What Goes on Tour

by Boston, Claire

  About What Goes on Tour

  What goes on tour, stays on tour … or does it?

  Few people know that socially awkward Adrian Hart is actually rock god Kent Downer, and that’s the way Adrian likes it. His privacy is essential, especially now that he has guardianship of his orphaned, ten-year-old niece, Kate. But when the nanny quits in the middle of his tour Adrian finds himself in a bind.

  Until Libby Myles walks into his life.

  Libby has only ever wanted to become a full-time author and prove to her parents that she can make it on her own. On the surface, the temporary job as the nanny for Kent Downer’s niece looks perfect – the pay is fabulous, the hours are short and Kate is a big fan – it’s the rock star that’s the issue.

  Arrogant and way too attractive for anyone’s good, Kent Downer has enough swagger to power a small city. But when he’s out of costume he’s different – shy and uncertain. For Libby it’s a far harder combination to resist. She needs to find a balance between work, writing and ignoring her attraction to the rock star, because if she falls for him, it could mean the end of her dream.

  But when a horrible scandal is unleashed – putting young Kate in danger – there’s more heat between Libby and Adrian than just sexual attraction. Libby must figure out if Adrian ever cared for her, or if it was all just part of the show …

  Contents

  About What Goes on Tour

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Claire Boston

  Copyright

  To Mum and Dad

  for teaching me I can do anything I set my mind to

  and to my husband, Luke

  for his support and encouragement

  I love you

  Chapter 1

  Breathe.

  Libby Myles’ heart was doing its best rock concert impression, thudding hard enough against her ribs that she thought it was going to break through.

  She was going on television, not to face a firing squad.

  Hurrying alongside the keep-up-or-be-left-behind production assistant, Libby figured it amounted to the same thing.

  If she messed this up it was the death of her fledgling career. One wrong word, one misinterpreted sentence, and she’d be that sound bite on tomorrow morning’s radio. The one that was played over and over again while the DJs asked each other, “What was she thinking?”

  Suddenly the blond-haired assistant stopped and directed her into a room. Libby braked, wobbled on her four-inch heels, and took a couple of quiet, slow breaths to stop herself panting. God, she was unfit.

  “This is the Green Room. You can wait here with the other guests and I’ll be back to get you when it’s your turn.” The woman turned and strode away before Libby could ask for introductions. Libby cursed the fact she had missed the earlier rehearsal due to her book signing and snail-like traffic.

  Who had her publicist said would be on tonight’s show? An English comedian, Tony someone, and American rock god, Kent Downer.

  Stepping into the room, she noticed there wasn’t any green in sight, rather the walls were painted a pale beige reminiscent of a doctor’s waiting room. Two men sat on a retro red couch, turned toward each other, deep in conversation, perhaps mid-forties in age. Manager and comedian, Libby decided as she heard their English accents. No point trying to get a seat there.

  The other red couch had a single occupant. Not the kind of person you wanted to meet in a dark alley, late at night.

  Kent Downer stared straight at Libby, one hand in his lap, the other over the top of the couch, his long, rangy legs crossed at the ankles. She smiled, but he didn’t respond, staring but not seeing, his attention somewhere far more interesting than these four walls. She took the opportunity to study him. Short, spikey black faux-hawk, pale skin and the thickest black eyeliner she’d ever seen on a man. His clothes were black too. Skinny-leg jeans, plain, fitted T-shirt and a waistcoat that hung unbuttoned at the sides. Stereotypical rock star. She’d never be able to use him in one of her books – she’d have to make him different in some way. Otherwise she’d get the comment from her editor – “Don’t make him a cardboard cut-out.”

  Libby moved across the room and sat on the couch next to the rock star. He must have felt her movement, as he blinked and looked at her briefly before returning his gaze to the spot he’d been staring at.

  Obviously a charm school dropout.

  But then again, a rock star of his reputation wouldn’t be interested in talking to an author. She pushed aside the twinge of self-doubt. It was his loss.

  Libby had a moment of regret for insisting her publicist have the night off – and then shook her head. She didn’t need to be babysat.

  She poured a glass of water, grabbed a handful of chocolate from the bowl on the glass coffee table and scooted back on the couch to relax.

  It didn’t happen. The couch was as comfortable as its color was subtle.

  Shoving the chocolate into her mouth, she took her notebook and pen out of her bag and opened to a blank page. She was about to be interviewed in front of a live studio audience and broadcast all over Australia.

  Libby’s skin grew clammy and she shook her fingers briefly to release some of the stress.

  This was a huge opportunity. Struggling writers didn’t get this kind of thing. Someone must have owed her publicist a favor. Big-time.

  Libby knew if the viewers liked what they saw, they’d mention her to friends, maybe go out and buy her books. If enough people bought them, she’d finally be able to give up her day job and write full time. And prove to her parents she could make it as an author.

  Right now, though, she’d settle for a decent royalty check. The repairs on her car had used up every last cent of her savings, and if she didn’t get a new temp job when she finished her tour, she’d have to survive on whatever she could harvest from her vegie patch.

  There was no way she would ask her parents for help. She couldn’t face the ‘I told you so’ she’d get.

  She couldn’t stuff this up.

  “Tony, you’re up.” The efficient assistant was back, motioning the comedian toward the door. The two Englishmen rose and followed her out of the room.

  Nerves clenched in a death grip in Libby’s stomach. She ignored them, taking some more chocolate, then shifted her weight, lifting her knee so she was sitting sideways on the couch.

  All the better to observe the rock star.

  She needed the distraction.

  He was attractive, if you went for the bad boy type, with his designer stubble and dark brooding eyes. Libby imagined some women would get a thrill to have those eyes focused on them, even for a moment.

  The man was so still, so absorbed, he almost looked like a wax dummy. Then his fingers twitched, a minute movement, almost indiscernible, the tiniest drum of his fingertips against the back of the couch. A pause. Then the drum again.

  Nerves?

  From the television in the corner came the sound of applause as the comedian was introduced.

  She was next.

  Libby swallowed hard.

  Making a note in her journal, she heard laughter from the set and stifled her urge to fidget. She was a writer, not a pe
rformer. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention.

  At least the producers had got it right – start the show off with a laugh, end it with a rock star and allow the young adult writer to sag in the middle.

  Her stomach danced a tango with her nerves.

  No.

  She knew how to fix a sagging middle. It was all about being friendly, chatty and enthusiastic about her new book. That was the easy part. She straightened her spine.

  “Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to stare?” The deep Texan drawl took her by surprise. The rock star had come out of his trance and was now watching her with intense brown eyes. His whole body was rigid, as if waiting to pounce if she said the wrong word. She was the baby antelope coming face to face with the cheetah. Adrenaline zinged through her veins.

  “I, ah, no.” She stopped babbling, took a deep breath and smiled. “Sorry, I was visiting my muse. I wasn’t really staring at you.” She held out a hand. “I’m Libby Myles.”

  He looked at her hand as if she had something contagious.

  “Libby, it’s your turn.”

  Saved by the efficient assistant.

  Libby dropped her hand, stuffed her notebook and pen in her bag and tucked it next to the couch, hoping her face would return to its normal color quickly. Then she jumped up and hurried after the woman.

  She didn’t need rock stars and their egos.

  They reached the edge of the set. She was about to be on television.

  Dread smashed into Libby like a wrecking ball and her breath came faster. Oh, God. She hadn’t checked a mirror.

  She could have chocolate all over her teeth. She ran her tongue across them, prodding at the spaces in between, then gently patted her hair to make sure it was in place and smoothed down her knee-length skirt. The television make-up that had been caked on earlier was thick, but the make-up artist had assured her it would be fine on screen. She breathed deeply, once, twice, willing the dread away.

  She forced herself to stand still as someone attached the microphone to her.

  “You look fine.” The efficient assistant gave Libby a smile. “This is your intro.”

  The chat show host’s voice rang out. “Our next guest is the author of much-loved young adult series, the Jessop Chronicles. The latest book, On Winter’s Edge, is out now. Please welcome Libby Myles.”

  The assistant led Libby toward the set and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs.

  Stairs.

  She hadn’t thought about stairs when her publicist convinced her to wear the highly impractical four-inch heels.

  Libby’s legs threatened to turn to jelly, but she couldn’t let them. The crowd was clapping and she had to make her entrance. Placing her hand firmly on the bannister, she slowly descended, ensuring one foot was firmly planted before moving the next one, smiling at the first couple of rows of audience members.

  At the bottom she gave herself a mental pat on the back and walked toward the host, Brian Lowry. His infectious grin made her smile back. He wore a dark, pin-striped business suit buttoned over a white shirt and his short, brown hair was gelled into position. She clasped his outstretched hand and kissed his cheek before turning and greeting Tony, who had moved down a chair. Finally she sat down, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap.

  The applause died down and her hands shook.

  “Welcome to the show, Libby. Your latest book in the Jessop Chronicles series has just been released and you’ve become an overnight sensation. Why do you think that is?”

  Libby smothered a smile. Her success had hardly come overnight and she didn’t think her sales really counted as a sensation, but she’d go with it.

  She took a breath. “The series has been out for a while now. Word of mouth has been building slowly.” Her voice quavered and she swallowed down the nerves. “On Winter’s Edge is the fourth book in the Jessop Chronicles, and readers are keen to find out what’s going to happen next to Shannon, Melissa and Jill.”

  “So what is going to happen to them?” Brian asked.

  Libby laughed. “You’ll have to read the book to find out!”

  The audience tittered.

  Libby’s hands stopped trembling as Brian said, “It’s on my bedside table.” He grinned at her. “I’m sure many people are wondering where you get your ideas from. Some of the creatures in your world are weird and wonderful.”

  Libby leaned forward slightly. “Ideas are all around. They’re everywhere.” The brick in her stomach dissolved. This was what she knew. She could talk about her writing until the cows came home. “It’s a matter of recognizing how they can be used.”

  Ten minutes later Brian wrapped up the interview. “Everyone is going to rush out and buy a copy of On Winter’s Edge now.” He turned to the audience. “Please thank Libby Myles.”

  Libby smiled out at the audience as they applauded. It was over.

  She barely remembered what she’d said but she was pretty sure it had gone well.

  “My final guest tonight is the devil of rock himself, Kent Downer.”

  A section of the small studio audience went mad, screaming and shouting. Libby stood and moved down a chair to make way for Kent, who sauntered down the stairs, acknowledging the screaming girls with a salute and shaking Brian’s hand with gusto.

  Obviously Brian’s hands weren’t contagious. Libby smirked.

  The girls finally calmed down and Brian was able to speak. “Sounds like your fans are pleased you’ve finally decided to tour Australia. What can they expect at your concert?”

  “The best time of their lives,” Kent drawled.

  Someone in the audience shrieked, “I love you, Kent.”

  “Love y’all,” Kent called back, blowing a kiss.

  Was this guy for real? Libby forced herself not to roll her eyes. His arrogance reminded her of her ex. Her heart twinged and she pushed the thought away.

  Kent launched into the details of his show.

  Then everything went dark.

  Blackout.

  ***

  Kent’s breath hitched as darkness filled every space. He struggled to hold back the fear surging up and his pulse raced.

  “There’s no light,” he whispered to remind himself that he was still there.

  The crowd murmured and Brian’s voice called out, “Don’t panic, folks. Just a little power outage. Our technicians will have it fixed in a jiffy.”

  Kent gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting in. He had to fight it. He couldn’t give in to the hysteria building inside him. He wasn’t trapped, he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

  “Let’s play eye spy,” Tony called and the audience tittered, a nervous response.

  Kent’s chest was tight, his breaths short and sharp as his windpipe closed over. He couldn’t go to pieces. He had to focus on something. He had to remember his tricks for fighting the fear, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate.

  Something warm and soft covered his hand. He flinched, and then, recognizing it as the writer’s hand, he clutched on to it, holding it tight. He wasn’t alone, she was next to him, grounding him to the now.

  Her other hand covered his and she stroked it, trying to soothe him.

  Kent forced back tears. Forward stroke, breathe in, backward stroke, breathe out.

  “Why don’t we all sing a song?” the writer asked loudly.

  “What about ‘Waltzing Matilda’?” Brian suggested. “Everyone should know it. On the count of three – one, two, three.”

  The audience started a very noisy, very off-key rendition of the Australian folk song. Kent didn’t know the words, but some of the fear drained out of him as he listened to the raucous voices.

  The writer ran her hand up and down his forearm, stroking it gently. Kent closed his eyes and focused on the sensation, visualizing her face; her emerald green eyes, her small nose, her hesitant smile and the straight, chocolate brown hair that fell past her shoulders. She was attractive, in an unassuming way
, and he concentrated on that hum of attraction he’d felt when he’d first noticed her in the green room.

  His hand trembled but little by little the fear receded.

  He took a deep breath in and opened his eyes as the song was ending. Off set a light appeared, bobbing up and down, and a crew member walked out carrying a torch.

  He was safe.

  Kent snatched away his hand and shielded his eyes from the light, resisting the urge to jump up and hug the man.

  He turned to the writer, hoping to thank her, but she was looking down at her hands in her lap.

  She’d saved his sanity.

  He couldn’t thank her now, couldn’t cause a fuss in front of an audience full of smart phones. He took a deep breath in and then out, his body weak with relief.

  He would thank her afterward.

  ***

  Libby ran a thumb over her aching hand. Kent had a strong grip. She checked for signs of bruising and flexed her fingers, trying not to wince. She needed a bag of ice.

  She turned toward Kent to see if he was all right. He lounged in the armchair as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but one hand clutched the armrest tightly while the other was fisted. He was still recovering. She tried to catch his eye to give him a reassuring smile, but Kent didn’t acknowledge her. Not even a glance, a nod or a smile of thanks.

  Disappointment flashed through her and she was annoyed with herself. What had she expected, a rush of gratitude? It was typical of a man not to admit to any weakness. In her experience, men had little time for women. It would probably ruin Kent’s image if he was seen talking to a writer.

  The crew member gave Brian the torch and left. Brian raised his voice. “It’s going to be dark for a few more minutes, folks. They’ve found the problem and are working to fix it. Now we have some light, why don’t we have some questions from the audience?”

  “Will you marry me, Kent?” a woman yelled.

  The crowd laughed.

  “I’d hate to put Kent on the spot,” Brian said and shone the torch over the audience. “Any other questions?”