.
He sighed. “Okay. The biggest challenge is to avoid repeating myself. I think that’s what every artist worries about. I want my music to stay fresh and vital and to still be commercially successful.”
To Summer’s surprise, the interview unfolded easily after that, the conversation flowing smoothly. He talked about the success of his latest CD and his involment with Musicians for a Cure.
Eventually, she decided to move the interview to a different topic. “There haven’t been any stories about you and drugs, or getting arrested, or brawling—”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he quipped.
“But,” she went on, “you’ve been described in the press as ‘surly’ and ‘a bad boy.’ How do you think you’ve come by your reputation?”
“Simple. I usually refuse to give interviews.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “You’ve got different legs of an international tour for the rest of the year. What’s up next?”
“Houston is next, at the end of the month, then L.A., and I’ll be going abroad soon.” He paused. “But I’ll be staying in New York until the end of the month.”
“Oh?” she said, tamping down an annoying little thrill.
“Yeah, I’ll be catching up with family.”
She knew from her background research that he’d grown up in New York. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you.” She turned off her tape recorder because she’d gotten what she needed for her article.
He gave her a sly grin. “Unlike you, you mean?”
She refused to take the bait. “The bio on your Web site says only that you grew up in New York.”
“That’s purposeful. I like my privacy.” He tossed her another quick grin. “But if you’re curious, I grew up on the Upper West Side.”
She wondered whether he’d lived within a stone’s throw from where she lived now.
“My father’s a professor at Columbia University,” he elaborated, “and my mother’s a psychologist in private practice.”
She tried to picture him as the son of an academic and a shrink, and failed.
He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. Hard to believe.” He paused. “But not as bad as it sounds. My father’s an archaeologist, so we spent most summers on digs in South America and the Middle East.” He shrugged. “That probably explains why I picked a career that requires lots of travel.”
“Did you always know you wanted to be a musician?” she asked.
“You mean, a rock star?” he asked mockingly, then shook his head. “No. For a while I followed the path that my parents expected of me, but a month before graduating from Columbia, I landed my first recording deal.”
“What did you major in?” she asked, surprised he’d graduated from a prestigious Ivy League university. He certainly didn’t have the pedigree of a typical rocker.
“Music. On and off campus. What about you?”
“English, with a minor in journalism.” She added, “At NYU.”
“High school?”
“Private school in the Hamptons. What about you?”
“Horace Mann,” he said.
They smiled at each other until she cleared her throat. The conversation had gotten way too personal. How had that happened? “Okay, I’ll just need some photos of you to accompany the article,” she said.
He stood up. “Right. Where do you want me?”
She gave him a quick look. Was he coming on to her?
He just looked back at her blandly.
She stood, her digital camera in hand. “Er, somewhere bright but not in direct sunlight. Also, we’ll want a backdrop that’s not too busy.”
“How about if I sit on the arm of that chair over there?”
She nodded. “Sounds good. Then we can take some of you standing in front of the living room wall. That’ll provide a solid, off-white background.”
As soon as he was ready and she’d adjusted her camera, she started snapping shots.
“Big smile,” she said, and he obliged, giving her a disarming smile.
He was a natural in front of the camera, changing the angle of his head but still looking great in every shot.
She warmed as he looked at her through the camera’s viewfinder. What she read in his blue eyes was enough to quicken her pulse. It was a good thing that the camera was between them, she thought, mitigating the power of his potent appeal.
All the while, she somehow continued to coax reactions from him. “Don’t smile. Give me serious,” she said, snapping away. “Now tilt your head down and look up at the camera.” Snap, snap. “Now turn your head to the side and slant me a look.” Snap, snap.
By the time he’d posed straddling the chair, and then moved to pose in front of the wall, the air in the room had become sexually charged.
“Now give me smoldering,” she said unthinkingly.
He did, and she thought, Oh, my.
It was like experiencing vertigo. She was felt dizzy and breathless.
She lowered the camera and pretended to fiddle with it. “Okay, that’s it.”
He walked toward her and when he reached her, he slid his hand under her hair and around the back of her neck, exerting subtle pressure to force her head up to his.
She barely had time to close her eyes before his lips feathered across hers. Once, twice, three times, and then he was there, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was so sweet, so deep, so satisfying that her knees nearly buckled. The hand holding her camera went limp by her side.
When he finally pulled back, she whispered, “Why did you do that?”
“Because I wanted to,” he said.
She looked at him mutely.
“Because you were turning me on. Because I wanted to confirm that what I experienced on Thursday night wasn’t just a fluke.”
“We can’t.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?”
“Both.”
“Why? You’re not engaged anymore, remember?” He rubbed his thumb across her lips. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“I’ve got plans. There’s a party for The Buzz at my cousin’s restaurant, Une Nuit.”
“Invite me.”
The letters M-I-S-T-A-K-E flashed across her mind.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t I deserve a thank-you for submitting to an interview? Besides, you’ll be helping The Buzz. I’m sure the staff there would love a personal connection to another celebri
ty.”
He was persuasive, she’d give him that.
He bent for another kiss, and she ducked. “Okay,” she relented as she scooted past him to gather her stuff and, more importantly, to put some space between them.
For The Buzz, she promised herself. Only for The Buzz.
Seven
U ne Nuit, located on Ninth Avenue
on the Upper West Side, wasn’t what Zeke had been expecting. He’d looked up the restaurant before coming over, so he knew it was known for its French-Asian fusion cuisine, but he was still surprised by the ambience. The decor was seductive with low red lighting, black suede seating and copper-top tables.
At Summer’s insistence, they’d planned to meet at Une Nuit rather than at her place. He figured she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to them as a couple.
After getting a drink at the bar, he scanned the crowd that was standing and milling about and spotted Summer laughing with some guy who looked like a male model.
Frowning, he made his way toward her, aware of the glances thrown his way. He was used to looks and whispers when he was recognized.
When Summer spied him, laughter still lurked in her eyes and she exclaimed, “Zeke, you’re here!”
Apparently not a moment too soon, he thought dryly. He bent and kissed her on the cheek, grazing the corner of her lips—and staking his claim. She was dressed in black, as was he, and she looked fantastic.
As he straightened, he gave her an intimate smile. “Hi.”
“Zeke, have you met Stash?” she asked, gesturing with the hand holding her wineglass.
Zeke looked Pretty Boy in the eye and noted the amusement on the other man’s face. Stash? What the heck kind of name was that? And why didn’t Stash go stash himself somewhere else right now?
Aloud, he said, “I haven’t.” He stuck out his hand. “Zeke Woodlow.”
The other man grasped it. “Zee pleasure iz all mine.”
Zeke almost rolled his eyes. A Frenchman? He had to compete with the lure of Stash’s foreign mystique?
“Stash is the manager of Une Nuit,” Summer said. “Zeke is—”
“I know who iz Zeke Woodlow, chérie,” Stash said. A smile curved his lips. “I am afraid that work calls, however, so I weel leave you to your friend.”
Zeke watched as Stash kissed Summer on the cheek and then sauntered off, tossing him another amused look as he went.
Stash, Zeke thought sourly, seemed like the type who could charm honey away from bees. Turning his gaze back to Summer, he asked, “You two know each other well?”
“Stash has been the manager here a long time.”
Hardly reassuring, Zeke thought.
Summer beckoned to him, and with narrowed eyes, he followed her as she moved deeper into the gathered crowd.
She greeted people as she went until she was stopped by a man who looked to Zeke to be a quintessential smooth operator. The guy was around his own height of six foot one but looked to be about a decade older—perhaps in his late thirties.
Great. Was he destined to spend the whole evening batting away potential rivals?
Standing next to the dark-haired playboy type was a curvy green-eyed blonde. She gazed up at the playboy admiringly, but he hardly seemed to notice—his attention was directed at Summer.
Damn. He took another step forward and moved closer to Summer.
Summer looked up, seeming to realize all of a sudden that he was still there. “Zeke,” she said, “this is my uncle Shane Elliott, the editor in chief of The Buzz, and his executive assistant, Rachel Adler.” To Shane and Rachel, she added, “This is Zeke Woodlow.”
Zeke’s shoulders relaxed. He needed to get a grip. His attraction to Summer was starting to drive him crazy—even if right after their interview, he’d been able to get down a major chunk of the melody and lyrics for the elusive song in his head.
Zeke shook Shane’s hand and noted that Shane’s grip was just as firm as his own.
“It’s good to meet you,” Shane said. “Summer tells me that the interview went well.”
“The interviewer did her homework.”
Shane laughed. “In any case, I appreciate your taking the time. We’re in a heated race and every little bit helps.”
The talk then shifted to a discussion of the music industry and who was topping the music charts, or would be soon, with new CDs.
When the conversation eventually ended and he and Summer had moved on, Zeke asked, “What did he mean ‘we’re in a heated race’?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now.”
She sighed. “My grandfather, who founded Elliott Publication Holdings, recently announced that the head of whichever EPH magazine is the most profitable by the end of the year would succeed him as CEO.”
Zeke whistled. “So basically he’s letting his kids duke it out over who will succeed him?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s what made you desperate enough to try to beard the lion in his den. You were hoping an interview with me would help the home team.”
He watched her shrug. “I did it for myself and for The Buzz. I’m just hoping Granddad’s challenge doesn’t tear this family apart.”
Zeke grimaced. “It’s at times like this that I appreciate growing up an only child.” He gave her a wry smile. “No matter what, the parents still have only me.”
“And you still have them.”
The look in her eyes made him stop. He’d done some digging into her background on the Internet, and surprisingly, while there’d been plenty of mentions of her grandparents and assorted other Elliott relatives, there’d been none connecting her to her parents.
Before he could ask, however, she said, “My parents died together in a plane crash when I was ten.”
“God, I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’ve had fifteen years to learn to cope, but, you know, the hurt never completely goes away.”
Before he could respond to that, their conversation was interrupted by a man Summer introduced as her cousin Bryan, the owner of Une Nuit.
“Stash sent me over,” Bryan said before Summer could say any more. “He told me that he’d run into the two of you together by the door.”
From the way Bryan pronounced the word together and from the look in his eyes, Zeke could tell he’d come over to check things out himself.
Doing some sizing up of his own, Zeke estimated that Bryan was about his own age—twenty-eight. In contrast to Shane, however, there seemed nothing laid-back about this Elliott cousin. If anything, Bryan seemed to be constantly watchful, taking in everything and giving nothing away. He was like a panther ready to pounce.
Zeke looked Bryan in the eye as they shook hands, and a certain recognition and mutual respect passed between them.
“Bryan has the perfect life,” Summer joked.
“Really?” Zeke asked, looking from Summer to Bryan and back.
“Yes,” Summer said, throwing her cousin a teasing look. “He has this fantastic bachelor pad above the restaurant that lets him just fall out of bed and go to work. Not only that, but he’s got a job that keeps him well away from EPH and us other Elliotts. Or, I should say, one Elliott in particular, namely my grandfather. And on top of it all, Bryan gets to travel to fantastic places for the restaurant.”
Interesting, Zeke thought. Not only was the statement revealing about Bryan, but it was intriguing that Summer thought the perfect job was away from EPH.
“Summer’s exaggerating,” Bryan said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Where do you travel for the restaurant?” Zeke asked.
Bryan shrugged. “Europe mainly. Paris.”
“I was in Paris just a month ago. What did you think of—?”
“Excuse me, will you?” Bryan said suddenly. “I just spotted someone I’ve been trying to catch up with all evening.”
Strange, Zeke thought, watching Bryan’s departing back. He got the distinct impression that Bryan
wanted to avoid talking about his travels.
Zeke watched as another guy who’d also been observing Bryan’s departure turned back now and said, “I see you’ve met the clan’s International Man of Mystery.”
Turning to Summer, the guy gave her a peck on the cheek and said, “Hey, honey. Long time no see.”
“Zeke, this is—”
“Let me guess,” he said dryly. “Your cousin.” The guy bore a striking resemblance to Bryan. They shared the same coloring of jet-black hair and blue eyes. In personality, however, this cousin seemed as smooth and laid-back as Shane.
“Cullen Elliott,” the man before him said, his eyes glinting. “I’m Bryan’s younger brother.” Holding up his thumb and index finger a half an inch apart, he added, “But only by that much.”
“Cullen is the director of sales for Snap,” Summer supplied.
Zeke feigned shock. “You’re from the rival camp? What are you doing here?”
Cullen grinned. “I’m invited everywhere.” He added, “So Summer’s filled you in on the family rivalry, has she?”
“Yeah,” he said. Turning to Summer and jerking a finger at Cullen, he asked, “If he’s here, where’s Scarlet? Doesn’t she work for an EPH magazine, too?”
Zeke watched Summer frown. “Scarlet decided not to come. She went skiing with friends this weekend.”
Cullen turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “I saw the piece about you and Scarlet in the Post,” he teased. “Are you wondering if you’re out with the right sister?”
If only Cullen knew, Zeke thought. Beside him, he noticed that Summer froze for a second, then pasted a lighthearted smile on her face.
“Don’t listen to Cullen,” Summer said, swatting her cousin playfully. “He’s broken more hearts than I can count.”
“Yup, that’s me,” Cullen said, obviously playing along, though Zeke noticed a shadow flit across his face. “I’m giving Shane a run for his money for the title of Playboy Elliott.”
They talked to Cullen a little more, then Zeke suggested to Summer that they head to the bar and refresh their drinks.
When he’d asked the bartender for a bourbon on the rocks for himself and another glass of white wine for Summer, he turned to her and said with dry amusement, “I’ve run the gauntlet for you tonight with your relatives.”