“He needs to be accessible,” I said, dictating to my phone as I twisted my chair back and forth. My fingers worked a stress ball as I passed it back and forth between my hands. The repetitive movement was soothing, helping me stay focused on the task at hand.

Or as focused as I could be when my attention kept wanting to wander in inappropriate directions.

Like to the way his jeans had shown off strong, lean legs and a firm ass that made me want to sink my teeth–

“If we want people to forgive him for being human, he has to show them that he’s human. No suits or tuxes. He needs to avoid the black-tie charity events where the attendees are all wealthy.”

He definitely looked good in a tux. Something about the contrast between his tattoos and slightly scruffy rock star image, and the polished, debonair look just did it for me.

No. I needed to stop. Not just because he was a client, but because even if he wasn’t, nothing would happen between us. I wasn’t interested in being another notch on his bedpost. I had too much self-respect to act like I needed someone like him if I wanted to get off.

“During initial discussions, Mr. Union was unable to offer any suggestions about what could be done to improve his image. Recommendations to abstain from alcohol were met with silence and barely concealed hostility, so there’s a possibility – probability – that Mr. Union’s antics aren’t yet over. We need to have a plan in place to deal with future instances.”

I really hoped that wasn’t going to be the case. I knew that, technically, it would be financially advantageous to have a client who repeatedly got into trouble and needed us to fix things. The bigger the project, the more billable hours. But I didn’t want this thing with Reb to turn out that way. Which meant I needed to go beyond a surface fix and find out the reasons behind his behavior.

I continued my dictation, “Cursory investigation into Mr. Union’s past revealed no known issues with alcohol or disorderly conduct, which begs the question…why now? What prompted a formerly almost-too-clean-for-a-rock-artist to suddenly go off the deep end?”

Just because he hadn’t made a public spectacle of himself until recently didn’t necessarily mean that something had happened in the past couple weeks. I’d seen several news stories from June that had talked about him breaking up with his girlfriend. His behavior hadn’t been called into question back then since it had appeared to be a relatively harmless bit of brooding. Maybe the reports were mistaken. Brooding could have been a cover for drinking, even drugs. I’d heard rumors that some coke had even been found in his hotel room. His manager had been the one to hire us, and he’d said alcohol was Reb’s drug of choice, but it wouldn’t be the first time a manager hadn’t known all of his client’s dirty little secrets. And it definitely wouldn’t have been the first time a manager had covered for one of his clients either.

I frowned as I squeezed the stress ball. Was Reb really the sort of man who’d be so broken up over a woman that he’d be drinking enough three months later to do what he’d done? Everything I’d observed about people in the entertainment industry, in general, told me that only a small percentage of them managed to have long-term relationships. Most of them went through romantic partners like they did clothes. The articles I’d read had said that Reb had been with his girlfriend for ten months. A lifetime for someone in his profession, but I still thought it seemed overly dramatic to still be so upset.

Unless he’d seen a future with her.

Was that even a possibility? I hadn’t seen anything in the news about him ring shopping, gossip about wedding venues. I didn’t remember any interviews where he or the girlfriend – Misty? Mitzi? – said anything about marriage, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. They could be one of those couples who didn’t believe in institutionalized marriage.

I needed more insight before I could do anything, I reluctantly admitted to myself.

“Mr. Union has been relatively private about his personal life,” I said into my phone. “Most media reports are based on speculations or interviews with people close to Mr. Union rather than direct conversations with him. To get real insight into his life, I’ll have to talk directly to the sources of the articles. Or…” I paused, torn between anticipation and annoyance, “I’ll have to speak to Mr. Union himself.”

I glanced at the time. Nearly noon.

I stopped recording and set my stress ball down on the desk. I could track down people who knew Reb, ask them what they knew. They’d probably be able to fill in the blanks I needed.

But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to talk to him. Even though I tried to tell myself that it was because it was a simpler solution than going to several different sources, I knew a part of me wanted to see him again.

I stood and smoothed down my skirt. Physical attraction wasn’t going to stop me from doing my job the best way possible. He was good-looking. So were a lot of men. I’d resisted the charms of better men than Reb Union.

I’d go to see him after lunch, ask him about the things I needed to know, and then I’d go straight back to the office and put together a strategy to improve his image quickly. Once he was back on top, I could move on to other clients and forget all about him.

The nagging voice in the back of my head piped up that it might be easier said than done.

* * *

It wasn’t as hard to knock on his door the second time because I knew what to expect. More or less anyway.

“Back again?” Reb asked as he opened the door. “Come on in.”

I followed him into the apartment, noting the empty bottles on the table in front of the couch. Unless he’d had friends over and hadn’t cleaned up yet, he hadn’t taken my ‘advice’ about not drinking.

“Sorry,” he said, turning to face me. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

I gestured toward the table. “So these are all yours?”

He shrugged and shuffled his feet, thrusting a hand through his bronze hair. “Some friends stopped by last night.”

I raised an eyebrow. Friends or not, he’d been drinking already this morning. “I came by to talk to you about a few things, but if I’m interrupting…”

“S’okay.” The words weren’t slurred, but they definitely weren’t precise either. “You can stay. Want something to drink?”

I took a couple steps toward him, fixing my sternest expression on my face. “You need to take this seriously, Mr. Union.”

“Mr. Union?” He snorted a laugh, the sound almost enough to startle a smile out of me.

That was definitely not the sort of laugh I expected from someone like him. With a mother who was a visible member of New York high society, I’d seen numerous pictures of him schmoozing with the cream of the crop. People who weren’t just rich, but old money. Politicians and philanthropists. The kind of people who practiced their smiles and laughs in front of a mirror so they’d be absolutely perfect. Not too big or loud, not too small or soft.

Definitely not the kind of people who snorted.

Still, I couldn’t let his response go unanswered. “Do you find this amusing?”

He closed the distance between us, and under the smell of whiskey, I caught a whiff of soap. At least he’d taken a shower since I’d seen him last.

“Nothing about this is amusing, Miss Ryce.” He frowned, his gaze dropping to my mouth before coming back up to meet my eyes. “Is it Mrs. or Miss? I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t always mean single.”

I fought the urge to cross my arms, knowing that with him looming over me, it would come across as defensive rather than annoyed. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand, Mr. Union.”

“Reb,” he corrected. “I get enough ‘Mr. Union’ from brown-nosers and ass-kissers.”

“We need to maintain professional boundaries,” I argued. “I’m not here to be your friend.”

“That’s good,” he said, his voice deepened, roughened. “Because I have enough friends.”

I could feel a flush creeping up my neck, and I clenched my hands into fists. “Mr–”

“You’re an employee, right?” he asked, taking a step in my direction. “I mean, technically, I hired you, right?”

Reluctantly, I nodded. I wasn’t sure I liked where this was heading.

“Then I’m your boss.” He grinned, his eyes lighting up. “And I’m telling you to call me Reb.”

In the back of my mind, I could hear my mother telling me to pick my battles. She told me more than once that was how she’d kept a balance when it came to discipline. Treating him like a child seemed like the best way to go.

“All right…Reb.” I spoke through gritted teeth, but it was enough to satisfy him.

“Thank you. Now, tell me, Paige,” his voice slid across my name like a caress, “is there a Mr. Ryce?”

I shook my head. This was a bad idea. I was supposed to be getting background information on him, not the other way around. How had I lost control of the situation so quickly?

“Is there someone gunning for the position?”

“No,” I said, hating the breathless way the word came out. “I’m single. Now that we got that out of the way, can we–”

My sentence was cut off as Reb wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me to him, our mouths crashing together in an explosive kiss.