by Karina Bliss
“Symbiosis.”
“There you go.”
“A mutually beneficial relationship between two species.”
“You had me at symbiosis.”
He was trying to charm her and, oh boy, was it working. But some species shouldn’t intermingle.
“Since we spoke I’ve been reading rock biographies,” she said. “The style is very different from mine.” The majority had left Elizabeth queasy, anecdotes of gratuitous sex and willful self-destruction by men whose emotional development had stopped in adolescence. Some described deprived childhoods, but fame had only given them the opportunity to wreak emotional havoc on an epic scale.
Zander turned from the mirror. “I’m sensing you’ve already made up your mind here.”
“I probably have,” she admitted.
“Then why come to see me?”
“I wanted to meet LightBrigade.”
His impatience dissolved into a sly grin. “My library has first editions of both Jefferson and Franklin’s autobiographies.”
“Now that,” she conceded, “is tempting.”
“Are you concerned about your literary reputation? Jumping into the mosh pit of commercialism with a rock star?”
“If writing was my primary source of income I’d have to consider whether I’d be diluting my brand.” She smiled. “But as you pointed out during our phone call, my readers are relatively few.”
“But we’re quality,” Zander reminded her. He fastened a couple of chunky silver bracelets on his wrist and slid a skull ring on the index finger of his left hand. He now wore more jewelry than she owned.
“Besides,” she added, “if I made literary awards the goal I’d start writing for glory, instead of from passion. And if your work isn’t feeding your soul, then what’s the point of it?”
His brow creased; he looked at her as though trying to make her out. If the rocker was using Botox, then he was between shots.
“Is one of your objections religious?”
Now that was unexpected. “How so?”
“You’re a preacher’s daughter. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll might fall outside your comfort zone.”
Preacher’s daughter. The American term sounded so much more fire-and-brimstone, Bible-thumping fun than minister’s daughter. “It’s a misconception that clergy kids grow up wide-eyed innocents,” she said. “All types of people came through the parsonage. I’m not easily shocked, though you might startle me.”
He grinned. “Now you make me want to try.”
I like him, she thought, surprised. His self-deprecating humor hadn’t come across in print, but clearly Zander Freedman was in on his own joke, which suggested his reprobate persona was partly a construct—for privacy or self-protection?
Dragging a director’s chair opposite, he sat and leaned forward, resting his forearms loosely on his knees. His shirt gaped open and the angel’s wings reappeared in all their dark-etched glory.
“What’s your dream, Elizabeth? Hell, that’s a mouthful. Liz.”
“Dream? And I prefer Elizabeth.”
“Imagine that money’s no object, Lizzy. I added a syllable because I’m a guy willing to compromise. What would you do?”
The spark of annoyance that he wouldn’t use her name shielded her against his sex appeal. “I’d take six months sabbatical, go to the States and research my next project, Alex.”
Zander’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled an angel’s smile to go with the wings. “And what’s your next project, Eliza? Three syllables, that’s more than meeting you halfway.”
She returned an angel smile of her own. “The four chaplains, Alexander.”
He was momentarily distracted. “A quartet of Chaplin impersonators?”
“Four US Army chaplains of different faiths. In World War Two, they gave away their life jackets to save others when their troopship was torpedoed. As the USAT Dorchester sank, they linked arms and stood on the deck singing hymns.” She got a lump in her throat thinking about it.
“A heroic story that deserves to be told,” he agreed cheerfully. “I’ll pay you eighty grand American, and throw in two percent of royalties. Take a longer sabbatical and devote yourself to researching these paragons.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “That is a very good offer.”
“Because I don’t want another writer, Elizabeth. Notice I’m using all four syllables? I want you.”
“The most important quality of a biographer is empathy.” She tried to find a diplomatic way to put this. “I’m not sure I can find a way into your personality.”
“Because I’m a tantrum-throwing, self-indulgent egomaniac?”
She nodded.
“At points in my life that’s been true,” he conceded. “But I’m also the CEO of an eighteen-year-old mega-conglomerate called Rage and an award-winning songwriter. I’ve lived a big life and my mistakes are to scale. I can’t change the past and I’m proud of being a survivor in this business.” His expression mellowed to soulful. “You have the ability to make controversial characters sympathetic. Maybe I just want to be understood.”
The logical side of Elizabeth’s brain suggested he was playing the poor little rock boy card to appeal to her softer side. Unfortunately, her softer side melted all over it.
Zander seemed to sense her weakening because he leaned in for the kill. “Stonewall Jackson might have been a brilliant military tactician and a devout Christian, but he was also on the wrong side of the slavery debate. Yet you made me appreciate that within the confines of his faith and his society he tried to be honorable. He looked after whoever he was responsible for, be they his soldiers or his slaves.”
“Zee looks after his slaves too,” Dimity commented, returning with the tea.
“You’re not helping,” he said.
Glancing at her dazed expression, Dimity smiled with a “told-you-so” waspishness that stung Elizabeth out of her stupor.
“My God, he’s good,” she marveled. “How long before immunity kicks in?”
The blonde passed her the mug of tea. “When you realize his heart’s not in it.”
“Hey, Doc.” Zander snapped his fingers under her nose. “We’re the ones supposed to be bonding here.”
“May I be blunt?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“I have a mortgage, a job and a professional reputation to safeguard. And you’ve already fired two writers.”
“The first was more interested in trying to sleep with groupies, the second in sleeping with me.”
About to say, “But weren’t they both men?” Elizabeth stopped herself. “Okay.” The tea was weak and almost cold. Even Dimity wasn’t perfect. She put the mug down. “I’d require a ‘no-fire’ clause in our contract.”
Zander’s full mouth tightened briefly. “Okay, as long as it goes both ways. We both commit. I won’t lie, I am demanding.”
“I’ve been living with two preschoolers for three months. I expect I can handle a rock star for five.”
Dimity stared at her, so did Zander.
Elizabeth waited a beat. “Joke.”
“Dimity,” he said, still staring at Elizabeth. “Am I doing the right thing here?”
“I don’t know,” said his PA thoughtfully. “But it’ll be fun finding out.”
“A tip, Dr. Winston,” he suggested gently. “The secret to handling me is not comparing me to toddlers. Even as a joke.”
“If I take the job, I’ll bear that in mind.”
Zander rolled up his left pant leg to fasten a loose buckle on his boot and Elizabeth glimpsed a nicotine patch on his calf. The hint of vulnerability fascinated her. For all his fame, he was only human, subject to the same hurdles as everyone else.
“While we’re talking conditions,” he said briskly as he straightened, “I have veto over everything in the final manuscript.”
“If it’s written in first person, it will be in your own words.”
“Do I strike you as a guy who censors himself? I have the
casting vote. Always.”
“But you’d listen to my advice?”
“I’m not paying you eighty grand to ignore you. So have we got a deal?”
He was manipulative, honest, gifted, charismatic, a leader, morally ambiguous—everything, in fact she sought in a biography subject. When in her life would she have another opportunity to work with a living legend?
“I’m interested—in principle.”
He received a signal from Dimity. “Walk with me.”
He strode out, seemingly unconscious of the stillness that resulted as the crew caught sight of him and paused in their labors.
“Zee.”
“Zander.”
He acknowledged every greeting like a king greeting his courtiers.
“This way.” A security guy ushered him into another room, larger, occupied by three dazzling men. One paced, one sat on a couch plucking a guitar and being talked at by a third. “…no reason Kayla and the kids can’t come on the next tour leg.”
“There are plenty of reasons,” Zander interrupted sharply. “The first being talk to me… Later.” He gestured toward them, too generally for her to make specific IDs. “Meet the other members of Rage—Moss, Jared and Seth-a-fellow-Kiwi. Guys, this is Elizabeth Winston. She’s taking over writing my memoir.”
She received a polite acknowledgment, similar to that given to the new girlfriend of a recidivist womanizer. Let’s see if you’re here tomorrow.
Definitely a no-fire clause.
“I haven’t said yes except in principle,” she reminded Zander. “I can’t give you a definite answer until I’ve secured leave.”
“Ever heard the saying it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than seek permission?”
“Is that how you operate?”
He laughed. “If I asked forgiveness of everyone I’ve wronged, I’d need to wear knee pads.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’m really sorry I can’t stay for your concert.”
“Your sister’s birthday takes precedence,” he said.
The guy on the couch stopped playing his guitar. All three men shifted to stare at her, their mouths open.
Puzzled, Elizabeth glanced at Zander, who said smoothly, “I’ll walk you to the door.”
They paused there and she thrust out her hand. Another hug would finish her. “So, I’ll let you—”
“No. Make your decision now, Elizabeth.” His smile effortlessly spinning her back into his orbit, Zander lifted her hand and kissed it. The lightest brush of lips and yet it burned. “Will you lie down with a sinner—metaphorically speaking—to get to your saints?”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth followed a burst of raucous laughter into her sister’s terraced backyard, where the lingering scent of barbecued meat fraternized with the perfume of fall-blooming jasmine climbing the fence.
Dirty plates piled up at one end of the chic outdoor table and a circle of empty wine and beer bottles in the middle explained the rampant joviality. The three Winstons, with their various shades of red hair, were easy to distinguish from their spouses.
“Hi everyone. Sorry I missed dinner.”
She received a chorus of hellos, one from a stranger. Elizabeth frowned. Male.
The birthday girl came over. Each of the Winston sisters had a signature walk. Marti glided, Elizabeth strode and Belle bustled—or waddled if she was pregnant. “We saved you a piece of cake,” Marti said. She kissed Elizabeth on both cheeks, engulfing them both in Chanel No. 5.
It didn’t hide the smell of a rat. “Why is there a spare guy?”
Her sister’s hazel eyes widened innocently. “Don’t get all suspicious, he’s an old school friend of Luke’s.” Their baby brother.
“And at least ten years older! For heaven’s sake, Marti, we talked about this.”
“And we listened. Sheesh, are single men banned from our lives?” She regarded Elizabeth critically. “You look very earth mother with no makeup and your hair all curly… Did you know you have ink on your pants?” Marti didn’t wait for an answer. “Belle and Hayden won’t tell us where you’ve been. They got all furtive and nose-tapping about it. We plied them with alcohol, but except for ensuring you’ll be the one getting up with their kids at five-thirty a.m.—nothing. Is that my present?”
Elizabeth handed over the spa voucher Marti had requested. The Winston family operated from present lists so people always got what they wanted.
“What a lovely surprise,” said Marti.
Belle approached with her husband Hayden. “We’re a little tipsy,” she confided.
“So I see.” Smiling, Elizabeth straightened her sister’s purple party hat. “Better tell your designated driver what time the sitter is expecting us home.”
“Midnight,” Belle grinned. “Still ninety minutes before we turn into pumpkins.”
“Which is how your heads will feel in the morning.”
“Sorry about this, Elizabeth.” Hayden gave her the rubbery grin of the happily inebriated. “They worked us over good.”
“And you didn’t crack, I’m so proud of you.”
“I want all the details later,” Belle whispered. “What Zander said when you turned him down, how he moved, how he smelled…”
“Expensive,” Elizabeth said. Sexy as hell.
“Hey.” Hayden pulled his wife close. “You want to get lucky with me tonight or what?”
“Too much information.” Elizabeth put her hands over her ears. “But speaking of Zan—”
“Elizabeth.” Her brother’s new bride touched her arm, brown eyes apologetic. “I had nothing to do with Gareth being here tonight. The first I knew of it was when we picked him up on the way.”
“It’s okay, Rachel… I suspect Gareth doesn’t realize he’s been set up either.” The guy was too relaxed to be in on this, engrossed in a conversation with the guys. It was always amusing to see who her siblings thought she should pair up with. This one followed type, early-forties judging by his gray temples, and fastidiously groomed in corporate casual. Not handsome, but pleasantly featured. Much like herself in fact. She sighed. “Give Luke hell for me later.”
“I will,” her sister-in-law promised, but they both knew it was lip service. Rachel was constitutionally incapable of anything but gentle remonstrance.
Elizabeth walked over to the table and repeated the cheek kissing with Marti’s French husband Claude. Her bladed gaze sliced through her brother before she held out a hand to his “school friend” with a polite smile. “I’m Elizabeth, another sibling.”
His clasp was warm and friendly. “Gareth.”
“Here, take my seat.” Showing uncharacteristic solicitude, her brother vacated the chair beside his guest. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“Juice thanks, I’m driving.” She turned to Gareth. “How do you know Luke?”
“I’ve been his insurance broker for six months… Friendly guy though, inviting me to his sister’s birthday dinner.”
“I suspect Marti asked him to bring dessert.”
Across the table, Belle snorted into her wineglass.
Gareth looked puzzled. Definitely no idea. Elizabeth relaxed. “As part of your portfolio, do you sell travel insurance?”
Belle squealed. The silver heart on her pendant clunked the neck of an empty wine bottle as she leaned forward. “But you said you weren’t taking the job!”
“I also said, ‘Stop trying to fix me up.’” She swiped her finger through the chocolate frosting on her brother’s slice of birthday cake.
“Wait,” Gareth said. “Is that why I’m here?”
“What job?” Luke returned with Elizabeth’s juice and saw her licking frosting off her finger. “Hey, that’s my piece!”
“And revenge is sweet,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Claude reassured Gareth. “Ze Winstons ’ave a new focus. You are safe.”
“I have an announcement, people.” Elizabeth tapped her glass of juice with a fork and waited until she had everyone’s att
ention. “You’re looking at rocker Zander Freedman’s book mama.” Might as well start practicing the vernacular.
Seven faces looked at her blankly.
“Biographer,” she translated. “Assuming I can get leave, I’m spending five months helping Zander Freedman write his memoir.”
Her brother was the first to recover. “You’re shitting us,” he said slowly.
Belle held out her hand. “Swear jar.” Since her daughter had dropped a rude word after spending the day with Uncle Luke, she was trying to make him more conscious of his language.
Distracted, he handed over a buck. “How do you even know who he is?”
“I had several dentist visits recently.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“You’re not even interested in rock,” said Marti.
“That’s not true. I took the kids to hear the Wiggles last weekend.” The Aussie children’s band.
Gareth laughed.
“C’mon, Sis, be serious.” Luke poured himself another glass of wine. “The guy publicly admits to having beauty treatments.”
“You have to agree they work,” sighed Belle. Annoyed, her husband insisted no real man had manicures, facials or used moisturizer. There was an awkward moment when the Frenchman admitted to moisturizer, until Belle pointed out that Hayden used hair gel. Exceptions were made. Manicures, pedicures and facials were effeminate, the men decided, but massages passed the man-test under two conditions—as foreplay or in the treatment of a sports injury. Extra macho points if incurred through a contact sport.
“I think we’re getting a little off topic,” Elizabeth said dryly, “but did it ever cross your minds, guys, that someone whose masculinity doesn’t conform to narrow gender roles might be more secure in his sexuality?”
“Sorry, but in that area, Zander is an alpha-hole,” Marti said. “He only dates playmates and models. What was the last airhead called? Oh yes, Stormy.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean to sound snobbish, but these people are so clichéd.”
“I like his music,” Gareth said mildly. “The guy’s written some of my favorite songs.”
“Me also,” said Claude, “but what I cannot forgive is destroying the… Comment dit-on ‘l’héritage’?”