Her daddy had said he was proud, too. Just not enough. While she’d never asked her father to plead her case at their label, Wheelhouse Records, she realized, deep down, she’d hoped he would—for this song—without her having to ask. But if he had championed her, she’d be cutting the single, not Emmy and some new music reality TV star.
“You good?” her father asked.
No. She glared.
He sighed. “Breathe, baby girl. Don’t want you spitting fire at folk for the rest of the night.”
She didn’t need to be reminded of the Three Kings fans lined up outside. This had been her life for the past ten years. It was more than singing side by side with her twin sister and older brother, playing her guitar until her fingertips hurt, or waking up humming a new melody, new lyrics already taking shape. It was making people feel. The only thing that mattered was the fans. Was she upset? Yes. Hurt? Most definitely. But when she left her dressing room, a dazzling smile would be on her face—for them. After the meet and greet would be another story.
Her father let out a long, pained sigh. “Might as well go ahead and send him in.”
Send who in? Her dressing room was entirely too crowded already. Not that protesting would make a bit of difference. She flopped into the chair before her illuminated makeup mirror, all but choking on frustration, and rubbed lotion into her fingers and hands. Hands that were shaking.
Steve leaned out her dressing room door, calling, “Come on in, Jace. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Jace. She froze. As in Jace-the-song-stealer Black? She was not looking forward to meeting him. Some wannabe singer from a no-count TV talent show. American Voice? Or Next Top Musician? Or something else gimmicky and stupid?
In the mirror, she shot daggers her father’s way. He was pushing it—pushing her. She applied a stroke of bloodred color to her mouth, jammed the lipstick lid back on, and pressed her hands against her thighs before risking a glance in the mirror at the man who’d stolen her dreams.
He was big. Big big. He had to stoop to get through the door of her dressing room.
“Mr. King, sir.” Jace’s voice was deep and smooth and impossible to ignore. But that didn’t mean he could sing. “It’s a real honor.” He extended a hand to her father. Polite. That was something.
“Good to meet you, son,” her father answered, shaking his hand and clapping Jace on the shoulder.
Tall and broad-shouldered. A weathered black leather jacket hugged the breadth of his shoulders and upper arms. As he pivoted on the heel of his boot, her gaze wandered south, revealing a perfect ass gloved in faded denim. She blew out a long, slow breath. Very nice packaging. But a great body didn’t mean diddly when you were performing live, in front of an audience of thousands.
He glanced her way then. It was a glance, nothing really, but it was enough.
Oh hell.
Of course he was drop-dead gorgeous. Thick black hair, strong jaw, and a wicked, tempting grin on very nice lips. Dammit. He shook hands with her weasel manager, Steve, before giving her his full attention. A jolt of pure appreciation raced down her spine to the tips of her crystal-encrusted boots. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. She fiddled with her heavy silver Tiffany charm bracelet and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, too agitated to sit still.
Talented or not, it wouldn’t matter. Not when he looked like that. Which was exactly why he was here. That face. That body. Jace Black and Emmy Lou King? His dark, dangerous good looks and her sister’s golden sweetness? They’d make quite a pair onstage, singing her song…
Her song.
Her temper flared, quick and hot. She didn’t give a damn what he looked like. Or if he had manners. He hadn’t earned the right to her words, not by a long shot. And since he was a big boy, she’d take it upon herself to show him how tough this industry could be. Starting right here, right now.
His gaze locked with her reflection. “I can’t tell you how…amazing it is to meet you, Miss King.” That velvet voice was far too yummy. “I know every word to every song you’ve written.” He needed to stop looking at her so she could stay pissed off and feisty.
But he didn’t. And the longer he looked, the harder it was to overlook the way he was looking at her. Admiring her as a singer and songwriter was one thing. But right now, something told her he was appreciating more than her music.
Too bad she couldn’t like him. At all.
She ignored her daddy’s warning look and stood, turning to face Jace. Her momma raised her daughters with a deep understanding of female charm and the power it could wield. With a dazzling smile, she shook the hand he offered, fully intending to use her powers for evil. But the brush of his calloused fingers against her palm threw off her concentration. It had been a long time since she’d been even slightly attracted to a man. But this time, there was nothing slight about what she was feeling. No, no, no. Stay mad. “Oh, I doubt that, Chase.”
“Jace,” he said, grinning.
Oh hell, this is bad. That smile. She knew his name, but still… “Right.” She bit into her lower lip, drawing his attention to her mouth.
His nostrils flared just enough to make her insides soften. Not the reaction she was hoping for. He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, that square jaw of his clenched. Tight. That was a weakness of hers—a man’s jaw muscle. Only two things made a man’s jaw tick like that: anger or desire. And, right now, she was pretty sure Jace Black didn’t have a thing in the world to be angry about. But she did. Big-time. The slow, liquid burn taking up residence deep in her stomach was beyond inconvenient.
Steve said something original like, “What did you think of the show?”
“Incredible. Y’all are even better live, I think, if that’s possible,” Jace said. “I’m a little starstruck—guess you can tell.”
Was he? She couldn’t tell—his hotness was getting in the way. No way she was going to let a pretty face and tingles lead her astray, not this time. “That’s always nice to hear.” If it was true.
“I want to thank you,” Jace said to her father—of course. Only someone like Hank King could get a nobody reality star this sort of break. “I know how lucky I am to get this opportunity.” He had no idea. His luck was her loss. Not that he could know or understand how much his words stung. His gaze returned to her when he said, “Your music has always meant a lot to me—a lot of folk, I’m sure. But your new song—”
“My song?” She couldn’t take it anymore. His reminder lodged a sharp spike in her throat. “From what I hear, it’s yours now.” She ignored her daddy’s disapproving frown and the panic on Steve’s face. Like her temper was totally unexpected? They should have thought about that before bringing him in here seconds after crushing her hopes and dreams. The sting of tears infuriated her further. None of them would ever see her cry, dammit. Ever.
“It’s a good song.” From Jace’s expression, he knew something wasn’t right. But he kept right on talking. “It’s one of the best things you’ve written. When I read it—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I’m still in shock I get to sing it.”
“That makes two of us,” she whispered. But at least he got it, about the song, anyway.
He hesitated, then stepped closer. If she’d had room, she’d have stepped back. Because Jace Black up close was even better—worse—than Jace Black at a distance. Good skin. Even, white teeth. And a holy-hell amazing scent that had her toes curling in her blinged-out ostrich-skin boots.
“I’m guessing I wasn’t your first pick?” His gaze never left her face, waiting for an explanation.
She shrugged, wondering why she’d suddenly lost her ability to fire off something quick and biting.
“And you’re not happy about it.” He swallowed, the muscles in his throat working.
She heard him—she did. But the air between them was crackling something fierce and it was taking total co
ncentration not to get lost in those light brown eyes. After spending the last two years avoiding men, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, was happening. Only that she needed to keep her guard up and as much space as possible between them. Pretty words and even prettier packaging might have made it easier for him to worm his way in with other people, but it wouldn’t work on her.
What did he want? Beyond singing her song, of course. She studied him openly, exploring his face and searching his gaze for some nervous flutter or guilty flush. Mickey’s eyes tightened when he was hiding something. Just a little, mind you, but when she saw it now, she knew it was a red flag. And Uncle Tig… No. She swept thoughts of him aside.
But Jace?
The flash of pure, unfiltered male appreciation in those incredible eyes had her insides fluid and hot. If only they’d met under other circumstances…then it would be okay to get tangled up in bed somewhere—and have one hell of a time wearing each other out.
She swallowed, the images all too tempting. Too bad she had to hate him. “Don’t you worry over me, Jason. I’m tough.”
She wasn’t feeling very tough at the moment. The sooner today was over, the sooner she was done with Jace Black. Which was better for his career, anyway. Even though she was pissed he’d taken her song, it wasn’t in her to intentionally sink his career just to spite him. No, that was more her momma’s MO—and she was nothing, nothing, like her momma.
Enough. She was tired and irritable and on the verge of coming undone. Her fans were waiting and they deserved the best her she could muster. She turned, glancing at her reflection and smoothing a wayward strand of long blond hair into place. Crystal chandelier earrings and a beyond-blinding crystal necklace—Momma was all about the bling—accented the plunging neckline of the concert’s final costume change. The ultrafine black suede fringed dress felt like silk and was cut to perfection, clinging in all the right places.
From the tightness of Jace Black’s jaw, he noticed.
Maybe she could muster up the energy to mess with him a little, for the hell of it. “Time to go meet the fans.” A dazzling smile just for him. Yep, that floored him. “You are planning on tagging along, aren’t you?”
His gaze narrowed—confused. Maybe even a little nervous.
“We weren’t staying—” a man in the corner said.
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.” She hooked her arm through Jace’s. A warm, very thickly muscled arm. Not that muscles mattered. “And who are you, anyway?”
“My manager. Luke Samuels,” Jace said.
A weasel—like Steve. He had hair and was dressed better, but there was no denying the similarities: too eager to please and dewy with anxious sweat. “Miss King, it’s an honor, a real honor—”
“Sure. But since you’re here and all, might as well come meet some fans. Since our fans will be your fans soon enough.” She beamed up at Jace again, but this time around, he looked downright suspicious. So he was smart, too?
“If you want—” Luke began.
“I do,” she said, tugging Jace along. “Besides, you should meet Emmy, maybe get a few pics of the two of you.” She didn’t know why she was torturing herself. Seeing her sister and Jace together, paired up to sing her creation, wasn’t going to improve her mood. But there was no going back now.
Smile in place, she walked into the hall to the sound of those fans that paid extra money for the backstage passes and meet and greet. “You know how to work the crowd, Jake?” she asked, emphasizing the name. His delicious grin told her he hadn’t missed it. “Now’s a good time to get some practice.”
Now that she’d led him into the lion’s den, he could fend for himself. With a wink, she let him go—but he followed closely—his scent still teasing her nostrils. Best to ignore him and focus on doing her job.
She enjoyed this part of it. This was what it was about—these people loved their music, loved them. Their enthusiasm was contagious and reassuring. As much as she’d like to deny it, she wanted to be liked, maybe even a little bit adored, the way her sister and brother were.
And Jace Black? Apparently, people knew who he was and, from the way they screamed his name, liked him.
If he wasn’t stealing her song, she’d have considered being a fan, too. But he was, so she wasn’t. Still, from that wicked grin to those beautiful eyes, there was a whole lot about Jace Black to like.
* * *
Don’t screw this up. Jace tore his gaze from Krystal King.
If he was smart, he’d hang back and watch the Kings work the room. He could only hope to handle a crowd like this with half their composure. When someone recognized him from Next Top American Voice, he got red-faced and tongue-tied. He wasn’t sure why he’d gone along with Krystal—he just had. And now? He sure as hell hadn’t expected to be recognized. Women were screaming his name, waving their cameras at him—some of them were crying. Crying?
It made him uncomfortable as hell. Here he was, blushing and stumbling over what to say, and these people knew his name, thought he was talented, wanted to touch him and get his autograph.
“Smile and wave,” his little sister, Heather, had told him. “Pretend like you’re having fun. Like you’re going fishing.” He wished she were here, poking fun at him, keeping him grounded. Since she wasn’t, he’d follow her advice. He leaned into the crowd and smiled at the dozens of phones snapping pictures.
He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to this. To him, it was overwhelming. Crazy. And “part of the job”—the Wheelhouse Records PR department had assured him.
Krystal’s husky laughter set the hair on the back of his neck upright. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hugging a fan. The tenderness on her face was unexpected—and oh so real. He’d been warned about Krystal King. She was guarded. Check. Had a bit of a temper. Check. The spark in her green eyes confirmed that, too. No one had to tell him she was sexy as hell—he’d always known that. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for how fiercely he’d respond to her.
To say he was attracted to the rebel King was an understatement.
But there was more to Krystal King than what the media, Wheelhouse Records, and his manager had to say. Anyone who could write the lyrics she did or create music that made him ache was more than cold and angry. Her music was her voice—weighted with real passion. The sort of emotion that had him wearing out Three Kings CDs in his old truck and singing along whenever one of their songs was on the radio. His favorite songs? The ones she wrote. Not only did he admire her music, but he admired how she handled the bad-girl persona and public character-bashing she was regularly subjected to. He never believed the tabloid headlines or talk show gossip, but if she was angry and guarded, she had plenty of reasons.
Was he one of them now?
The way she’d looked at him…he hadn’t been prepared for that. He couldn’t tell if she was all angry fire or sizzling from of a different kind of flame. Wishful thinking. There was no way someone like Krystal King was interested in him. All he knew was looking at her too long had him burning in a way that set warning flares off in his brain. Watching her now, blond hair hanging down her back and the fringes of her black minidress swinging around a pair of long, toned golden legs, had him wishing. Hard.
Bad idea. Don’t screw this up.
“Jace.” A woman grabbed his hand. “I love you. Your voice is perfect.” Her cheeks were flushed. “You’re perfect. I voted for you every night.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m not perfect,” he said, smiling. “I can promise you that.”
“You are. You are. And I love you,” the woman insisted, her grip tightening.
“And he loves you, too. You have to share him with the rest of us,” Travis King, the only male member of the Three Kings, gently pried the woman’s hand loose. “But he’s real glad you came out to meet him. Got something for him to sign?”
The woman nodded and
offered him a poster of the Three Kings. He glanced at Travis and signed the corner, feeling like a fraud. He handed it back, smiled, and moved on. “Thanks,” he murmured to Travis.
“Clingers are hard,” Travis said, signing and talking and not missing a step. “One woman jumped over the tape and into my arms. She was no lightweight, either. Pulled a muscle in my back and had to get one of them to help her back onto the other side of the tape.”
Jace looked in the direction of Travis’s nod. Three men and one woman wearing “King’s Guard” shirts. Clever. “Security?” he asked, smiling in spite of himself.
“Always,” he said. “I hear my sister roped you into sticking around?”
“Not sure how it happened,” Jace confessed.
“Krystal has a way of getting what she wants.” Travis laughed. “Come on, take a break in the greenroom. Then it’s time for group pics and hanging with the money.” He led Jace down the hall, all the while smiling and waving.
Krystal joined them, no sign of her earlier tension present. She sort of…glowed, happy and excited. “You two stand together too long and we might have a riot on our hands.”
Was that a compliment? It sure as hell sounded like one.
“Just own it, man. Own it and enjoy every minute.” Travis grinned. “You’ll never have to sleep alone again.”
“Travis, there are times I’m ashamed to call you my brother.” Clearly, she didn’t appreciate her brother’s attitude. By the time they entered what resembled a small conference room, Krystal was back to being tense and quiet.
One wall was lined with mirrors and floor-to-ceiling folding screens. Jace was blindsided by the photographs hanging on the wall just inside. He wandered, reading autographs and shaking his head at the impressive display of talent that had visited the Chesapeake Energy Arena before him. Willie Nelson. John Connelly. Loretta Lynn. And a smiling, younger Hank King. Here he was, a west Texas roughneck, surrounded by reminders of everything he wasn’t. Sooner or later, the rest of the world would snap out of it and he’d be back on the grasshoppers, drilling for oil from dawn till dusk.
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