I must be out of my mind.

No, he must be out of his mind. What does he want with me when he has groupies galore screwing each other just to turn him on?

Jett said something to his driver that I couldn’t hear and then opened the limo door for me. I got in and sat down on pure luxury—a bright-green leather bench that was as plush as any sofa in a five-star hotel lobby. Not that I’d seen a lot of five-star hotels in LA, but I’d been in a few for meetings. None of which had amounted to anything.

“This is amazing,” I couldn’t help gushing.

“I’m glad you like it. Green is kind of my color. You know, like purple was Prince’s.”

“I know. I love your green guitar. Is that how the band got its name?”

“Yeah. It was all a huge publicity thing when we first started out.” He scooted to the bar, which had a golden marble countertop, complete with cup holders so nothing would spill if the limo was moving. “What’s your pleasure?”

“White wine, I guess.”

“Chardonnay? Pinot Grigio? Riesling?”

“Sauvignon Blanc.”

“You got it.” He opened a small refrigerator, took out a tiny bottle of wine, opened it, and poured it into a stemmed glass. “Here you go.”

“What are you having?” I asked.

“Me? Just some mineral water.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Not as much as I used to. And I gave up smoking.”

“You smoked?”

“Not cigarettes. They do too much vocal harm. But I smoked pot every now and then. I don’t do that anymore either. Can’t risk what pays the bills.”

I stared at his neck. “Good call. You’ve got a gold mine right there.”

“What?”

“I mean your voice. It’s incredible. Truly.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “So you are a fan.”

“Of course. Your voice is amazing. So rich and full.”

“I’m actually classically trained. Opera is my first love.”

Though I’d had no idea, I wasn’t overly surprised. I’d always thought his voice could fill an opera house. “Yeah? Where did you study?”

“Juilliard.”

“No way!”

“Full scholarship. I got my master’s at Northwestern in Chicago.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Why do you seem so surprised?”

“It’s that…I got my master’s at Northwestern too. In creative writing.” Had we been there at the same time? Suddenly I was having trouble breathing. Jett was an educated man. Knock me over with a feather. “Why didn’t you go into opera?”

“I couldn’t get any jobs. People loved my voice, but said I was too young. My voice hadn’t matured yet. Men’s voices don’t mature until they get well into their thirties.”

“How’d you get into rock, then?”

“I’ve always loved rock and roll. I’m a big fan of the classics. Zane and I went to grad school together. He was a classical pianist with a vocal minor. We were both twenty-five at the time, and going nowhere in our chosen fields. We needed something to pay the bills, and we both refused to take day jobs.”

“That was brave of you.” Very brave. I wished I hadn’t caved and taken a day job. Of course, if I hadn’t, I’d be living on the streets. “Aren’t you afraid rock will ruin your voice?”

“Nah. I know how to take care of my voice. It’s all about singing healthy.”

“I guess you learned all about that during your years at Juilliard and Northwestern. I never would have thought…”

“Never would have thought a dumb rocker like me could be educated at such fine institutions of higher learning?” Despite his words, his tone was jovial.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did. I know I’m not taken seriously. Not like I would be if I were doing opera. It’s part of the price I paid, and I’m good with it.”

“No, really, I—”

“I got a perfect score on my ACT, by the way. There are brains in this head.”

“If you’d let me finish a sentence, please!” I’d been one point away from a perfect ACT score myself, a point that had always irked me, but never more so than at this moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t smart. I think anyone who has the kind of success you’ve had must be intelligent. You made all the right decisions.”

“Or had them made for me,” he said a bit more quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He took a long drink from his bottle of Evian. “I’d like to know about you.”

I sipped my wine. “I’m a screenwriter.”

“Yeah? What have you written? Maybe I’ve seen some of your movies.”

Brick in gut. Nothing of mine had yet made it to the big screen. Hence, the day job. I tried to swallow down my embarrassment.

“I’m afraid I haven’t sold any of my scripts yet.” Just shoot me now. Whatever passing interest Jett had in me would quickly evaporate. Why would such a successful musician want anything to do with a loser who couldn’t sell her stuff? A loser who had decided to throw in the towel.

“Really? How do you make a living, then?”

“I wait tables at Lucien’s Diner.”

He didn’t seem fazed. “Where are you from? Where did you go for your undergrad?”

Way to change the subject to avoid any more embarrassment on my part. It was actually nice of him. Almost chivalrous. “I’m from Chicago. I got my BA in creative writing at DePaul and then, of course, my MA at Northwestern.”

“That’s right. We’re both masters.” He smiled.

“On paper, anyway.”

“You’ll make it, Heather. Hey, I know someone—”

“I don’t need any favors.” What a lie. I did need a favor. But I already knew how Jett would want to be repaid.

Not that sleeping with him would be any hardship, and God…I hadn’t been laid in forever.

But I was determined not to fall into that Hollywood trap.

“Who said anything about favors?” he said. “If you’d let me finish. I know a woman who’s putting together a TV pilot, and she needs a writer. I could introduce you.”

“TV?” I’d never given any thought to the small screen. But with so many cable networks now, plus digital networks, TV could be a good way to get my feet wet. Still…I so wanted to write movies.

“Yeah. It may seem smaller, but—”

“I’m not a diva. I want to write for the screen. Big or small.” And I hadn’t even known that until this very instant.

“Great. Her name is Laney Taylor. I’ll set up a meeting.”

Laney Taylor. Sounded lean and leggy. And she’d probably had Jett Draconis’s cock in her mouth on more than one occasion. The thought was sobering. Why did I care where Jett kept his cock?

“What kind of show is she producing?”

He laughed. “I have no idea. I think it’s a paranormal thing or something.”

Paranormal? Not really my area. But if I got paid to write, I could write anything.

Sell out, sell out.

Shut up, little voice.

“Did you ever feel like you were selling out?” I asked, suddenly needing to know.

“Where did that come from?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. But you said you loved opera. Instead you went where the money is.”

“Ha! There were no guarantees when Zane and I came to LA. Do you know how many struggling rockers are out there trying to get noticed? We got”—he hedged a bit—“lucky.”

“But why—”

“I told you. I was too young to break into opera with my voice type. I wanted to sing, not sling hash somewhere.”

He slid closer to me on the green leather bench. My heart jumped.

“Need a refresher?” He took my wine glass, which, oddly, was almost empty.

“No. I’m good.”

“Good.” He set the glass in one of the cup holders. “Because there’s something I need.”