Chapter 1
Chants of “Jenna, Jenna, Jenna!” echoed through Madison Square Garden. Even after a ninety-minute concert, the crowd apparently couldn’t get enough of her. Goose bumps erupted all over her body as twenty thousand people were cheering, clapping, and shouting her name.
Well, not really her name—her stage name.
No one had called her by her real name—Leontyne or Leo—for more than a year. When she was on tour, she became Jenna Blake, pop icon.
Other voices added screams of “Butterfly Kisses,” the title of her top hit, to the cacophony.
From his place next to her in the wings of the stage, Ray groaned. “If I have to play that song one more time…” He lifted one of his drumsticks and pretended to stab himself. “It’s part of our playlist already. Why do they want to hear it again?”
Leo sighed. After performing the song in one hundred and eighteen concerts during the past thirteen months, she was pretty sick of it herself. “If that’s what the fans want, that’s what they’ll get. Come on.” She clapped Ray’s shoulder. “One last encore and we can all go home.”
She took a sip of her lukewarm water before putting the bottle down and lifting her hand to signal the tech crew.
The lights in the arena went out, leaving just the glow of thousands of cell-phone screens. Smoke-machine fog billowed out from behind the amplifiers.
Leo handed her guitar to her guitar tech, stepped out from the wings, and felt her way up the few steps to the dark stage.
Who the hell thought this was a good idea? She mentally cursed her knee-high stiletto boots and the skintight halter-neck jumpsuit as she made her way blindly along the catwalk connecting the main stage to a smaller platform.
As soon as she reached it, a lone spotlight flared on, bathing her in purple, and the huge video screens behind her exploded with colorful fireworks.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Derek played the opening notes of “Butterfly Kisses.” The bass notes mingled with the beat of the drum, and her body shifted into the song’s upbeat rhythm as if on autopilot.
When Leo pulled the cordless microphone from its stand, her pop-star persona slid into place as easily as the mic slid between her fingers.
Her sultry, husky voice filled the arena as she dove into her hit song and gyrated to its seductive beat. She strutted across the platform and paused tantalizingly close to its edge. Within touching range of her fans, she dropped her voice to a sexy croon and sang directly to them.
Hands reached out for her.
Before anyone could make contact, she drew back with a playful flick of her hair and belted out the chorus.
The lights were hot on her skin, but she ignored the sweat soaking her costume and focused on her dance moves and the lyrics.
The crowd below her writhed, clapped, and sang along.
When she got to the chorus again, she held out the microphone to have them sing it. Blinded by the stage lights, Leo couldn’t make out faces. All she saw were hands holding up cell-phone flashlights. Every now and then, when spotlights panned over the crowd, she caught a glimpse of someone wearing a T-shirt with her face or name on it.
Even after more than a dozen years in the music business, she still hadn’t gotten used to that.
Gazing out over this undulating sea of people, knowing they were there just to hear her, and having them sing along with her… For a moment, she felt a flash of the old excitement as the crowd’s energy flowed over her.
Finally, the song came to an end.
Her fans stomped and clapped, making the stage tremble beneath her feet.
“I love you, Jenna!” a girl in the first row shouted. Others echoed the sentiment.
“I love you too, B—” She caught herself just in time. Nope, not Boston. That had been yesterday. Today, they were in New York. Home. “Beautiful.” She somehow managed to make it sound as if that was what she’d meant to say all along.
“Thank you, everyone, and good night.” The mic seemed as heavy as an anvil as she placed it back onto its stand. With a bow and a few quick waves in all directions, she sauntered offstage as fast as her stiletto boots would allow.
A black-clad security guard led her through the winding corridor and past techs, backstage-pass holders, and pictures of artists who had played Madison Square Garden before her.
She kept her Jenna Blake smile pasted to her face as crew members and fans called out “congratulations” or “great show.” Only when the door of her dressing room closed behind her did she allow herself to relax. For the first time in what felt like forever she was alone, without anyone vying for her attention. She took out her ear monitor and set it on the dressing table. Her gaze fell on the large, lightbulb-framed mirror.
Damn. She looked like shit. Maybe there was something to be said for the heavy makeup they made her wear for the show. It concealed the dark shadows beneath her eyes, at least from a distance. If she wasn’t careful, the usual rumors would start—that she was doing drugs or spending her nights at wild parties.
As if. She plopped onto one of the three chocolate-colored leather couches. Within seconds, she had wriggled out of the instruments of torture adorning her feet and buried her bare toes in the plush carpet.
Her eyes fell closed. Heaven. As the adrenaline high of being onstage ebbed, exhaustion crashed down on her. She could have sat there forever, just enjoying the peace and quiet, but the creaking of the door caused her to open her eyes.
Saul, her manager, entered the dressing room and pushed past wardrobe stands with a wide grin on his bearded face.
His assistant and one of the makeup artists followed him in.
“You were great out there.” He gestured toward the huge flat-screen TV showing the stage. “They loved you.”
Leo said nothing. They loved the carefully constructed image of sexy pop star Jenna Blake, not her. Without getting up, she bent over her bag and rummaged around for a sweatshirt. She couldn’t wait to get out of the jumpsuit that stuck to her damp skin—and to get rid of the makeup.
Saul pulled the bag out of reach. “That’ll have to wait. You’ve got to go to the meet-and-greet in a sec and then make an appearance at the after-party.”
“I’ll change for the after-party, but do you honestly think my fans care what I’m wearing when I’m popping in to say hi for a second?”
“They care,” Saul said. “I doubt they paid extra to meet the butch version of you.”
As a kid, Leo had practiced raising one eyebrow in front of the mirror for hours, and now that skill came in handy. “Since when are jeans and a sweatshirt considered butch?”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
She sighed. Saul had gotten her where she was today; she knew that, but she was no longer so sure that was where she wanted to be. “I’m tired, Saul.”
“I know. It was a long night.”
“A long year,” she murmured.
“But it’s over now.” He waved a hand as if that could wipe away the stress of touring for more than a year and traveling from city to city until they all blurred together. “And you’ll cheer right up when you hear what great new opportunity I secured for you.” He bounced over to her, and she could practically see the dollar signs popping up in his eyes.
Great. What did he have in store for her now?
“I got you a spot as a judge on A Star is Born.” He spread his arms wide, clearly expecting an enthusiastic response. “The auditions start in January. That gives you six months. If we get Irene and the rest of your songwriting team together, that should be enough time to put together fifteen songs and then go back into the studio to—”
“No. I told you I’m tired,” she said, louder this time. “I mean it. I need a break.”
Saul glanced at the makeup artist. “Could you give us a minute?” He waited until she’d left the room before he faced Leo again. “Fifteen minutes with the fans and a little chitchat with the record label execs at the after-party, then I’ll have a driver take you home. A good night’s sleep, a nice breakfast and you’ll feel much better.”
“No, Saul. You’re not listening. I need more than eight hours of sleep and an egg-white omelet.” She shoved a damp strand of hair out of her face. “I’m tired. Tired of it all.”
Deep lines etched themselves into Saul’s forehead. “You don’t mean that.”
She held his gaze. “I do. Maybe I’m getting old.”
His lips twisted into an amused smile. “You’re thirty-two. Not exactly old.”
“It is when you’re supposed to be a sexy pop star. I hung in there until the end of the tour, but I can’t keep doing it. I’m this close to burnout.” She held her thumb and index finger a fraction of an inch apart.
“All you need is a little pick-me-up.” He pulled a sterling-silver pillbox from the inside pocket of his custom-tailored suit jacket and snapped it open.
Leo jumped up without taking a look at what was inside. She didn’t want to know. On her way to fame, she’d seen what that stuff had done to other musicians. “You know I don’t allow drugs on my tours. If you don’t get that shit out of my dressing room this instant, I’m gonna—”
“Who said anything about drugs? I’d never give you anything illegal. This is just a pill to help you—”
“I don’t need that kind of help. How often do I have to tell you? I need a goddamn break.” Her bare foot hit one of the stiletto boots, kicking it across the room.
Saul’s new assistant winced. He probably thought she was some kind of diva throwing a tantrum, but she didn’t care.
“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Saul put the pillbox away. He sank onto the couch and patted the space next to him.
She glared at him for a few seconds longer before pointedly choosing to sit on the other couch.
“Listen, Jenna.” He put his elbows on his thighs, leaned forward, and regarded her across the glass-topped coffee table. “I know you could do with a week of sipping cocktails on some tropical beach. By God, we all could. But you haven’t had a number-one hit in more than three years.”
A low growl rumbled in her throat. “I’ve spent half of those years on the road to promote my last album.”
“I know.” He held up both hands, palms out. “I’m not accusing you of being lazy. But this is not the time to take a break. You were lucky you didn’t lose your entire fan base when you came out to the public—against my advice, I might add—but you won’t be that lucky twice.”
“Lucky?” Leo echoed. “I worked hard to—”
“Hard work isn’t enough. You know how fickle fans are. If there’s a new hottie on the horizon who can hold a note for more than a second, they’ll forget about you faster than you can say career slump.”
Leo sighed. As much as she hated it, he was right. Before she could think of something to say, a phone rang.
Saul fumbled for the ever-present cell in his pocket, but it wasn’t his.
The tones of Aretha Franklin’s “Call Me” drifted over. Few people had Leo’s number. She hadn’t heard her own ringtone in so long that it took her a few seconds to react. Thankful to escape the discussion and get a moment to think about how to answer Saul, she moved to get up.
But he was already waving at his assistant. “Get that, will you?” He turned back toward her. “We’re in the middle of an important discussion. This can wait.”
She sank back down. He was right. She had told him she needed a break before the world tour she had just wrapped up, but apparently, she hadn’t gotten her point across. This time, she had to get through to him. She needed one month away from it all, or she’d go crazy.
The assistant put down his clipboard, picked up her cell phone from the dressing table, and slipped out of the room to take the call outside. But before she could get anywhere with Saul, the young man was back, holding out the phone with a helpless expression on his face.
Saul glared at him. “That better be the president of the NFL, wanting her to sing the national anthem at the Super Bowl!”
The assistant gulped audibly. “Uh, no, it’s some woman. I didn’t catch her name. She says she wants to talk to a Leontyne.” He pronounced it to rhyme with Valentine, as if he hadn’t paid any attention to the way the woman on the phone must have pronounced it.
“Le-on-teen,” Leo automatically corrected.
“Um, yeah, I think that’s what she said. I told her she’s got the wrong number, but she insists—”
She waved her fingers at him. “Give me that phone.”
The assistant hurried around the glass table and handed it over.
A woman asking for Leontyne could only be one person. She braced herself. “Mom?”
Saul’s assistant gaped at her.
What? Had he thought she had been grown in a lab, with no parents?
“Leontyne?” It was her mother’s voice.
A lump lodged in her throat. They hadn’t talked in five years, so if her mother was calling her now, something must have happened. “Yes. What’s wrong?”
“I was wondering if… Do you have…?” Her mother gulped in a breath of air. “I would really like you to come home.”
“What? Come home?”
Saul’s eyes widened. He urgently shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said, probably loud enough for Leo’s mother to hear. “This isn’t a good time for family visits. You’re supposed to lay tracks for your next album.”
Leo stuck her finger in her ear to drown him out. “Maybe I can come visit next—”
“I really think you should come see your father now,” her mother cut in. “He had a stroke.”