FLOWERS ON THE WALL (2 page)

Not today.

"I was on my way out the door when you called. Give Cora my best. I love you."

Her father didn't make it easy, but Quinn did love him. It helped that they didn't speak often and saw each other even less. There had been a time when pleasing him was all she cared about. She had been a year from getting her law degree when she had come to her senses. She didn't want to be a lawyer. Working at her father's firm would have ended in disaster—Quinn had no doubt.

Convincing her father was another matter. He was convinced that photography was a frivolous whim. When she was ready to return to the real world, he promised not to say I told you so—more than every other day for the rest of her life.

Photography was her passion. Her joy. The reason she spent long hours in her studio only to drop exhausted into bed. Quinn had a reputation as a perfectionist—something her father would appreciate in anyone else. She never settled for a shot that was
almost
right. She pushed herself to be the best. Nothing was going to stand in her way. Not her father. And not a rock star with an inflated idea of his own appeal.

I don't fuck groupies
. Ryder Hart had said it with such disdain. As though the women who threw themselves at him were beneath contempt. He might not fuck them now, but Quinn would bet he had at one time. And hadn't blinked at doing so. How had he spoken about them then? Not much better, she imagined. Arrogant prick.

She had hinted that she would sleep with him because it would feel so good when she turned him down.
After
he gave her what she wanted.

Quinn checked the clock. Quarter to one. She slid her feet into her boots before checking her reflection. The heels brought her to just under six feet tall. Her long legs were encased in her favorite pair of jeans. They were soft from frequent wear and washings. Her leather jacket was a pale gray and underneath, she sported a bright yellow t-shirt. Her look was casual but trendy. She loved when comfort and fashion meshed.

Quinn had kept her makeup to a minimum. A little mascara. Some blush and a touch of color for her lips. She left her shoulder-length auburn hair loose. A pair of silver hoops in her ears and she was ready to go.

This assignment was going to lift her career to the next level. A full spread in Rolling Stone. It was a coup for any photographer. Covering the final weeks of Ryder Hart's wildly successful world tour was the chance of a lifetime. He and his band were notoriously publicity shy. Access to the inner circle was harder to come by than a ticket to one of their concerts.

Grabbing her camera bag, Quinn took a deep breath. Whatever it took, short of using sex as an inducement, she was determined to win over Ryder Hart.

CHAPTER TWO

"SHE'S A GODDAMNED photographer, Ryder."

"I'm aware."

"Why are you going to so much trouble? She's here to do a job.
If
she impresses you. Not the other way around."

"Room service went to the trouble, not me." Ryder shifted the salt shaker, aligning it with the pepper. "I picked up the phone and placed the order. And what is wrong with adding a little class? Would you prefer I had a pizza delivered and popped the top on a couple of beers?"

"Rather than lobster and a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine? Yes."

As managers went, Ryder supposed that Alden Christopher wasn't any more protective than the next guy. But how would he know? Alden was his first and only.

Ryder had hustled his first paying gig when he was sixteen years old. A few bucks under the table and a couple of hot meals had meant the world to a kid struggling to get by. Things got better. But it had been a slow, hard fight. Alden had been the first person who believed in Ryder's talent. For that reason alone, he would have put up with a lot.

"Relax. Aren't you the one who convinced me to meet with her? I don't like anyone hanging around the band. And for two weeks? I want to get a feel for Quinn Abernathy. A nice, relaxed lunch will be a good start."

"Why didn't you invite the rest of the band?" Alden frowned as Ryder fussed over the place setting. "Vote like you always do. Either she's in or out."

"Nothing will be decided until everyone has a say." Satisfied that everything looked the way he wanted, he gave the chilling wine a turn around the ice bucket.

"Ashe won't care one way or the other. Dalton will say no. And Zoe will be a wild card. Nothing changes. We always end up on the same page eventually. Otherwise, it's a no. Simple as that."

"You want to sleep with her."

"All discussion of my sex life is off limits, Alden. Always was, always will be."

It was a sore subject with Alden. It rankled because he knew that Ryder never thought about what had happened all those years ago. And Alden thought about it all the time.

"If she's as professional as Rolling Stone claims, it won't be an issue. Quinn Abernathy doesn't sleep with anyone she photographs. It's practically written on her résumé."

"Ever?"

"No! Goddamn it, Ryder. I wasn't issuing a challenge."

Ryder grinned, the green in his hazel eyes seemed to gleam brighter than usual. "Isn't that a gauntlet I see on the floor?" With a flourish, he made a production of picking up the imaginary item. "Challenge accepted."

"I thought you didn't treat women as trophies." Alden's only hope was to appeal to Ryder's sense of chivalry.

"I won't sleep with the lovely Quinn unless she knows the rules." Ryder patted Alden on the back. "Relax. I've been celibate too long. A little fun under the sheets might be just what I need."

"But—"

"It's been a long tour, Alden. And I've been a very good boy." There was a knock at the door. "Don't I deserve a treat?"

This was not a discussion Ryder wanted to have with Alden. Or anyone. Except Quinn. And wasn't he going to enjoy that conversation? When the time came. But he planned on enjoying the dance. Let Alden think what he wanted.

"Ms. Abernathy. Right on time." Ryder stood back so Quinn could enter the room. "This is my manager, Alden Christopher. I believe you've spoken."

"Mr. Christopher." Quinn nodded as Ryder took her bag. "Careful. You have my livelihood in your hands."

"I will treat it as if it were one of my guitars."

Quinn relaxed. She had read that Ryder's guitars were his babies. She knew how he felt.

"I suppose I should leave you to get acquainted."

"Yes, you should." Ryder carefully set Quinn's bag on the sitting room table. "Make sure Paul is here to pick us up by five. The sound check was iffy last night, and I don't want to leave it to the last minute."

Alden nodded, sending Ryder one last look before he exited.

"Doesn't the show start at eight?" Quinn asked.

"That's right."

"Do you always get there three hours early?"

"Wine?" Ryder picked up the bottle.

"Please."

"I like to think of myself as a perfectionist. My bandmates aren't as complimentary." He handed her a filled glass. "But we agree on one thing. We want to put on the best show possible. Every night. The fans who shelled out their hard-earned money don't care that we've been touring for a year. This could be the only time they see us live. It has to be perfect."

"That's admirable. Do all entertainers feel the same?"

"I can only speak for myself. But I hope so."

Quinn knew the answer. It was a big fat no. She had been at performances where it was obvious the artist phoned it in. Last night had been her first Ryder Hart concert. It was a dazzling experience. She looked forward to seeing them again tonight. And hopefully every night for the next two weeks.

"How is your knee?"

"It's kind of you to ask." Ryder was surprised by the genuine concern in her voice.

"Better. A couple of Advil and some ice fixed it right up." There was a time he would have chased that with a snort of cocaine, but thankfully those days were over. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished." Quinn wasn't a breakfast person. That meant she usually ate lunch around noon. One o'clock meant her stomach was past ready to be filled.

"Lobster? I ordered the chicken in case you had an allergy to shellfish."

"Lobster is fine. Great. Thank you."

This was not what she had expected. Ryder held her chair, sitting her at a table with a spectacular view of the New York skyline. White linen. Expensive plates and silverware. Quinn would have been fine with pizza, beer, and paper plates. Though she had to admit, she preferred lobster and cold white wine.

"You smell amazing."

"Excuse me?"

Quinn had been so busy taking in the view and the table service, she had almost forgotten Ryder. Almost. He wasn't a man one could ignore for long.

"What is that fragrance?"

Ryder didn't sniff at her like an overly friendly dog. He simply breathed in without touching her. It was a strangely erotic moment.

"It doesn't have a name. Just a mixture of soap, shampoo, and body lotion. Unscented."

"Then it's you."

"I guess so."

Without further comment, Ryder took the seat opposite her and began serving lunch. Quinn quickly forgot about the city view. Her attention was focused on him.

Ryder Hart photographed like a dream. She knew because she had closely studied everything that was available. Poses or candid, the man didn't have a bad angle. But as she discovered last night as she watched him perform, pictures didn't do him justice.

A photo could capture his rugged good looks. It could show off his dark wavy hair that just brushed the collar of his shirt and his long, lean body with arms that looked like sculpted bronze. Ryder was a staggeringly good-looking man. Sexy as hell. Those qualities were easy for a photographer to capture. It was the animal magnetism they missed.

On television and in videos, he reached out and grabbed you. Pulling you in. Forcing you to listen as his voice completed the seduction. But in person, it was even more intense. Ryder Hart bombarded you non-stop with his charisma. Was it any wonder his concerts sold out in seconds?

Quinn's hands itched to pick up her camera. She knew she could do what nobody else had been able to accomplish. She was determined to capture Ryder's sexual energy.

"I recognize that look on your face," Ryder said with an easy smile.

"You do?" He caught her staring. How embarrassing. And unprofessional. Quinn hoped the floor would open up and suck her in.

"It's a spectacular view, isn't it?" Ryder turned his head toward the window. "The first time I saw New York from here, it blew me away. It's a lot different than at street level in the Bronx."

"That's where you grew up?"

"Until I was twelve."

Something flashed across Ryder's eyes, but it happened so quickly, Quinn couldn't be certain what it was. Pain? Anger? She knew his story. Or part of it. His childhood hadn't been an easy one.

"I try not to take it for granted." He looked Quinn directly in the eyes, his lips curving slightly. "It's easy to forget that all of this isn't the norm. Most people will never see that view. Not in person. Now and then, I have to remind myself of that."

"I grew up staying at the best hotels. Eating in the best restaurants." Quinn sipped the cold wine, sighing with pleasure. "Now that I have to watch my pennies, I finally appreciate what I used to take for granted."

"Did your family lose their money?"

"No. My father pulled his support when I chose photography over the law."

"I'm sorry."

"It was the best thing that could have happened to me. This poor little rich girl had to learn to stand on her own two feet." Quinn raised her foot, showing off the black leather boot. "It's amazing what you can get on eBay."

"You and my sister will have a lot to talk about. All through high school, she dressed like a trust fund princess while making minimum wage at Dairy Queen."

"I'll look forward to trading stories." She didn't push her luck. Just because Ryder mentioned his sister didn't mean Quinn had the job.

"You mentioned that you gave up the law for photography? Why?"

"Why do you write songs? Or perform?"

Ryder nodded. "It's in your blood. So this job isn't about the paycheck?"

"Not entirely," Quinn laughed. "Don't get me wrong. I like to eat. And having a roof over my head is a must. But I would swallow my pride and move in with my mother before I gave up taking pictures. It's who I am."

"Do you always eat like that? Or is it the excitement of a free meal?"

Quinn looked at her plate. She had practically eaten off the pattern. Rather than feel embarrassed, she took another helping. "This is me. I was blessed with good genes and a fast metabolism. I can eat most men under the table."

"If you like, I can get you a doggy bag for later."

"You think that's funny, but I won't say no. When midnight rolls around, a roll piled with lobster will hit the spot."

"I won't caution you to save room for dessert."

Ryder lifted a silver cloche to reveal two pieces of chocolate cake.

"Oh, heaven help me. I think I'm in love."

"THE DECISION IS up to you—as always."

Ryder looked from face to face. These people were his friends. His family. He would trust them with his life. And there wasn't a thing in the world he would hesitate to do for them. He wanted Quinn to photograph the waning tour. But if they said no, he would respect their choice.

"
You
want to say yes."

"That's my vote," Ryder nodded.

Reading Zoe wasn't as easy as when they were kids. She used to have an open expression. Now, he had to look hard to figure out what she was thinking. Right now, it could have been anything from what she had for lunch to who she was backing in the next presidential election.

"Are you hot for the photographer?" Dalton asked. Reading him was easy. He believed in letting people know how he felt. It was a trait that Ryder appreciated in a bandmate. But in the past, it had gotten his friend into a lot of trouble.

"Fuck, son. Why didn't you say so in the first place? You've been flying solo for too long. A duet is exactly what you need."