A Little Night Music (2 page)

“I wrote it last week.”

Gina snorted. “Oh, stupid, me, of course
you
did. But I haven’t, so I’ve got to go. Call me back if you start to freak out again, okay?”

“’Kay. Or I’ll call if I get any more ideas about the plan,” Hannah said, and hung up. She replaced the cell phone in its charger and wandered back into her bedroom. The window seat was padded, one of the few places in her room that she actually liked. Leaving the lights off, Hannah sat, pulling her long legs up and smoothing the skirt over them. The wide circular driveway outside was currently flooded with light. Fox’s Porsche was back in front of the door, so he must be getting ready to leave.

A pang twisted her chest. She’d blown it. He was going to leave, and she hadn’t even been able to put together a coherent sentence. Not to mention that she’d been the ultimate klutz.

But you kissed him,
a little voice reminded her.
And you’re going to kiss him again one day.

Hannah opened her window, letting in the mellow southern Californian spring air scented with night-blooming jasmine. Maybe she’d get to hear his voice one last time before he left.

Waiting patiently, Hannah was rewarded when she heard the front door, below and to her left, open. She couldn’t make out the words, but she guessed that her parents were saying goodnight to Fox. Hannah watched, secure in the dark, as he strode to his car.

Her heart pounded. He looked so hot in the tight black pants that her mouth dried up. He was so close, and yet so unattainable right now. He’d made that clear.

Fox opened the door to his dark-green Porsche, then paused and looked up at the house.

At Hannah’s window.

She shrank further back. If he saw her watching… She couldn’t bear to add to the embarrassment. She heard the car engine purr to life, and when she furtively glanced down again, Fox was gone.

Hannah stayed at the window for a long while, watching the lights of Los Angeles twinkling down the hill, hardening her resolve.

One day, so help her, she was going to make love to Nathaniel Fox.

Chapter One

Nine Years Later

“Are you ready for the meeting?” Sam asked.

Nate looked up, his fingers paused momentarily on the strings of his guitar. Distracted, he tried to remember what meeting he was supposed to be ready for.

“Oh, the new publicist, right,” he said finally. He strummed the guitar strings, stopping to tighten a tuning peg. A single plucked string filled the studio with monotonous sound before he stopped to make another minute adjustment.

“Ms. Montgomery will be here in half an hour,” Sam said, not moving.

“Fine,” Nate answered. He swung around on the stool, putting his back to his manager. He could still see him in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall. “You know where to find me.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

Nate leaned over the instrument cradled in his arms. “Publicists aren’t high on my list of favorite people right now, Sam.”

“I know you had a problem with the last one—”

“He offered me drugs, Sam,” Nate said, his voice low and tight.

Unbidden, the memory of that moment swam up into his consciousness. The smirk of the weasely little man, so sure that Nate would take him up on the offer. The moment of indecision, what had only been a few seconds but had felt like a lifetime as he’d battled the craving, the yearning to give in.

His hands tightened on the neck of the guitar, compressing the strings and drawing a low strangled sound from it. With effort, he let go.

The only good part of the memory was the expression on the weasel’s face when Nate had answered by grabbing him by his shirt front and telling him where he could put his drugs.

“And you said no,” Sam said.

Nate gritted his teeth. Put that way, it sounded like his refusal had been easy.

Sam continued. “That’s great. You’re clean now and I’m proud of you, but the fact is that you fired him. He was doing a hell of a job on publicity for the tour.”

“That layout in the
Weekly Word
wasn’t publicity, it was character assassination.” Nate swung back to face Sam. His manager’s hair had started to grey, the thick curls drawn back from a sharp face. Almost against his will, Nate felt his anger drain away. Sam had always been there for him, an odd cross between friend and father figure.

“Hannah Montgomery’s good, and we’re lucky to get her.”

“I know.” Nate scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll make nice with the publicity. I’ll even smile for the camera when I have to.”

“No, don’t make nice,” Sam said. “We don’t want nice. We want reformed bad boy. But still a bad boy.”

Nate grimaced.

“It’s what your fans expect,” Sam said. “Your image sells, and you know it. And let’s face it, after your last album, it’s your sex appeal we’re banking on.”

The words were a knife twisting in Nate’s stomach, but he said nothing. Only Sam could get away with a statement like that, because of everything that had gone before.

“Think about what I’ve said,” Sam said. “Hannah will be here soon, and we’re going out to dinner.”

“Dinner? Why?”

“To celebrate.” Sam pinned him with what Nate assumed was supposed to be a stern look. “You’re going to behave, aren’t you?”

“Like the devil that I am,” Nate promised.

Sam snorted, but the look in his eyes told Nate that some of his worry had been eased. “Half an hour, Nate.”

Nate waved him out of the rehearsal room. He stood, stretching the kinks from his spine. The piano to one side of the room beckoned, and he sat down at its bench, poising his fingers over the keys. After a moment, he hung his head, letting one finger plink a key. It had always been about the music, but after the cataclysmic flop of his last album, and everything that had happened after, even that was in danger.

This new publicist had better work out.

He rolled his shoulders and once again put his fingers to the keys. He transferred his tangled emotions into what he’d always done best. Music flowed, filling the room. The guitar would always be his stage instrument, but the piano filled a different need. He’d done some of his best writing on its keys.

The fact that he hadn’t written a single new note in the last two years was something only he and Sam knew.

And now here he was on the cusp of a tour for an album of cover tunes—and terrified of all the temptations waiting on the road.

He had to relax. T’ai chi helped but it wasn’t enough to smooth the tense ache in his shoulders, not enough to ensure he slept through the night.

Maybe he needed to get laid, he mused. He let his fingers play across the keys, stroking them as if they were a willing woman. Still, casual sex with some random bimbo had ceased to appeal, which left him very short of options.

He could only imagine how the tabloids would spin that one.

This was getting him nowhere, and he had work to do. There were a million details to pull together, and the tour was due to start in less than a week.

Despite himself, Nate found he was actually looking forward to meeting the new publicist. He’d liked her when he’d interviewed her over the phone. She had some good ideas, and her previous record spoke to her capabilities. She’d done a great job with the fallout from Jenna Glenn’s stage fright. This could be his opportunity to take control of his publicity, rid himself of some of the bad-boy image Sam seemed to think was so important, but which had led to such problems.

In spite of himself, he grinned. Maybe she’d even be cute.

*

Hannah presented her ID to the young man behind the desk while gracing him with a warm smile. “I’m here to see Sam Granby.”

“Of course, Ms. Montgomery,” he said. “Mr. Granby is waiting for you. Take the elevator to the fourth floor. He’s in conference room forty-two.”

“Thanks,” she said. Pocketing the ID, she headed towards the elevators, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She gave a quick glance to the oversized bronze sculpture rising up into the atrium on her left. Something about its flowing lines suggested the passion of music, the freedom of movement.

It made her think of Nate Fox, and sex.

It wasn’t helping.

She pushed the elevator button. What was taking so long? She glanced at her watch. The flight had been late getting into San Francisco, and the car Sam Granby had sent for her had gotten stuck in traffic. The universe was obviously conspiring against her, right down to the slow elevator. She pushed the button three more times for good measure.

Her cell rang. She switched her briefcase to her other hand and answered it.

“Where are you?” Gina demanded.

“Elevators,” Hannah said.

“And how many times have you pushed the button?” Gina asked.

A smile quirked Hannah’s mouth. Her best friend knew her too well. “Only four. I think.”

“Calm. Down.” Gina said. “Take a deep breath, or I swear I will bitch-slap you when I see you tonight.”

Hannah’s tension bubbled out as a giggle, and she felt a little better. Thank god Gina was there to ground her. Gina had juggled her schedule as a fashion photojournalist to be available to take shots of Nate for concert publicity.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah said. “I’m just nervous.”

Gina snorted.

“I don’t want to come across as a rabid fan.” Hannah fiddled with the earpiece of her sunglasses, realized she was doing it, and shoved them into her briefcase.

“But you
are
a rabid fan,” Gina said with a laugh. “You still have that poster of him hanging in your apartment.”

“But it’s not in my bedroom anymore,” Hannah pointed out.

“Only because your last boyfriend complained that he felt like he was being watched in bed,” Gina said. “Good thing you’re past him now—he’d get in the way of your vow.”

Her vow. To have her night of passion with Nathaniel Fox, the man she was now working for.

Gina had been the first person she’d called after she’d gotten the offer from Sam Granby. And, of course, Gina had immediately asked if she remembered what she’d sworn as a starstruck teenager.

Oh, Hannah remembered it all right. When Sam had made the initial contact about working for them, it was the first thing that had gone through her mind.

She’d seen Nate Fox a few times over the years at industry parties. Had even spoken to him a few times. He’d never connected her with the gawky teenager who’d fallen into his arms—or if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it. He’d always had some svelte and gorgeous model or starlet on his arm, a drink in his hand. He’d been a hard partier, on the A-list, in demand for every opening at every new hot spot.

And then he’d fallen.

Here it was, nine years later, and despite his history and the scandal, she still got hot and bothered when she saw him in concert. “Pavlov’s bimbo,” she and Gina called the phenomenon. The sound of his voice coming through the microphone was all it took to get her panties wet.

“I know what you’re thinking about!” Gina said with a laugh, breaking into Hannah’s thoughts.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hannah said. “I’m a professional, and I’m here to do a job.”

“Uh-huh,” Gina said dubiously. “And you’re a rotten liar.”

The elevator pinged, saving Hannah the need to answer. Inside, she pushed the button for the fourth floor. Once.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, unsure if it were butterflies or the airplane coffee that was responsible for the state of her stomach.

Of course, if she were being honest, she would admit that it was entirely due to meeting him again. She could close her eyes and picture the midnight silk of his hair brushing against his shoulders. The thick fringe of lashes that threw his dark blue eyes into shadow.

The curve of his mouth that spoke of hot passion.

This time, she knew what to do with him. She was no longer small enough to be thrown back into the pond. The glasses were long gone, banished by Lasik surgery. Her Bozo the Clown curls were gone, too. It had taken years and the aid of a pricey hairdresser, but she’d finally learned to tame the frizz, smoothing the curl into sleek waves that flowed down her back.

Hannah had dressed carefully for this meeting, searching for a combination of utterly competent businessperson, gracefully creative publicist, and sexually confident woman. The pale-green silk noile of her suit highlighted her complexion and outlined her curves without being tight or obvious. The skirt was professional but short. A hint of dark green lace at the vee of the suit jacket was the only indication of the stretch lace camisole beneath.

“I have to go,” she told Gina.

“Okay. The captain just said we’ll be landing in half an hour. Call me when you find out where we’re eating, and I’ll meet you at the restaurant. And remember not to be tongue-tied when you meet him. You can put your tongue to better uses when you seduce him.”

Hannah hung up, still laughing.

The elevator let her out into a long hallway, the cream walls lined with framed posters of the stars who’d recorded at the studio. Hannah recognized all of them, having met a good many of them over the years. Her career had taken off in college when she’d turned a young college band into a regional, and then a national phenomenon.

With the intimate knowledge of the music business gained from watching her father, and the contacts she’d made from her work with Konfused Khildren, Hannah had worked her way up until she was one of the best PR people in the music business. She’d been using her mother’s maiden name since college, and most people didn’t even realize she was the daughter of Everett Forbes, producer extraordinaire.

And now here she was, working for her idol.

The first thing that Hannah saw when she walked into Sam Granby’s office was the poster of Nate Fox on the wall. It had been taken a few years after the one she had hanging up in her apartment. His guitar was slung at his side, an extension of his body, one hip propped lazily against a stone wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked dark and dangerous. The leather that clung to his thighs was pulled taut, outlining lean muscles.