Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas (4 page)

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The well-worn leather of her coat surrounded her like arms as Harley walked down the hall toward Damien’s office Monday morning. Her friend Jace’s arms, to be exact, arms that gave her courage, telling her she could do this, just like Jace had told her when she was eighteen, lost and uncertain. The lead singer of Aftershock possessed a gift for making people believe what he said was truth. She missed him, and she prayed he was right as she removed the coat he’d given her long ago and tucked it over her arm before entering Damien’s office.

The gravel in Damien’s voice tightened her belly as her boss came into view. His tall frame filled the heavy captain’s chair behind a mahogany desk of obscene proportions. He reminded her of a king ruling a kingdom, only this king was tense. Worried. All was not well in the land of Adams, apparently.

“What the hell happened?”

Uh-oh. Harley stood uncertainly just inside the doorway. Advance or retreat? She’d taken one step back when Damien’s words stopped her.

“When will he be out of surgery?” he asked, then, “Damn it! No, I don’t want him worrying about the shows. He needs to worry about himself, for—”

The end of the sentence was cut off when he caught her eye. His lips, those full lips she’d fantasized about, tightened. Nodding to the chair in front of his desk, he watched her sit as he continued to listen to his caller. The longer he listened, the more speculative his gaze became, until Harley squirmed in her seat and wondered what the hell was going on.

The low rumble of the caller’s voice cut off as Damien’s barked, “Marc, I think I have a solution. Uh-huh. I’ll call you back. Let me know the minute the hospital gives you an update.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.

Damien kept his eyes on her the entire time, that focused stare that seriously should be outlawed. There was nothing sexier than having every single bit of a man’s attention focused on her. Of course, Damien could probably be asleep and focused on nothing but his dreams, and he’d still be the sexiest man alive.

I thought we weren’t going to think about him that way anymore, remember? Wasn’t that what last night was about, getting him out of your system? Right, Harley? Harley? Har—

“Harley?”

“Hmm?” Actual words escaped her, because now she was squirming in her seat for a whole different reason: wet panties.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Yes, yes, we do
. Aloud she said, “And what’s that?”

He nodded toward the cell now lying on his desk. “That was my manager in LA. It appears the event planner for our Christmas concert series, the series we’ve worked to set up for a year, is out of commission. He was caught in a ten-car pileup on the 101 this morning. Several fractures, including a crushed leg. He’s in surgery right now.”

Harley murmured her sympathies, but a sudden bad feeling was rearing its ugly head, a feeling that this “problem” was going to affect her in a major way. “What concert series?”

Damien tapped a long finger against the gleaming surface of his desk. He liked things neat, apparently, since only the phone, a small stack of files, and an open laptop cluttered the massive expanse of wood. “A series of benefit concerts through the month of December, one at each club, culminating with the New Year’s Eve Bash here at Thrice. We’ve been working for months to get everything in place, and now the man who knows every detail is unavailable.”

Dreading the answer, she made herself ask, “You have a solution?”

“Yes, I think I do.” That speculative gaze returned. “I want you to take over.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Three concerts in one month? Without any prep work or contact with the venues?
Please tell me you’re kidding. Please.

But Damien just cocked one dark brow at her. “What, don’t think you can do it, Wonder Girl?”

He was going to be the death of her; he really was. But that something stubborn deep in her gut wouldn’t let her back away from a challenge, even if the urge to tell him exactly where to shove his Underoos teetered on the tip of her tongue.
I’ll show you Wonder Girl, prick
. “No problem.”

“Good.” Damien’s smirk deepened the creases at the corners of his eyes. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow. Pack for at least two weeks.”

Two weeks? What the— “I can’t leave tomorrow.” Certainly not for that long. Klio could stay with Cassie, though the thought of being away from the baby left an ache in her heart, but no way in hell would she agree to two weeks away when she’d never been away from Klio longer than twelve hours. Not to mention Christmas. How would she get shopping do—

“You can if you want this job.”

What she really wanted was to smack that smirk right off his face. “I have things here I can’t just drop, Damien.” It was unreasonable to ask—unless you didn’t know your employee had a three-month-old baby at home. And Damien didn’t. He thought she was single and carefree and just being stubborn about meeting the challenge he’d set for her trial period. That’s what this was, no doubt about it. He wanted to see what she could do, prove her youth and seeming inexperience wouldn’t hinder her from leading in whatever situation she found herself. He would be trusting her with one-third of his livelihood when she became the permanent general manager of Thrice. He needed to see what she was capable of.

And she needed to show him.

Her sigh slid heavily from parted lips as she closed her eyes, struggling to accept the weight of her decision.
It’s for both of us. Klio’s too young to think you’ve abandoned her. She’ll be fine with Cassie. You can get some great presents in LA and Denver, right?
She forced her gaze back to Damien. “I’ll need some time to make arrangements. When’s the flight?”

Damien nodded with a satisfaction that said plainly she’d met her first test and passed. “As soon as Ryan can get us tickets.”

“Ryan?”

“My assistant.”

A slender man about her age walked through the open door, his smile shy, yet his words exuded confidence. “Assistant, schedule juggler, step-in manager, secretary—though I’m not gay—all-around gofer… You name it; I do it. Hi.” He offered her his hand.

“Hello,” she answered, wanting to turn and rub the man’s well-mannered greeting in their boss’s face. She barely refrained. “Harley Fisher.”

“I know, believe me,” he said, blue eyes sparkling behind the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. “Ryan King. ‘Big fan’ doesn’t begin to describe me. Aftershock rocks.”

A pleased blush crept into her cheeks. Meeting people who appreciated the band’s hard work and dedication to their music was the best part of her former profession. “Thanks.”

“Please tell me you’ll play for us sometime. Please?”

The puppy-dog expression on Ryan’s face was too darn cute, but before Harley could respond, Damien cleared his throat. Loudly. “If you’re done kissing her ass, Ryan, we have work to do.”

While Damien explained the situation and dictated an action list to Ryan, Harley’s thoughts were racing. She started her own list on her phone as she listened, adding everything she’d need to cover before she could leave Klio for a couple of weeks. Damn it, a couple of
weeks?
Her breath shortened painfully at the thought. She trusted Cassie, but…
weeks?
Not to mention the work ahead of her. Just thinking about it all put her head into a tailspin, and that was without knowing all the details yet.

Of course, by the time she’d teased out the details, she was hyperventilating. The first concert was scheduled for this Saturday, less than a week away, with a concert at Twice the next Saturday, and the New Year’s Eve Bash here at Thrice exactly two weeks after. They’d gotten lucky—not that any of this seemed lucky to her right now. The holiday landed on a Saturday this year, and every weekend except Christmas would boast a charity event. It was a brilliant way to pull the new nightclub into Damien’s overall brand and boost their public image. Many charities saw a drop-off in donations beginning the week of Christmas and extending into the New Year, so the events would help a lot of families as well. Still, her lungs hurt just thinking about it.

But the longer she went over the details Marc Ellis, Once’s manager, forwarded to Ryan from the coordinator’s computer, the more certain she became that they weren’t taking full advantage of this opportunity. Concerts were a great idea for a charity event, but in December, people were often on vacation, looking for things to do with family and friends, or simply itching for something different to jump into the holiday spirit. Her mind churned with options, and her thumbs cramped from tapping notes into her phone. When Damien came to collect her late in the afternoon for a tour of the club before they opened the doors for the night, she was ready to talk strategy.

“I’D LIKE TO add an indie band to each event.”

Damien continued to walk down the long hall for a few steps, words and meaning refusing to connect until the sunken dance area in Thrice’s main room came into view. He continued even farther, letting the idea sink in and, if he was honest, letting Harley simmer. Petty, he knew, but also nominal payback for the amount of time he’d wasted thinking about her today. All of her. Her willingness to take on a challenge. Her quick smile. Her breasts, definitely her breasts…

Cursing the low V of the simple black tailored shirt she wore, he walked toward the wrought-iron rail surrounding the dance floor. Harley followed, surprising him with her silence. She wasn’t patient; he knew that already. She tended to throw herself into things without caution or concern. Very much like him, as a matter of fact. But now she waited. When he leaned elbows onto the railing, she mimicked him, allowing the silence to build between them.

He could see the advantages. Adding to the concerts, especially the later ones, would add to the excitement. Harley probably had the connections to make it happen, but was she biting off more than she could handle just to prove she could?

“Like…?” he asked.

Harley turned to face him, leaning heavily on the rail. “Weekend Washout, Taste the Eight, and Aftershock.”

All big-name bands in the indie world. Still… “This isn’t an opportunity to promote your own band.”

Her eyes narrowed, speaking clearly of her annoyance. “Aftershock is no longer my band, Damien, as I think we covered Saturday night. And I didn’t choose them to promote them. I chose them because they are a band linked inherently with Atlanta, just as Weekend Washout is linked to LA, and Taste the Eight to Denver. They are homegrown bands, and their draw is strong for each location. The sold-out status of their home concerts proves it.”

“And you happen to know them all personally.” The thought irritated him, though he refused to examine why.

“Yes, I do, and I know each band has been willing to do charity concerts in the past. Not everyone is.” A wicked grin flickered across her lips. “Sometimes it pays to know people.”

And sometimes knowing “people” blows up in your face, he thought as the desire to kiss that smile off her lips rose.
You don’t do employees, remember?

The reminder didn’t lessen his agitation. He’d tried to keep busy, tried to keep his mind off his soon-to-be manager while foisting her off on Ryan to get up to speed on the December events, but just knowing she was in the building gave it a different feel, one almost of anticipation, as if he were merely holding his breath until the next time he saw her. It made him horny—and angry—and he was never either of those at work. He prided himself on the ability to turn off his libido when in boss mode. Picking up a date or two after hours, that happened frequently, much to his and the woman’s mutual pleasure, but never on the clock. Not him. Harley provoked responses he’d prided himself on controlling, which pissed him off even more.

Harley’s newfound patience apparently ran thin, because she stopped waiting for his response. “We can also do more with our promo. Your coordinator is good—don’t get me wrong—but if we beefed up PR, possibly with a fan event or something, we could generate more buzz and get the crowds in. I’ve looked at the numbers for the concert this week, and they’re not where we could get them with a bit more push.”

“What’s wrong with the numbers?” Marc had been scheduled to update him this morning, but that meeting was precluded by a trip to the hospital to wait on word about John.

“Nothing’s wrong with them, per se…” Harley hesitated, catching her pouty lower lip between white teeth in a way his dick definitely noticed. “Look, I’m not gonna diss anyone, but you’ve got the makings of a great string of concerts here: big-name bands, money for a good cause, the holiday season drawing in more people. This should be a sellout no-brainer, but it’s not selling out.”

“What are the numbers?”

“About half.”

Half?
“For LA?”

“Yes.”

Shit, she was right. They definitely should have higher numbers, not just for the clubs but for their charity. They were obviously missing something.

“What do you recommend?” he asked warily. As much as he wanted to trust her, he didn’t trust anyone who hadn’t proven themselves. Harley had a long way to go yet.

Her eyes lit up, and she straightened, hands gesturing as excitement took hold. “I say we expand into an all-day event, maybe noon to midnight. Add in some signings, get local vendors in for food, that kind of thing. Have one concert early in the afternoon with an indie band, an extended session so fans get their money’s worth, then the longer concert in the evening with the mainstream band you’ve booked. Add in a DJ and dancing to give them a taste of what the clubs are all about, and it’s a win-win. We could even host a contest for fans to attend an exclusive get-together with the bands between the two concerts. Your coordinator did all the traditional promo and we do have some live interviews just before each event that we can capitalize on, but music fans…they tend to be young, hip, tech savvy. We could coordinate the contest with Facebook, Twitter, the bands’ Web sites and fan clubs and loops, and we might double our attendance—and the amount of money we can draw in.”

“But the LA show is less than a week away.”