RICKI

Oh, what the fucking hell, Ricki, what have you gone and gotten yourself into, I thought as I leaned into the hot water pouring down on me from the rain-shower head.

I’d kicked Axel out. I felt a little bad about it because he was being so … nice … after shaving me, fingering me, and making me come three more times, that is. Nice. Maybe that wasn’t the right word: How about considerate instead. Cleaning me up, neatening up, helping me to the toilet because my legs were so shaky I wasn’t sure I could make it across the bathroom. And being so grounded and understanding and …

Infuriating. How dare he? How dare he.

I turned my face up into the water. But it wasn’t washing away the memories. If anything the hot water was only making me think of the way his fingers had poured down my breastbone, dappled over my stomach, and proceeded to …

Argh. I slid a finger between my so-slick lips and got myself off as quickly as I could, scolding myself the entire time. You didn’t get enough yet? Can’t even count how many times you came already tonight!

I turned up the heat on the water, wanting it to hurt, wanting to punish myself. He was right. Every woman had a right to as much pleasure as her partner was willing to dish out. Strong women deserved strong pleasure. But the world I lived in wasn’t about to recognize that—and Axel Hawke, sex god, did not understand that at all.

That was why I had to kick him out. It was time to get it through my head that I’d had a wild fling with a rock star and now it was time to forget all about it. It’s over. You had your fun. Time to get back to work.

And tonight’s party was definitely going to be work. The CTC board of directors would all be present. And I had that idea I wanted to float by Meyers. Maybe tonight was going to be the moment for that, if he made it here after the Blue Star party. Even if not, I needed to be on my best behavior. I needed to be strong.

It was probably unfair for me to expect Axel to understand why I couldn’t just sleep with whoever I wanted. He could break all the rules and call it “image” and the execs at his record company probably loved it. A guy could never understand how quickly a woman’s image in this business could be shattered. I’d never get them to take me seriously if they knew. If you were going to show you could play with the big boys, you could never let them think of you as a girl. And especially not as a “slut.” Because that was the label they would slap on any woman who showed her sexual side at all.

Publicity stunt. That’s all it was. Surely there would be some good-natured ribbing from my co-workers, and hopefully the CTC Board of Directors weren’t disgusted with the spectacle I’d made of myself or anything like that. I really needed to make a good impression on them.

Hm. I reached for the shampoo. Was it better for me to claim it was all set up in advance and therefore no big deal—just a manufactured publicity effort, hardly worth fussing over, yawn. Or should I say it was a mistake—Axel grabbed the wrong woman—but I went along with it? The show must go on. That was an ethos that had been drilled into me early, and one that everyone in the entertainment business inherently respected.

Yes, that’s how I would play it. Innocent bystander playing my part, like a rube pulled out of the audience at a hypnotist’s show. No one likes a spoilsport.

I should check with Sakura before I say anything, I thought. And that’s if it comes up. Maybe it won’t.

I couldn’t be so lucky.

* * *

I styled my hair into a sleek, upswept bun, gave myself minimal makeup, and got into my party dress. My grandfather had always said the best cosmetic was youth. There would be no one taking my photo without permission here, and I figured the less tarted up I looked the better. The dress was simply elegant, a dark vermilion drape from one shoulder that left the other bare and had matching suede ballet flats. This kind of dress was all about the neck, or the necklace, as the case may have been. I didn’t mess around. I put back on the most expensive diamond choker I owned, the one that had been my grandmother’s. There. That would stun them.

I wanted to text Sakura, then remembered she probably had my phone. Instead I intercommed to security asking them to send her to my wing as soon as she arrived.

The window of my bedroom overlooked the courtyard and I could hear the laughter of guests who had already arrived. I paced to the window to look and then stood there feeling sudden flames on my cheeks. Walking. I could not walk without feeling like Axel was … doing inappropriate things to me. No one warned me that when you’re shaved bare down there you feel everything sliding around! Every step I took felt as if I might as well have his hand down there.

At least he hadn’t left any marks or I would have been scrambling for another dress. I went back to the mirror to be sure. No. No bruises, no red spots, no hickeys. I guess that was his idea of being responsible: leaving no evidence. I ran my finger along the row of diamonds on the bottom of the choker. The whole piece was about an inch wide, the diamonds forming an elegant ribbon of brilliance around my neck.

I could hear his voice in my head. Some doms make their subs wear a collar to keep that spot hidden. But I don’t have to.

The cocky bastard. You don’t own me, Axel Hawke. Get out of my fucking head.

“Helloooo?” Sakura called.

“Sarah!” I stuck my head into the hallway. “Get in here!”

She hurried into the bedroom. Her dress was so tight she couldn’t take big strides and she was in heels so high they were almost in poor taste. Almost.

“How do I look?”

“Fabulous as always,” she said without really looking at me. “Here.” She handed me my clutch purse.

I pulled my phone out and looked at my messages. “Tsk. Four from Bubbly McDrunkard.”

Sakura snorted. “I should warn you. Grant’s out there now.”

“You mean he didn’t get carted directly to the hospital due to alcohol poisoning?” I wondered if he had been kicked out of his uncle’s own party already or if he’d skipped it. I shook my head. Cozying up to Grant Randolph was supposed to be a great business strategy. Sigh.

“Apparently not,” she said. “He’s telling people he ate a spoiled canapé at another party and once he puked it up he was fine.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said resignedly. “Whatever. I hope he’s sufficiently embarrassed that he avoids me for the rest of the night. Speaking of which—!”

Sakura raised an eyebrow at me.

“Axel Hawke!” I said, with an edge of exasperation in my voice.

“What about him?”

I gave him a new middle name and apparently that got the message across. “Axel. Fucking. Hawke.”

Now her face got serious. “Oh shit. You fucked him.”

“No. He fucked me. That’s how it works, Sarah,” I said airily with a dismissive wave of my hand. I checked my lipstick in the mirror and realized I hadn’t put the right color on to match the vermillion dress. “So tonight I’m going to stay as far from Mr. Axel Hawke as possible, thank you.”

She shrugged. “That’s your choice. Darn. And you would have made such a cute couple, too. You didn’t enjoy it?”

She was missing the point. “You know perfectly well why I can’t have a relationship with someone like him.”

“With a hot young dom?”

“With a celebrity bad boy.” I hoped my cheeks hadn’t flushed too much when she said “hot young dom.” Just hearing the words practically sent me into a flashback.

She shrugged again, this time with eloquent disagreement in the tilt of her shoulders. “I think you’d do just fine, you know. No one expects you to take CTC’s CEO chair at age twenty-four, Ricki. You could live a little.”

Sakura really didn’t understand, either. Well, she didn’t have the pressures or the aspirations I did. “I’ll be avoiding Mr. Celebrity Playboy from now on.” I felt a pang of loss at that, but I knew the only way I was going to make my resolution stick was to avoid him. He was as tempting as an open box of chocolates.

“Suit yourself.” Sarah was giving me a look like she suspected there was more to the story, but she wasn’t going to grill me about it now. “What are you going to tell the press when they ask about tonight?”

“The truth. It was a publicity stunt gone wrong: he was supposed to grab you and I played along for the sake of the show.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” She patted my knee. “Get through tonight’s shindig and we’ll talk again tomorrow, okay? Don’t be a martyr about this, Ricki. If you’re really shaken up, you need to talk to someone who understands.”

I nodded. “All right.”

I put on fresh lipstick and made her check that I didn’t have any on my teeth. The party was my next hurdle.

* * *

Here’s how the evening was supposed to go. I was supposed to shake the hands and kiss the cheeks of a lot of the rich and influential people in Hollywood. If I got lucky I’d also catch my boss in a good moment and get him thinking positively about what I wanted to do in film development. Other than that, the more boring the better. I did not need controversy. I did not need excitement. Let the excitement happen at the Capitol Records party.

I passed quickly through the kitchens, to give the house manager a chance to ask me any questions necessary, but they had it all under control. Mina, our head chef, gave me a brilliant smile but did not pause in her preparations beyond that one moment: I think she had a blowtorch in her hands at the time. My mind was too focused on maintaining my poise, what with my bare-shaven pussy lips rubbing each other the whole way toward the grand foyer.

I was just about to step out into the main foyer when a side door opened and, to my horror, out stumbled my father, half-blind from alcohol consumption. My heart sank. I had lost count of the number of times he had been to rehab and the equal number of times he had relapsed. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed to me each time he got worse, farther and farther from the clever, caring dad I’d known as a young child. Maybe it was just that the older I got the more I had to contend with his flaws.

“Ricki!” he exclaimed. “Ricki, Ricki, Ricki awwwww.” He folded his arms around me in a loose yet stifling hug.

“Dad,” I said. He was heavy and not holding up his weight. I desperately wanted to push him off but I was afraid he would hit his head if he fell. Dad, Dad, Dad, why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do it to me? “You don’t look well.”

“Nonsense! I’m perfectly fine. A little woozy from the long flight, you know, but I wouldn’t miss being here on my little darlings’ big night for the world!”

I wondered what planet he imagined he was on now and I edged toward the intercom on the wall. My father was a quiet, loving, generous man with a quick wit when he wasn’t drinking. When he was drinking, he turned into a strange parody of himself, a surreal nightmare version that you couldn’t talk to, couldn’t reason with. As a child it had made me cry and ask for my “real” daddy. Now I was supposed to be a big girl, though. “Big night?” I echoed, as I finally got him to lean on the wall instead of on me.

“Yes, yes, of course! Your first time as hostesses! I know I haven’t been to The Governor’s Club in a long time, but I couldn’t miss this.”

Oh no. No no no. I realized then what he meant. Somehow my drunk-as-a-skunk father had decided that tonight wasn’t the Grammy night party, it was the BDSM party Gwen and I were due to throw to inaugurate ourselves as the new heads of the secret, so-called “Governor’s Club.” A party that wasn’t for another two weeks.

“And look at you!” He tried to run his fingers along the diamond choker but I sidestepped. “The spitting image of your mother!”

My dead mother. When he was sober he barely ever spoke of her at all, and I had quit trying to get him to. When he wasn’t sober was no help, though: too often it ended in tears. There was no easy way to do this. No elegant face-saving way to humor him. I punched the emergency button on the intercom. “Dad,” I said, trying to keep calm. “You really need to go lie down.”

“Don’t be silly!” he brayed, oblivious to the frozen look on my face and the tears starting to brim in my eyes. “I’ll lie down when a bevy of bathing beauties beckon me to bed, perhaps, but—”

“Reeve, get up here,” I barked into the intercom. “My father is—”

I saw two of our security team come hurrying up behind my father. One took hold of each arm. “Whoa, Mr. Hamilton,” one of them said as he pulled my father off-balance with a slight wink in my direction.

“Oh, call me Richard, please. You make me sound like an old man,” my father said.

“A bit unsteady on your feet at the moment, Richard?” the guard continued. “Let’s go have a cup of coffee, all right?”

They pretty forcibly marched him toward the back of the house, but made jovial-sounding banter to him all the way.

Reeve appeared at my elbow as they were disappearing around the corner. “Sorry about that, Ms. Hamilton.”

“That was close.” I took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and letting my ruffled feathers settle back down. The evening had already been so emotionally complicated, to have Dad float in from Planet Tequila compounded it painfully. “He thinks tonight’s party is … one of those parties. He was ready to go out there and ask who wanted a spanking!”

Reeve shook his head. “I’ll try to keep someone on him tonight. Last thing we need is a scandal.”

I’d say. I still needed to practice what I was going to say about Axel Hawke. Who I was reminded of again as I walked the rest of the way to the entryway.

Jamison was just showing a couple I recognized as longtime associates of my grandfather through the open parlor doors toward where the champagne was being poured.

“Your timing is perfect as always, Ms. Hamilton,” Jamison said to me with a nod. His wavy black hair was slicked against his head, hiding his gray completely. At first I wasn’t sure if he was secretly chiding me for being late, but no, he appeared to be sincere that I was right on time. I guess all the nonsense with Axel hadn’t taken as long as I thought. “Security says several cars are on the way up the drive.”

Well, good to know I did something right. I took a deep breath, clearing the incident with my father from my mind. Game face, Ricki, game face, I reminded myself and put on my best hostess smile. A steady stream of partygoers began to come in then, one car after another. I stayed in the foyer, greeting the parties as they came through. Kresley Palmer had brought his wife and his sister, who was a fashion designer but rarely spent time in Los Angeles. A small parade of my grandfather’s former cronies.

But then came the man I was hoping to talk to, David Meyers, accompanying the stars of a recent rom-com. He introduced me to them, but I was much more interested in talking to him than to some A-list actors.

Meyers was in his mid-forties and always looked like he needed a bit of a haircut, his straight hair turning to curls behind his ears, his neatly trimmed beard showing one patch of gray. He shook my hand instead of kissing me on the cheek while his actors hurried over to the champagne fountain, the guy to goof around in front of it, the girl to giggle about it. “So glad you accepted the position with us, Ricki,” he said. “It’s Blue Star’s gain and CTC’s loss, so far as I’m concerned.”

I smiled blandly. “I’m sure Cy would’ve loved to find out how the competition did things.”

“Oh, ‘The Governor’ always had complicated motives,” Meyers said with a chuckle. “Well, mine are simple. Get the best. Glad to have you on board.”

“Actually, Mr. Meyers—”

“David, please.”

A small warning bell rang in my head. All too often when a middle-aged executive insists a younger woman use his first name, it’s a prelude to hitting on her. I pressed on. “David. I hate to talk shop with you on a party night, but—”

“Of course, of course!” He gestured toward the front room and we walked slowly toward the caterer pouring red wine as we talked. “You’ve learned by now that ‘business hours’ never end in show business.”

I gave him a more genuine smile as I took the full glass being handed to me by a white-jacketed caterer and waited until he had a glass as well. A full-bodied California red, of course, from the vineyard in Napa that Grandpa Cy had bought before the fad of owning wineries had taken off. I took a sip and thought, okay, here goes, he just complimented you about work. Now’s the perfect time to pitch him. “I’ve been kicking around this idea,” I began.

That was as far as I got. “David! So glad you’re here.” Grant Randolph put a chummy hand onto Meyers’s shoulder. With barely a nod at me, off he went, buttonholing Meyers about some deal they were working on as if I were not even there. After several minutes I finally excused myself, pretending I needed to return to hostess duties.

I wondered. Maybe if I were taller they wouldn’t be able to ignore me so easily? If I saw eye to eye with them? I should see if I can try on some of Sakura’s heels after all.

“Stripper shoes” she called them, and they were toweringly tall, but they were becoming all the rage now, despite the name. Or maybe because of? Showing your bra strap and the top of your thong was fashionable now, too. If the shoes put me on the level with the guys, though, maybe it would be worth it. That is, if I didn’t break my neck trying to wear them …

And who was I kidding? If I wanted to be taken seriously by the “boys,” then “stripper shoes” were probably not the way.

I caught sight of Axel and Sakura on the far side of the courtyard. Axel was holding something in his hands. Oh, a Grammy Award. Next to him was the tall man with the long black hair I’d seen at the ceremony, a bandmate whose name I had already forgotten. Maxim, maybe? They were being congratulated by various other guests. Good. Accepting congratulations would probably keep Axel busy all night.

I wondered what he’d told his bandmates about the limo ride. If he kept his promises, nothing.

I looked for his manager, though, to thank her for the shoes and, I confess, to make sure our PR stories were going to match. She was an image-maker. I thought she would understand.

But before I could find her I ran into Conrad Schmitt.

Not that long ago I had thought of him as a benign, grandfatherly presence. He had been Cy’s lawyer and confidant for years and had been a regular presence here at the house throughout my childhood. He had brought Christmas presents for me and Gwen when we were young and had arranged horseback riding lessons for Gwen when she’d been trying to convince my father and grandfather to build a stable.

But lately I had seen entirely too much of Mr. Conrad L. Schmitt, Esquire. He was not only the executor of my grandfather’s will, he was a majority stockholder on the board of CTC, and also happened to be the longest tenured member of The Governor’s Club.

And, as it turned out, a condescending pain in the ass.

“Rickanna Hamilton,” he said, using my full name as if I were a five-year-old, and complimenting me like one, too: “Don’t you look simply perfect in that dress.” He kissed me wetly on the cheek. Ick.

“Good to see you, Mr. Schmitt.”

He chuckled at my formal use of his last name but did not insist I call him Conrad. “I see quite a number of young starlets here tonight. This is your influence, darling.”

“Oh, hardly,” I demurred. If the Governor’s Mansion had become a hipper place for the glitterati than it had been a few years ago, I supposed it could be ascribed to me and Gwen, but I wasn’t about to say that.

Schmitt’s eyes twinkled. “Now if only you can influence some of your generation to join our … other soirees.”

I hid my shock that he would even hint at that in the open and gave him a look my grandfather had called “lizard eye.” Apparently my grandmother had one that could freeze a man in his tracks. Her eyes would slit open like a dragon being disturbed from a nap, and then her pupils would slowly rotate to the side until she was looking right at you … Oh, if looks could kill, he would say. That look could freeze the testicles off an orangutan.

But Schmitt was no orangutan. I gave him the lizard eye and he merely chuckled like a schoolboy before patting me on the arm.

“By the way,” I asked, “has the date been set yet for the shareholders meeting?”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about that, Ricki.”

“I’d like to address them.”

“It’s going to be such a full meeting, though. I’m not sure when we’d fit you in. Better that you attend the, ah, meet and greet so you can have some quality time with them, one on one. I’ll steer you to the ones who matter most.”

“Mr. Schmitt, you needn’t worry that I’ll embarrass myself or the company the way my father did—”

“No, no, no, that’s not a concern at all, my dear, I assure you! It’s entirely logistics. Perhaps we can get it on next year’s agenda, though. Oh, look, have you met Sun-Lee? Best Female Vocal Performance for the theme song to Miami Thunder! I must congratulate her.”

He swanned off to fawn over another starlet, a K-Pop singer who had recently made the transition to Hollywood and who they were still trying to break big into the American mainstream. I decided to wait until Schmitt wasn’t talking to her to approach her.

The place was filling up quite a bit. Much as I wanted to disagree with everything Schmitt said on principle, he was right. The Governor’s Mansion had always been a place where the CEOs and financiers of Hollywood, the power players, came to rub elbows with each other and a smattering of “it” stars. The stars had been somewhat thinner in recent years, while my grandfather had been ill and Gwen and I had been off at school, but now it seemed like those with star power were coming back.

I watched Axel exchange cheek kisses with Sun-Lee and felt a surge of … of … something.

Damn him anyway. The faster I forgot about him the better.

* * *

AXEL

Hot damn. I think I didn’t appreciate the moment I heard about the win as much as I might have if I hadn’t been so lovedrunk. Honestly, I’m not sure even winning a Grammy can compare to the bliss that was having a sweaty, orgasm-limp Ricki Hamilton in my arms.

But holding the statue for the first time was pretty cool. Made it real. Chino had brought mine to the party. He, Samson, Mal, and Ford presented it to me in the garden, with Mal and Ford pretending to be the orchestra and Chino playing announcer and then getting down on one knee to hand it to me as if it were a diamond ring or something.

“Goofballs,” I said, and took it.

“Group hug!” Chino declared as he hopped to his feet, and they must’ve all been feeling as goofy as they looked because they did it. Even Mal, who is not the touchy-feely type. Mal is the broody Dracula type.

Chino was also the one who punched me on the arm. “Sakura told us you skipped out on the rest of the ceremony because you were convinced we were going to lose.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “I’ve never been happier to be wrong. And you know, Ricki had to get back here to get ready for the party, so I had the limo take us directly here.” Hey, that was almost the truth, too. “Be grateful: she added all of you to the guest list.”

“I know! This is one of the hardest parties to get into, apparently. We went first to the Capitol party, and our A&R rep was like don’t stick around here, get your asses up to the Governor’s Mansion!” He looked around like he was impressed.

After that things were a blur of people congratulating me and introducing themselves. I’ve never been good with names so I usually forgot them before they walked away. Perhaps one of the best things about becoming famous is people no longer seemed to expect me to remember, though.

Christina, when I finally saw her, hugged me so hard I thought she was going to snap my neck. “Ahhh, you crazy bastard, that was perfect! Terrible! But perfect!”

We moved a little ways away from the table laden with hors d’oeuvres. “I think it worked out all right,” I said, assuming she meant my little stunt with making off with the Hamilton heiress.

“Yes. But how about warn me before you do something like that next time? My phone is blowing up! Every reporter in Hollywood is trying to get a statement.”

“You want me to talk to them?”

“No! No no no. The more you keep quiet the more desperate they’ll be. If they’re still calling like crazy in twenty-four hours, then we’ll strategize a response.” She pulled her phone out and looked at it, then shoved it back into the tiny clutch purse that it barely fit into.

“I can’t tell if you hope they will be or won’t be.”

“Well, if they’ve forgotten about it by tomorrow, that’s bad. On the other hand if the reason they haven’t is because they want to run you out of town with pitchforks, that would also be bad.”

“Okay … And what would be good, then?”

“Good would be they’re in a frenzy over the idea that there might be something going on with you and her!” She elbowed me. Chris was not subtle.

My stomach sank. I didn’t see any way that could be good for my prospects of getting something real going with the aforementioned heiress, given how gun shy she was about anyone knowing. I tried to smile, though.

“She’s okay with it, right?” Christina asked, eyeing me closely.

“She didn’t banish me from the party, anyway.”

“Oh. Is she mad at you?”

Well, that was true enough. “A bit miffed, yeah.”

“You want me to talk to her?” She craned her neck, looking around for our hostess.

“No! No, it’s fine, Chris, really. She knows it was … just a publicity stunt. She’s busy. Don’t bother her.”

“If you’re sure. Who’s her publicist? I should check in with them.”

“I don’t think she has a publicist.”

“What? What famous Hollywood person doesn’t have a publicist?” She clucked her tongue. “Maybe I should give her my card …”

That was about as much private conversation as I got. What I really wanted, of course, was to happen upon Ricki and, you know, make the magic apology that would make it all okay, or luckily find out that she was feeling less bitter and angry. It was excruciating knowing that the woman I couldn’t get out of my mind was somewhere right nearby—but given how she’d banished me from her presence, I was pretty sure that if she had laser beams for eyes I would be crispy-fried on the spot. Would it be bad form to kidnap her twice in one night? It gnawed at me that she wasn’t glued to my hip where she belonged. I know, I know, in what universe did a peon like me own a princess like her? But that was how it felt, like she should have been there to receive the congratulations with me, like she was already a part of me.

Like she was mine.

I tried not to show it, of course. Winning a Grammy shouldn’t be taken for granted. But I couldn’t help but feel that although I’d gained something amazing and unexpected that night, I’d also lost something. I’d had Ricki in my grasp and then she had slipped away.

I told myself I’d get another chance, though. I had to. Right now the best strategy was to let her cool down. We both had public faces to put on. We both had obligations to meet.

So I hid my frustration and palled around with my bandmates, being the carefree playboy they were used to.

“Group photo, group photo!” Christina said, trying to get us together in front of a fountain outside in the courtyard. This mansion was fancier than the fanciest hotel we’d ever stayed in. We lined up dutifully, each holding a Grammy. “Oh, so boring! You guys, do something more interesting.”

Chino is always the one with the off-the-wall ideas. “Human pyramid! Hey, Sun-Lee, come get in the picture, too!”

The K-Pop star we’d met that night came over. “What is a human pyramid?”

“You know, like this.” Chino got down on all fours, and gestured to me to do the same.

“C’mon, Mal, you, too,” I said.

“This looks less than dignified,” Mal said skeptically. “Surely Christina wouldn’t—”

“Get in, get in!” Chris said, shooing him toward us.

So Mal got down on his hands and knees also, and Ford and Samson got on top of us, and then Sun-Lee climbed on top. And then Chris balanced a Grammy on each of our heads like a hat. Which took some doing. Those things are heavy. But when you’ve had enough champagne anything is possible, I guess.

A little later Chino instigated an impromptu dance party by the swimming pool and I decided that was a good time to go looking for a restroom. Last I saw of him he was on the diving board, dancing between two women I didn’t recognize. Dirty dancing. That’s quite the feat with multiple partners, you know. Especially on narrow, bouncy fiberglass a few feet over water. Chino was a risk-taker, though. That’s why me and Mal got on so well with him.

Inside the house it was quiet. A staff member pointed me to a restroom immediately, giving me no chance to “accidentally” run into Ricki in the kitchen or somewhere. I’d have to figure out some other way of reaching her.

I was making my way toward the parlor again when I came across the grand piano. The foyer was two stories high, dominated by a huge chandelier and a sweeping spiral staircase that curved around the piano from a landing up above. Paintings of her ancestors lined the wall up the staircase like some kind of royalty. I think we played nightclubs smaller than that foyer when we were getting started. Curiosity got the better of me and I discovered the piano was in working order.

I’m not much of a pianist. Samson, our keyboard player, openly laughs at me when I try to play anything serious. But at one point when I was a scrawny, pimple-faced kid and my family was doing a stint in a small military town, there was a piano in the chorus room at school, and I used to go in there to avoid the bullies and the idiots and play. My mother had made sure I had formal piano lessons whenever we could get them, up until I was about fourteen, when I started playing the guitar.

My fingers still remembered what they could do. And once I started to play and sing, I didn’t have to talk to anyone. I didn’t have to remember anyone’s name. I didn’t have to wonder whether what I was saying was going to be good or bad for my career. And I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t scanning the partygoers constantly for Ricki’s face. A crowd quickly gathered.

I would’ve loved to play one of our songs, like “Everybody Wants, Everybody Needs,” but I didn’t know it on piano. Instead I played what I knew—what had stayed in my fingers from when I was a kid—mostly pop songs and oldies I had learned. I improvised a little at first, feeling my way through the chords, but this thing happens in music, where your muscle-memory takes over and your voice almost feels like it’s coming out on its own. When that starts to happen, it’s like my entire body vibrates like a guitar string. From deep in my gut where hunger and lust reside comes this sound: my voice. Maybe that’s why my voice draws people to me. They sense it. Like the pack knows on some primal level to listen when they hear that howl.

One thing that had probably been true for decades and was definitely still true: the Beatles are a surefire hit. After a couple of songs where I sang by myself, I started in on The Beatles and, voila! Instant sing-a-long. Now everyone’s voices were raised together, and that was another experience, a kind of magic to have total strangers come together and raise their voices with me.

I don’t know how long I played. I played anything I could remember. For a while Mal sat down on the bench next to me and sang, too. He’s got a much deeper voice than mine. I wasn’t even really paying attention to the people around us, only in the sense that they were a crowd and they were singing along. I was caught up in the music and in performance and letting it all flow, almost as if it were someone else’s hands and not my own hitting the piano keys.

And then the bubble burst. I ground to a halt with a laugh and said, “That’s all folks! That was every song I know!” I stood on the bench to take my bows as they showered me with laughter and applause. Ah yes, that is me, a jester, a traveling jongleur, here for your amusement. So glad to be of service.

That was much better than shaking hands with people in suits and diamonds. It would have been the perfect cap to the night had I not glanced up from my bows to see Ricki, poised at the top of the spiral stairs, looking down at me with an air of disapproval.

She was alone. I saw her shake her head and start to descend.

I excused myself quickly from the crowd, hoping I might be able to intercept her this time.

* * *

RICKI

My feet were killing me and my head hurt from trying to remember the names of all the people I was supposed to know, and it wasn’t even midnight.

You know what I should have done? After I’d made a round of greeting and glad-handing, I should have taken myself back to my room straightaway with a mug of cocoa and hidden for the rest of the night. Once Gwen had emerged—which she did, looking more radiant than any of the starlets there—I should have handed off the hostess duties to her and fled.

But I didn’t. I kept hoping maybe I could pick up my interrupted conversation with Meyers. I tried to keep tabs on the catering.

And I kept circling past Axel Hawke. I confess. I wanted to see if he would put the moves on Sun-Lee. Or even Sakura. If he did, I thought, that would give me all the ire I needed to burn the idea of him out of my mind, proving the “playboy” thing was real. So it was confusingly disappointing when, from what I could tell, Axel Hawke was a perfect gentleman to everyone around him. Including Gwen, who I introduced to one of the other band members and who took her over to meet the others. He didn’t even take her hand, just nodded and half-bowed, and then I lost track of watching him while his manager caught up with me. Thank goodness she agreed with me that the “just a publicity stunt” angle was the best and she thanked me for playing along. Ha.

I both dreaded and couldn’t wait to hear what Gwen had to say about the night’s events. That would definitely have to wait until tomorrow.

It wasn’t difficult to keep an eye on Axel. He wasn’t the type to fade into the background. I hadn’t expected him to actually play the piano, though. I’m not sure why: he was a singer, why wouldn’t he play an instrument also? I guess in my head I was trying to pretend he was nothing but a talentless attention whore: Hollywood has plenty of those. But no, he could really sing. I watched as those hands danced and tickled and pounded the keys, by turns creative and gentle and forceful, exactly like he was during sex. With every word he sang I felt like I could hear the echo in my ear of the way it would sound if he growled it just for me, his body pressing mine down … Damn him. He was expressive and captivating and, and … maddening. I watched him from the top of the stairs and reminded myself not to grind my teeth.

I don’t think anyone had touched that piano since my mother died, other than the tuner the staff brought in once in a while. I certainly couldn’t remember anyone playing it.

This was not the time to be thinking about my mother.

Axel’s impromptu concert broke up and I was about to flee to my room, when I caught sight of Meyers near the front door, waiting for his wife’s coat to be brought to her. Helena Meyers was in her mid- to late forties and was going gray, proudly, it seemed, since she hadn’t dyed it. Her glossy black pageboy had a few prominent streaks and she had crow’s feet starting at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She had been a political journalist and always seemed like she’d be interesting to talk to, although I had never really gotten much of a chance. I swooped in for one last schmooze opportunity with Meyers.

“Helena, so glad to see you. I missed you earlier,” I said, clasping her hand.

“You, too, Ricki. So nice you’re working with David now. I hope we can have you ’round to the house for dinner some evening.”

My smile was genuine. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.” Apparently Helena Meyers was as interested in getting to know me as much as I hoped to know her. And that would be a much better time to cozy up to her husband, businesswise, as well. I relaxed a little. One step at a time, Ricki, I reminded myself. What was it Grandpa Cy used to say? You have to walk before you can fly. “How about in a few weeks?” That would give me a little more time to get my feet under me at Blue Star.

“That’d be lovely. Wouldn’t it, David?”

“Surely.” He took his wife’s wrap from Jamison and draped it over her shoulders himself, giving her an adoring peck on the cheek.

As they went out the door, Jamison turned to me, then looked at someone behind me. I startled to find Axel standing there.

So much for him not blending into the crowd. The sight of him so close to me gave me a jolt, all the longing that listening to him sing had brought out surging suddenly to make my throat far too tight and my legs far too wobbly.

“Ricki,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know—”

I slammed the lid on my raging hormones as hard as I could and went into highly formal ice queen mode. “Mr. Hawke. How nice to see you again.”

His jaw clicked shut and he gave a small nod of acquiescence. He cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Jamison, who was standing at my back like a lieutenant. What he said, although it sounded polite to anyone who might have been listening, of course, was full of erotic charge. “Ms. Hamilton.”

Oh, damn it, why did I prompt him to call me that? His purr went straight between my already unsteady legs. But while my mind raced for something to say that wouldn’t betray to him how I was feeling, we were interrupted by the sound of loud laughter—too loud—as my father and Grant emerged into the foyer from the hallway. Where was security?

Axel ignored them. “I wanted to express, um, my gratitude for the excellent time I’ve had tonight. Truly a night to remember.”

I bet. “Congratulations again on the rare achievement.” Anyone listening might think we were talking about the party, the award. My father leaned heavily on Grant. I tried not to look at them, instead glancing back at Jamison, who moved to intercept them.

Leaving Axel and me alone. He didn’t change his tone, though, keeping it formal. “You’ve been an excellent hostess, and I apologize sincerely if I’ve overstepped my bounds as a guest.” He waved in the direction of the piano, but I knew that wasn’t what he was talking about. “I truly, truly intended no trespass.”

He bowed, one hand over his heart, as corny as could be. Then he took my hand and kissed it like a courtier.

Even the touch of his lips against the backs of my fingers was perfect, soft and teasing and sensual without being too wet or too firm … Just that tiny touch, his agate eyes looking up at me from under his lashes, and I was spiraling down into fantasyland, into wishful thinking, into impossible ideas of being kidnapped all over again.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, how did he know the effect he had on me? It was terribly unfair. Why did he have to be so perfect when I couldn’t have him? I pulled my hand back quickly. “Thank you for coming,” I said, keeping a straight face. “Good night.”

That was as much of a dismissal as I could make it. He took it as one, nodding his head again and heading for the door.

How? How could one little touch flood me with such desire? How could that one brush of his lips on my hand affect me like … like … Nothing had ever affected me like that before, actually.

But it wasn’t just one little touch, I thought. It’s his voice and his eyes and the things I know he could do to me and …

And I had no time to think about it because the next crisis was presenting itself. “Ricki!” Grant called, as he and Jamison appeared to be lowering my father to the floor. Grant looked a mess. His bow tie was undone, trailing down his lapels, his hair tousled and shirt unbuttoned in a way that could have been kind of sexy but just looked ridiculous on him.

Jamison was already speaking to security through his earpiece. When he looked up at me, though, and I saw the worry on his face, I suddenly knew this was more serious than merely my father being drunk. I hurried closer as he began to convulse, his chest heaving. Grant tried to hold him down, hands pressing down on my father’s shoulders.

Idiot! I had no time for an argument. I kicked Grant aside, literally, shouting, “Turn him over! Turn him over!” as Reeve came running down the hallway and Jamison and I struggled to get my father facedown so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit.

Yes, it was quite the party to remember.