Ahh, fuck.

Simon Kagan swung his foot out and tried to slap it on the floor. His goddamn foot didn't reach. The track lighting above him spun like the lights on the Pacific Park Ferris wheel.

He shut his eyes against the nauseating view and forced himself to sit up. He scrubbed his hands over his face and found at least two days’ worth of beard.

He'd shaved for the promo show in Manhattan. He hated to be a slave to his electric razor, but he couldn't pull off the scruffy look as easily as the rest of the guys in the band. It took at least a week to grow a respectable level of scruff. And by then he was itching to get it off his face anyway.

He lifted the sheet.

Buck naked.

Huh.

That wasn't exactly a surprise. He rarely slept in clothes, but the problem was...he didn't remember getting that way.

The cotton in his mouth wasn't from vodka. He glanced around the room to find a half dozen bottles of champagne.

Nothing ended well for him when wine was involved. Including the head-clanging addition of bubbly.

That was why he stuck to vodka. He knew exactly how much to drink to keep a steady buzz and only tip over into drunk when it was safe.

At least his ass was on superior sheets. He spread his fingers over the suede-soft comforter and crisp high thread count sheets. A far cry from the ones on his bed at the house they rented in the Hollywood Hills.

The pillow on the other side of the bed was dented.

He brought it up to his face and smelled smoke and the powdery scent of something cloyingly sweet.

Simon wrinkled his nose and tossed the pillow down. He stood on wobbly legs and leaned on the paneled room divider. The wood crumpled into an accordion style window shield and his gut rolled again.

New York City opened up in front of him. He flattened his palm against the cool glass and evened out. Lights and the effervescent bounce of pedestrians scurrying across the streets made this city just a bit different from Los Angeles. Not that he’d give up L.A. to save his life—fuck no—but this city pulled at him.

Filled with people and yet the sense of isolation resonated.

He understood that.

Lived it every single day.

And the roller coaster of a tour would be starting in five short weeks.

Part of him itched for it. He was restless and boredom had settled inside his brain midway through the last album. Not during studio time, but the endless drag in between.

Hurry up and wait.

Sit.

Sit.

Sit.

Sing, monkey, sing.

He pushed overlong bangs out of his face and stepped away from the cacophony of street noise that bled through the window.

Were the windows tinted?

He frowned and pulled the dark wood panel across the huge window. Even more effective than blackout curtains.

He’d have to remember that.

The room went silent again. He padded to the mini bar and found the distinctive bottle of his favorite vodka—Crystal Head. Two other unopened boxes sat side by side on the shelf.

Nice.

He splashed the clear perfection into a tumbler and swished his mouth with it. The burn around his gums and down his throat was comfortingly familiar.

The slap of water in the shower finally penetrated his subconscious. He wasn’t alone—again, not a surprise with the scent on the sheets. Plush carpeting turned to marble floors the closer he got to the bathroom.

The clear glass stall of the shower gave him an unencumbered view of his guest. Long legs led up to an ass that was definitely a regular visitor to the gym. Bitable to be sure. Dark hair full of suds snaked down her back.

He frowned as she turned to dunk her head.

No.

God, no.

He wouldn’t.

He didn’t.

A long neck flowed into an elegant collarbone, but he started breathing again when his gaze drifted down to her breasts.

Not hers.

He’d never forget the surprising fullness of her breasts or the peach tips matched her lips—both on her mouth and the exquisite cleft between her thighs.

It wasn’t her.

Wasn’t Margo.

But Christ, she could have been.

He dragged his palm against his jawline and down his neck. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered when his dick lengthened.

It was always this way.

The second Margo Reece had come back into his sphere he’d been messed up about her. One goddamn night should not crawl under his skin. Women before and way too many women after her—but he’d never been so stupid as to go for anyone that looked like her.

Like Violin Girl.

And now she was on the album. He simply couldn’t get away from her. From the sad tones of her strings layered into “Finally”, to the surprisingly shred-worthy addition to “Torn To Pieces”, she’d burrowed into his head again. They lived in his chest and his head like any of the Oblivion songs. They all crawled in and settled. Some deeper than others.

Hers settled in with hooks. The more he pulled on them, the more they shredded muscle and scraped bone.

He’d gone out of his way to avoid her in the studio and he’d managed it until they’d called her in for another pass at “Finally” and he’d been in the box.

The sucker punch of seeing her.

Like nothing had changed.

Like he’d been back in that fucking vocal closet at Trident’s studio. The smell of her in the chair, on his lips, in the goddamn walls. That honeysuckle scent with her musky essence burning on his tongue.

Time bled away as if it had never been.

For fuck’s sake, she’d even worn one of her high-collared blouses and black skirts.

He’d gotten drunk for a week straight.

But at least he’d been smart enough to fuck blonds or redheads. Nothing and no one that could remind him of her. Of the way she clasped him to perfection and tasted like a dream wrapped in a nightmare.

He’d drank her out of his system.

Until he’d been told about the release party.

And now he had a very pretty girl in his shower that didn’t deserve to be on the opposite end of his psychosis.

Part of him wanted to follow the hard-on swiftly growing. Step into the stall and pour himself into her willing body.

Snatches of their two nights of sex and champagne reminded him that she was very willing. Even if he couldn’t remember her name.

She slicked back her hair and smiled.

A perfectly nice smile.

Just not hers.

Not Margo’s.

Being with second best when he was sober would never happen. He wasn’t that masochistic. No matter how hard his dick was.

Before he could open his mouth, his phone bleated out a rooster’s cry. He winced. That would be Lila.

She was usually his killjoy.

He returned to the bedroom and swiped his phone alive. Instead of a call, her beautiful face and huge light eyes filled his screen.

“Do you or do you not know how to use a telephone?”

Simon sighed. “Yes, Lila. I do.”

“Then tell me why it took you two days to answer?”

He frowned and toggled out of FaceTime to the main screen of his phone. His eyebrows shot up. It really had been.

Fuck.

He switched back and slid his sheepish smile on. “Whoops.”

“Don’t ‘whoops’ me, Kagan. We’ve been searching all over the city for you. The only reason I know where you are is that your credit card company contacted your account manager—namely me—to double check overactive spending.”

It was a pretty swanky hotel. In New York City, in the middle of midtown if his view had anything to say about it.

“Had to celebrate.”

“Well, celebrate your way back to our hotel this morning. You have two radio shows to do this afternoon and the release party is tonight.”

Simon’s gut twisted.

She would be there.

He glanced over his shoulder. At least this was one way to move the girl in the shower along.

“Simon?”

He nodded to Lila. “Got it, boss. I’ll be back soon.”

“Now.”

“Would you like me to pan down with the camera? I need to get ready.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, Kagan. Not like you’re discerning where you show it off.”

He smirked. “It’s show-off worthy.”

“So you say.”

He snorted. “All right, I’ll check out and make my way over there.”

“Do you remember where we are?”

He frowned. “Now that you mention it...”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll text the address.” And then she was gone.

“Simon?”

The voice was higher than he was expecting. Almost child-like. He winced and turned around. No, nothing child-like about her.

He loved women, loved their scents and sounds. But man, he hated a baby doll voice. “Hey, babe.”

She sauntered in, an exaggerated swing in her hips. She wore the smallest towel possible, flashing half of her perfectly curved hip and a hint of breast.

All enticing.

Except one thing.

Out of the shower, it was even more apparent.

She had Margo’s look, minus the air of sophistication Violin Girl had.

For fuck’s sake, she even had her bangs.

She walked in front of him, her bold fingers sliding around his half hard cock. “I was hoping you’d wake up and come in the shower with me. We had fun in there last night.”

He winced and couldn’t hold out against a groan as she stroked him masterfully. “Ah, babe. I wish I could.” He stepped back.

It would be way too easy to boost her up and toss her on the bed with a laugh. Nothing different than any other night. A good time for her, one for him.

Everyone went their separate ways with a few orgasms under their belts and a goodbye kiss at the door.

Hopeful dark eyes went wary. “Oh, why?”

“Work calls. That was just my manager on the phone. Time for me to turn into a pumpkin.”

She giggled. “Midnight was a long time ago.” She dropped her towel and took advantage of his suddenly cemented feet. With far too much practiced ease, she twisted around the head of his cock playfully. He had a feeling that he’d lost most of the last two days with this beautiful woman.

He was such a shit.

But he didn’t want her to feel bad about what had probably been a fun Wednesday into Thursday combo. The first stirrings of memory hit him when she grinned at him with her crooked eye tooth. It was adorable. He always liked the inconsistencies of a beautiful woman. Why one woman could lure and another could repel.

They’d met at a bar.

The bar across from the iHeart Radio interview with the band. Where Lila had informed him that Margo was invited to the exclusive party they’d been planning and would be playing with them on the little stage.

He’d been pissed and excited, but mostly pissed. Every time that woman got around him, he got twisted up. And it was the thought of Margo that got him all the way hard and why he pulled back.

Fuck.

He was a head case, but even he couldn’t use a woman like that.

“I gotta go, babe.”

“Just ten more minutes,” she said and rubbed her breasts against his chest. “I like you all clear-eyed. So you know it’s me.”

Shame slicked up his spine and left a bad taste in his mouth.

“We had a little too much fun the last few days. Now I have to go pay for it.”

She sighed. “I guess spending two days with a rockstar is more than most get.” She took a step back, grabbed a stretchy black dress off the chair, and slid it over her head. Not a damn stitch under it and she was mouthwateringly tight in all the right spots.

Fuck, Kagan. You are an idiot.

He should be on that like syrup on pancakes—instead he felt a little ill. The dress hugged her from shoulder to knee. She clipped her hair up and turned to him and the kick was so hard, he actually staggered back a step.

She could be Margo’s twin.

Fucked. He was so goddamn fucked.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He went to the bar and splashed another three inches of vodka into a tumbler before tossing back the liquid fire. “I just need a little hangover cure.”

She came up behind him and stroked him from shoulder to ass. “I’d play hooky more often if this is what happened. How long are you in New York for?”

“Just tonight. Then back to L.A.”

“Too bad. I have to work tonight.” She tugged on his earlobe with her teeth. “I could call in again.”

“No. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Tonight is going to be insane.”

She pressed a surprisingly chaste kiss against his cheek. “Going back to her?”

He turned his head. “What?”

“Violin Girl.”

He dropped his chin to his chest, his fingers digging into the bar.

“It’s okay. I didn’t mind being your violin girl for a few nights. She’s a lucky woman.”

“She’s no one.”

“If you say so.” She trailed her fingers over his shoulders and stepped to the side. She gathered her things and left quietly.

Simon swiped his arm across the bar. The shattering glass echoing after her.

* * *

Margo Reece slipped into her seat. She tucked her violin case under her feet and crossed her legs at the ankle. The familiar press of the case along her foot should have calmed her.

The flying didn’t bother her.

Even going on a job didn’t bother her. She’d been jetting from studio to studio for the last six weeks. Any studio work that came into her email or her agent called her about—she went to. She couldn’t afford to turn anything down right now.

She smoothed the fabric of her skirt down and laced her fingers.

No, she definitely didn’t have the luxury of turning down work.

A woman with a diaper bag, purse, and toddler in tow dropped into the seat beside her. She invaded more than half Margo’s space. The little girl on her shoulder wrapped her chubby little fists around Margo’s braid. “No, Patsy. Sorry.”

Margo tugged her hair out of the child’s hand with a wince and tucked herself back against the window. “It’s fine.”

“She’s just discovered hair. It’s why I chopped mine off.” The harried mother sighed and transferred the child to her other side, but little Patsy had other ideas. Squealing at top volume until her mother set her back on her right shoulder, for instance.

Margo pressed her lips together when a man that had to be pushing three hundred pounds paused at their row. Really? Because sharing the space with a baby wasn’t bad enough? Now the baby would practically be in her lap regardless.

She reached into her pocket and took out her phone and Bluetooth headphones. Noise-canceling headphones to be more precise. She tucked the foamy plastic molds into her ears and flicked through her album list to the one she wanted. Wanted perhaps wasn’t the correct word. The album that controlled her lately. In her car, headphones, even the through the tinny speakers of her phone—it was always on.

In the middle of the night, she curled into her pillow and held herself in a tight ball and forced herself to endure silence just to give herself a break. Only to stumble around in the dark like an addict to find a fix.

Simon Kagan’s voice was her auditory affliction.

Music had always been her savior. As a small child, Bach and Mozart had inspired her. The Reece house was cultured. Cartoons and children’s songs weren’t tolerated. Rachmaninoff had transitioned into Paganini and Vivaldi as the violin had become her life.

There was passion in those composers. She knew this, and they’d ruled her life for so long. She was happy with them—or had been.

Until him.

One song had started her down this path.

How many soundtrack songs had she played on? Too many to count.

Being second chair—previously being second chair—in the Boston Philharmonic had afforded her a measure of status, but not exactly a monetary one. She supplemented with studio work. From movie scores to the occasional contemporary song, she’d sold her talent to fatten her bank account.

Working with Oblivion shouldn’t have mattered.

It was just another job.

She’d told herself that when she’d taken the job for another album. To prove to herself that they were just another job.

Now it was so much worse. Untried and filled with testosterone more than talent, “The Becoming” had been an anomaly. That first song had been child’s play. The rest of the songs on that album were good—more than good. She’d listened to “Burn” on a number of occasions.

Watched live performances that had instantly constricted her lungs like a corset that was laced too tight. Nothing had prepared her this time.

Nothing.

Their album Rise had ruined her.

Their music shouldn’t be a guilty secret that had bloomed into a far reaching sickness. It had awakened something inside her that she didn’t understand or want to face.

But she had little choice now. She’d tried to hold onto her life with her fingernails and no amount of rosin could smooth out the frayed ends of her career.

A hiatus could be explained. Losing her chair...

No.

She wasn’t thinking about that now.

The plane began to taxi and the woman beside her tried to calm her shrieking child. Margo concentrated on the sandpaper over silk voice of the man who’d ruined her with a song. She pulled her sweater tighter around her.

It didn’t matter where she was, didn’t matter how inconvenient it was, her body flushed at the first chord. The lyrics to “Monster” wound around her senses, pushing her nipples against her bra and making her clit pound with the bassline. The feedback echo of Simon’s voice under each chorus was like a caress as her spine pressed back into the seat and the plane lifted.

Another time, another chair back...

She curled her fingers around the arms of her seat.

He’d looked up at her with those unearthly silvery blue eyes as he held her against the velvet chair. He didn’t know it, but his hand across her belly hadn’t been necessary. The first lash of his busy tongue had chained her to that chair. No matter how much she’d railed against it, she’d been lost to him.

She’d never even liked oral sex before that night in the booth. Before he’d shown her what sex was. What pleasure could be.

The same way he showed so many others.

She yanked her headphones out and opened her eyes. She stared into the headrest in front of her, stared until the nubby texture of the material came in clear and she breathed through the memory.

“Hate flying, too?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. She hated the flying that she did in her dreams, and when she got caught up in the music. That was accurate enough.

This was going to be the longest short flight in the history of life.

She tucked her phone away into her pocket and pulled out the magazine she’d purchased at the airport. Celebrity gossip and the inane antics of the faux celebrities that social media created had always been fascinating to her. It was so far removed from her life in the orchestra—what had been her life in the orchestra.

No.

She wouldn’t—couldn’t think about that right now.

Guilt clawed at her neck and base of her skull, letting loose enough poison to make her second-guess every decision for the last year. But she wouldn’t let it taint this week.

She would feed the swirling obsession that flowed through her blood like adrenaline and be done with Simon Kagan and Oblivion.

Lila Shawcross had invited her to the party and to play on the small stage with them. To rehearse this afternoon and help make the release party a social media explosion.

She’d get her name out then she’d move on to the next phase of her life. This, she could control. And she would. There was no other option.

She pulled her phone out again and launched her thunderstorm and rain app before tucking her headphones in again.

Sleep.

Just an hour.

Resolution made, she forced her mind to quiet.

And because she was a master at catnaps, she did. By the time the attendant made the announcement that they were landing, she’d managed to find a quiet corner of her mind.

When they came to a stop on the runway, she reached for her violin case. The little girl was tucked onto her mother’s shoulder, her thumb in her mouth. Both child and mother were beyond exhausted.

Margo couldn’t help herself. Quiet and sweet, the child lured her closer. She stroked her finger down her arm to her hand. The child curled her pinkie around Margo’s finger, took her thumb out of her mouth and spewed.

“Oh, my God.” The woman grabbed the diaper bag and pulled out three baby wipes in a blink. “I’m so sorry.”

Margo held up her hand. “Just hand me the wipes.” This is why she didn’t interact with kids. It never ended well.

She tried to blot out the worst of the mess, but gave up and stripped off her sweater. She handed it to the mother. “If you can get the stain out, you’re welcome to it.”

“Cashmere?” The woman was dumbfounded.

Margo shrugged. It was all she wore. “Yes.”

“I couldn’t. I—”

“It’s fine. You deserve it as combat pay, ma’am.”

The woman laughed. She slumped back into her seat and laughed in a way that made Margo cringe. Taking care of another person was a level of responsibility she’d never had.

Independence, yes. That she understood. It had been instilled in her from the moment they’d laid a rosined bow into her hands. Being someone’s everything?

That was too much.

The mother turned her face to Margo’s. “Tell me at least one of us will have a good time tonight?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Do me a favor?”

Hesitant, Margo nodded.

“Kiss a hot guy tonight and remind yourself that you are an unencumbered woman in New York City. I had that once upon a time.”

Instantly, Simon’s face registered as clear as if he was standing in front of her.

“That guy—whoever gave you that look.”

Margo veiled her eyes with lashes and her bangs. She didn’t have a look.

“You’re young and beautiful. And cripes, I wish I had your body.”

She fussed with the thin strap of her camisole. She wasn’t used to showing so much skin. The orchestra had a uniform. Her whole life had been a uniform. She hid her curves under skirts and sweaters. She always felt too lush compared to the slim and perfect women in the string section. They were dainty and elegant.

She had to consciously work to keep up the same appearances. All too often her parents had pushed her into diets and monochrome colors to make her belong.

“I hope your little girl will feel better.”

The man that kept them squashed in like sardines stood and the line started moving.

“Thanks,” the mother said and stood, gathering her things. She tucked the sweater into the bag and slipped out into the aisle.

Margo sat there for a moment longer. A man moved down the aisle. He was attractive, in the suited-up businessman-like way that she usually was interested in.

His eyes widened and he stopped. “Can I help you with a bag or anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

His gaze skittered down her neck and shoulders, stalling at her breasts before bouncing back to her face. “Are you sure?”

She suddenly missed her sweater very much. “Positive.”

He moved on, with a backward glance then a shake of his head.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and hefted her case. With her head held high, she walked down the aisle and into the terminal. Instead of going right for JFK’s departure gate, she ducked into the shopping area.

This was not in her budget but she couldn’t walk around the huge airport like this. No matter how much bravado she thought she had.

She drifted toward the classic styles of a designer store. Cashmere twin sets were her stock in trade. Maybe she’d get a color—that was different. Not the grays and blacks she was used to. Maybe a navy?

“That’s not you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Margo turned to the voice. What was it today? Everyone knew what she should be doing except her.

The tall, well-dressed man came over with a short cranberry jacket. “This.”

She shook her head. “Too small.”

He held it up in front of her. “Indulge me.”

With one eyebrow raised, she stared him down.

“That’s impressive, doll. Save it for a man that it would work on. I’m not hitting on you. I just want to dress you.”

“Oh.”

“Well, not that I wouldn’t hit on you. You’re as hot as a Maxim shoot in August, but my wife would have my nuts in a vise. And while that’s fun on occasion, I’m not in the mood today.”

Margo blinked. Not at all sure what to say to that, she turned around and let him slip the jacket over her arms and drape it over her shoulders.

He spun her around. “See?”

She went still as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Surely that wasn’t her. The black pencil skirt and camisole hugged her and gave her an hourglass shape. The short jacket hit her right at the midriff. Instead of making her look boxy as she’d expected, it accentuated her curves and took off five years from her face.

She jumped when he held up a pair of four-inch raspberry-colored ankle breakers. She only paused for a moment before kicking off her sensible pumps.

“That a girl.”

Her arches screamed and her calves tightened, but it was exactly what she needed. She didn’t recognize this woman in the mirror. She matched the Margo she wanted to be.

A little bolder.

A little surer.

She pulled out her credit card and held it up. “Don’t even tell me what it costs. I don’t want to change my mind.”

“I knew it.”

“Hope you work on commission.”

“I do.”

At least he got compensated for his genius. He came back with the slip and she signed it. He clipped off the tags and dropped them into a bag.

“Kick it in the ass.”

She turned to him. “How do you know I need to kick anything in the...ass?” The curse word felt alien on her tongue, but she kind of liked it.

“You’re all lit up. Something is up tonight.”

She inclined her head. She nodded toward the case on the chair outside the dressing room. “Yes.”

“Then it definitely applies.”

Her phone buzzed in her purse. She pulled it out and found a text from Lila with the address of the club and time for rehearsal. “I have to get going.”

“The skirt is amazing, but if you have a pair of leggings, it would work for this outfit as well.”

She shook her head. “I don’t really wear anything that tight out of my house.”

“You should.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Own those curves. I know far too many women that pay for them.”

“Don’t they usually pay to have them sucked out?”

He grinned. “Heroin chic is going out of style.”

She was pretty sure skinny would never go out of style, but she smiled anyway. “Thank you...” She glanced at his discreet tag. “Thomas.”

“You’re welcome.” He held up her case. “What do you play?”

“Violin.” She slid her fingers over the handle. The grooves fitted into her palm as perfectly as the fret of her Starfish.

“Your hot factor just jumped about fifteen percent.”

“Dare I ask where that put me?”

“Triple digits for sure, Ms. Reece.”

“Margo.”

He smiled. “Elegant and sexy.”

Someday she might get away with just the sexy.

Maybe.

She walked out of the store with an extra sway in her hips. She didn’t even have to try to put it there, the heels did it.

Maybe she would fit in tonight with the band.

She reached the baggage claim for her flight and claimed her herringbone pink suitcase before making her way out to the line waiting for cabs.

New York City was dirty and noisy, but there was a level of excitement that Boston didn’t have. As if the air was infused with something that wouldn’t allow sleep.

By the time she’d made it up the line to a cab, she was almost adept at walking in heels again. It had been a while. She stepped inside and gave the driver the address. She tucked her case on one side and her suitcase on the other. The city was a logjam of cars and pedestrians. The closer they got to Broadway, the slower the approach.

Finally, old world elegance edged the hyper-neon that peeked from down the street. A doorman opened the cab and helped her out.

“Welcome to the WestHouse, Ms. Reece. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Oh.” She blinked. Lila sure knew how to pull out the stops. “Thank you.”

He took her suitcase and walked her to the gilded door. “Your guest has already arrived and Frank is waiting just inside to take your things.” He popped her telescope handle and Margo slid her specially made case along the length.

“Would you like me to bring this to your room?”

“No, that’s fine. Thank you.” She didn’t let her violin out of her sight—ever.

Her guest? Was Lila waiting for her? “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Did people really smile like that? Did his face hurt by the end of the night? She knew hers did when she was playing and was supposed to smile at the end of each song.

The lobby was amazing. Crystal, hardwood, and silk everywhere. The dark elegance was touched with cool white marble and a touch of Art Deco design in the front of the check-in desk.

A charming antique key system was still used there and they were displayed behind the desk in lit boxes. A tall man with an austere face and perfectly cut suit came out from a small room behind the desk display.

The moment he caught sight of her, he smiled and his face completely changed. So much so that Margo found herself smiling back.

“Ms. Reece, so glad to see you made your flight in.”

“Thank you.” How did they know her name?

The tall man slid a slim envelope across the marble counter. “Ms. Shawcross has left your itinerary. When you’re ready, please call down to the desk. She’s made a car available to bring you to the venue tonight.”

Lila thought of everything. She was one of the most professional managers that Margo had ever worked with. It was as refreshing as it was odd. Lila should be running a company, not herding twenty-something rockstars.

“I will, thank you.”

“You’re in Room 604 with a terrace view.” He set a key on the envelope. “The rest of the guests have made their way to the venue.”

She spared a glance at her watch. She had an hour before she needed to be there, but traffic was murderous in the city. “If you could have the car ready in thirty minutes, that would be satisfactory.”

“Excellent.” He inclined his head. “Welcome to the WestHouse, Ms. Reece. I’m Frank. If you need anything, please let me know. We hope you enjoy your stay. “

She nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Frank.”

He held his arm out. “Lewis will help you with your bags.”

“That’s fine. I only have the two.”

“Very well, then.”

Margo had been in plenty of beautiful hotels before. Being the child of a lawyer and doctor afforded her a world of culture beyond the symphony. She tapped the ornate button to the elevator. The bronze doors, designed in the typical lines and curves of the Art Deco movement, slid open silently and more silk-tufted walls came into view.

For such an old building, everything was remarkably quiet. The ride was smooth and when she arrived on her floor, the silence was pervasive.

She slid her itinerary out of the envelope. In a world where emails and copy paper were the norm, the elegant silvery gray stationery with Donovan Lewis’s corporate seal along the top was an anomaly—much like the entire situation. Discreetly-spaced letters underneath the raised seal were the only clue to the fact that it was for a record company.

A company that was very hands-on with their clients.

She didn’t quite know what to make of the company or Lila Shawcross and Donovan Lewis. Margo was a classically trained violinist and twice now she’d been invited to work with a band that was as rough around the edges as a garage band.

And yet her strings blended seamlessly with them.

It didn’t make sense.

Like that night with Simon made sense? Like your obsession with this garage band made sense?

Her grip tightened on the paper and she had to drag in a breath and force her fingers to relax. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, she focused on the letter.

The entire floor was reserved for the band and Ripper Records, which explained the quiet. Everyone was already at the venue for the festivities. She had to go to rehearsal then was expected to sit for a few interviews with the band.

Music Life was going to film the entire release party and there would be a special airing that Saturday with footage from the New York City and Los Angeles parties.

Why did they want to involve her? She wasn’t specifically mentioned in anything on the itinerary.

She slipped the sheet back into the envelope and into her purse. She leaned her suitcase against the wall but before she could open the door, it swung open.

Framed in the doorway stood a five-foot-four burr up her butt. A lovable one—usually—but thorny just the same.

“Hiya, sis.”

Margo searched for her voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”