Meghan’s good-luck fairy must have finally woken up from her coma and blown the dust off her wand. She’d magicked up a place for Meghan to sleep, and when Jackson said he’d repair her car for her, she believed him. Perhaps he’d even replace her side mirror, though it had fallen off weeks ago.

Truth was, it was hard to stay angry with Jackson after so many years had passed since he’d let her down. She’d often thought of him over the years, wondering why he’d taken off so suddenly. If he’d fought with his violent father, that went some way to explain it. Jackson’s home life had sucked.

As a teenager, he’d been clever and intense. Not a big talker, so when he did say something, everyone listened. A guitar player with real talent, he’d been so good-looking that when their band had played at the school dance, most of the girls had ditched their dates to crowd up to the stage and swoon.

He was even better looking now. His black hair was cropped short, instead of the unruly style she remembered, but his still-intense dark eyes were the same. They were so sharp, he didn’t seem to miss anything. Which should probably bother her, seeing as her T-shirt had a hole under the arm and she hadn’t been able to find anywhere to shower this morning.

“Come with me,” he said, jerking his head toward the hall.

“Come where?”

“You’ll see.”

She stood, trying not to flush as sandwich crumbs tumbled from her jacket onto Jackson’s carpet. With blood in her hair and the sole of her boot still flapping, she wasn’t exactly looking her best.

Jackson’s immaculate suit hugged his body in a way that emphasized his muscled build, and he was wearing cologne that smelled so good it was practically a weapon. He should need some kind of license to be allowed to wear it.

He turned to lead her out, and she swallowed hard before following. There was no sense in being attracted to him. Because Meghan had dated his brother, however briefly, Jackson had always kept her at arm’s length and she had no reason to think things would be any different now.

Besides, he was one of them, the business-suited men who always hurried past, lip curled, when she was singing for coins on the street. And whenever she had a job singing in a bar, there were always a group of men in suits who’d get drunk, shout and laugh throughout her performance, and assume they could proposition her when she got off stage. Always. It had gotten so she’d started checking they weren’t the same obnoxious bunch of nine-to-fivers following her from bar to bar.

In the music world, there’d always been a clear division between us and them. Musicians versus corporate types. And even if Jackson used to be us, he wasn’t anymore, which meant she shouldn’t be attracted to him.

Only, she couldn’t keep from staring at his butt while he walked. Suit trousers were usually baggy, weren’t they, like office-approved Grandad pants? Not Jackson’s. His trousers were snug and his butt was every bit as nice as she remembered.

Dammit.

In her head, the first saxophone solo from Pink Floyd’s Us and Them was playing. Problem was, every body part south of her neck was humming the words to Bootylicious.

“Where are we going?” she asked, forcing her eyes up.

“You’ll see.” He led her down the hall, pausing at each doorway so she could peek into the rooms they passed.

His house was ridiculously enormous, especially for one person. The table in his dining room could seat several families, and his kitchen could be the set for one of those master chef TV shows. Each of his four spare bedrooms looked like a luxury hotel suite, complete with fancy bathrooms. When they got to the one that held her belongings, she saw her clothes neatly folded on the bed and her guitar leaning against the wall.

“Your room,” he said, as though she couldn’t have guessed.

She cocked her eyebrow at him. “You get a lot of guests?”

“Occasionally I host business dinners.”

“And everyone stays overnight?”

He shook his head. “The house came with all these bedrooms, but I hardly ever use them. The reason I brought this place is for what’s downstairs. Come on.”

At the end of the hall, a stairwell led down to a whole other level. “Basement sex dungeon?” she asked, only half joking. “I happen to know rich guys are the kinkiest. I read that book everyone was talking about. Well, actually I just skimmed until I got to the juicy bits, but spoiler alert, if he’d have been poor, she would have gotten the hell out of there.”

The wide hallway seemed smaller because she was so conscious of his body beside her. Or maybe it was because she’d started picturing him leading her into a room with chains attached to the walls.

“I have a home cinema room, and a games room. No sex dungeon, I’m afraid.” His lips twitched. “Clearly an oversight and I should have one installed.”

“You have a games room? You mean slot machines?”

“Computer games.”

It was a nerd’s wet dream. His games room was full of giant screens and consoles. There was a complicated-looking VR booth that you could climb into, retro pinball and vintage arcade machines, and a racing game you played sitting in the driver’s seat of a real race car.

Meghan exclaimed over it all, and he watched with a little smile, seeming to get a kick out of her reaction. Maybe most people he knew were used to seeing rooms like this. She sure wasn’t. Jackson had his own Disneyland for heaven’s sake. Not to mention the twenty-seat cinema with reclining chairs, a popcorn machine, and a giant screen. She’d figured he was rich, but this was way off the charts.

“Ready to see the last room?” he asked finally.

“There’s more?”

“One last surprise.” He opened a door at the end of the hall. When he turned on the light, she was so stunned she couldn’t say a word. Inside the room, a large glass booth held microphones, a drum kit, and a piano, along with several guitars on stands. On this side of the booth, a couple of couches were arranged in front of a large mixing desk, and on the walls were framed photographs. Pictures of famous musicians, all personally autographed.

“You have your own recording studio?” she finally managed.

He shrugged. “I might not play anymore, but I still like music.”

She followed him in, her head swimming. Maybe she’d pegged him wrong. In spite of the fancy suit and mansion, could he still be more us than them? “But why a recording studio? This is expensive equipment. Do you record songs? Make albums?”

“The first product I ever made was a musical amplifier.” He motioned to the mixing desk. “Now my company makes those. The microphone too.”

“When our amps used to break, you fixed them.” In fact, he’d kept all their crappy secondhand gear working.

“That’s where I got the idea for some improvements.” He went to the mixing desk and ran his hand across the sliders. “I record here occasionally. Lately it’s mostly clips I’ll use to demonstrate my new projector.”

“Your 3-D hologram thing?”

“It’ll go live with several demos. Short clips of people talking about how it works.”

She frowned, trying to understand. “If you don’t play, and you only record people talking, why do you have the piano and all those guitars?”

“Being able to invite musicians to use my studio is a bonus. It means I get a front row seat when they record new songs.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, she stepped over to look at the photos on the wall. Was this for real? The photos couldn’t have been taken here, could they?

“I’ve hosted a few big-name artists over the years,” he said from behind her.

“You’re kidding me, right? These aren’t big-name artists, they’re legends. They haven’t actually been in this studio, have they?” Weak-kneed, she wobbled to one of the couches and sank into it. “This has to be a dream. Or a practical joke. You’re not seriously telling me Ellie Dray sang into that microphone?”

“Ellie’s a good friend. She recorded most of her last album here.”

Meghan held up both hands. “Okay, sorry. Time out. You’ll have to give me a minute. This is the last thing I expected, and I’m having trouble catching up.”

“You want to sing something?” he asked.

“In there?” She nodded to the booth. “Sing into the microphone that might still hold Ellie’s spit?”

“I have cleaners who—”

“Hell yes.” She scrambled to her feet. “Are you kidding me? I want to inhale her spit.” Meghan might feel like she’d been caught in a whirlwind, but she wasn’t stupid. No sane musician would pass up the chance to sing in a studio like this. “Are you going to play guitar?”

“I told you, I don’t play anymore.”

She shook her head. “Your loss. But just so we’re clear, you’re officially crazy.”

In the glass booth, she put on the headphones that were on the stand next to the microphone, then picked up one of the guitars and strummed it. She could get her own guitar from upstairs, but this one wasn’t bad. And with it in her hands, she was more comfortable than she’d been since Jackson ran into her. His house was so opulent she felt like an imposter, but add music, and even here she could be at ease—even with him on the seat behind the mixing desk, his attention fixed on her.

The intensity of his gaze made her shiver. It was something about his eyes being such a deep brown they were almost black. His cheeks were so sharply defined, they could have been shaped with a knife, and the dark stubble on his jaw emphasized its square, hard line. The final touch to make his face effortlessly masculine was his crooked nose. If it had been perfectly straight, he would have been too pretty. But inside that expensive suit was a bare-knuckled fighter, and it was that hint of rawness that made him so damn gorgeous.

Not that she’d ever tell him she liked his nose. It was his father who’d broken it so the whole subject had always been a no-go zone.

Jackson leaned forward and flicked a switch on the mixing desk. “Just like old times.” His voice came through her headphones, so familiar it made her chest ache.

If only she could wind back the clock and go back to the night Jackson had taken off and she’d auditioned for the agent on her own. If he’d shown up, life could have been very different for both of them.

But there was no point in regrets or what-ifs. No way to request a do-over. All she could do was make the best of things now.

She strummed some chords, then winked, wanting to make him smile. “I’m going to sing an original song I wrote after I caught my ex-boyfriend cheating. It’s called, Looking for Your Laptop? Check the Microwave, Asshole.”

When he laughed, the years dropped away and he was eighteen again. Her heart contracted. God, what a heartbreaker.

She smiled back, then cleared her throat. Really, she planned to sing him a song she’d written years ago, when she’d first started working as a back-up singer, before she’d figured out what a dead-end career move that had been. She’d written a lot of songs since then, but she was in the mood for something she’d penned back when she was certain stardom and success had to be around the next corner.

Jackson’s dark eyes were on her, heating her blood. Singing for an audience had always given her a charge so strong it was as good as sex—especially when her audience looked like him.

Taking a deep breath, she launched into the song. As soon as she started, she knew she’d do it justice. The sound in the recording booth was amazingly clear, and the acoustics brought out the richness in her voice. Damn, she sounded good.

The joy of it bubbled inside her like champagne. This was what she was good at. Being able to sing wiped away all the pain, knocks to her self-confidence and misery her ex-boyfriend and lousy agents had inflicted. It made her feel strong. Powerful. And horny.

When the last note died away, there was a long silence before he spoke.

“I have a proposition for you.” His voice was a little husky.

“A proposition?” She put the guitar back on its stand to distract herself from the way her body was reacting. Her nipples rubbed against the fabric of her bra, and her thighs were clenched. Sexual tension zapped the air between them, and it felt good to have a gorgeous man look at her that way. Not that she had any intention of acting on it. Her three-step plan to get her life back on track specifically excluded men, no matter how gorgeous.

“You need money,” he said. “I need a companion for the next three nights.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A technology conference is about to start here in Sydney. There’s an event planned for each night of the conference.” He leaned against the mixing desk and crossed his arms. “The directors and heads of several large tech companies have flown in, and a lot have brought their spouses. One in particular I want to strike a deal with, but as he’s a speaker at the conference, the only time he has available is during Saturday’s party. Problem is that his pregnant wife will be with him, and I’m told he hovers around her like she’s a sugar cube under rain clouds. I need someone who can keep her entertained, so I can wrest him away to talk business.”

“You’re asking me out?” It was the last thing she’d expected. Especially asking her to a corporate event. Didn’t sound the least bit romantic.

“This isn’t a regular date. It’s business, and I’ll pay you to come along. A thousand dollars for three nights.”

She frowned, trying to understand what he was asking. “A thousand dollars is a lot of money. I don’t get paid to go on dates.”

“You’ll earn it.”

“How, exactly?”

“Be charming to anyone I ask you to talk to, don’t complain if I need to leave you by yourself while I work on a deal, and make sure the telco’s wife doesn’t try to interrupt our meeting.”

She snorted. No job in the world was that easy. Especially not for that kind of money. “I don’t want charity.”

“It’s a job. No charity involved.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Going to parties isn’t a euphemism for sex, is it? Just so you know, my body’s not for sale.”

Although if he kept watching her sing, she might get tempted to offer her body for free.

“Your body won’t be part of our financial agreement.” His lips twitched. “Let’s call it an optional extra.”

“What do you mean?” Her heart sped up.

His dark gaze was full of promise, and his smile lifted in one corner, turning it far too cocky. As if he had no doubt he’d get to claim her body. She felt her cheeks go warm. She’d been horny enough after singing for him, and now her nipples were so hard they were practically waving flags.

Then his smile faded and his expression became serious. “The conference starts tomorrow and finishes on Sunday. By Monday, your car will be fixed and you’ll have a thousand dollars in your pocket. You’ll be able to move on.”

Whoa.

So that was what this was about. He was putting an expiry date on their time together. Even if he intended to seduce her, he was making it clear she wouldn’t be able to outstay her welcome, or kick up a fuss when he showed her the door.

“You’re a businessman,” she said softly. “Making a business deal.”

“Exactly. I think you understand what I’m offering. Once the conference is over, you’ll be free to go. With our transaction concluded, we’ll have no ties and no complications.”

“At least you’re honest,” she muttered. And as screwy as it sounded, maybe his honesty was better than her ex-boyfriend’s lies. But how had the sweet, funny guitarist she remembered turned into someone who’d offer a thousand dollars to make sure a woman left when her time with him was up?

“So, what’s your answer?”

“Play something with me.” She motioned to one of the guitars. Of course it was an amazing deal, and she needed the money. But she wanted another glimpse of the boy she used to know. To see if he really was still in there, beneath that hard-edged exterior.

He didn’t bother to reply, but stayed where he was, leaning against the mixing desk with his arms folded. His square jaw was dark with a five-o’clock shadow, and she couldn’t help but imagine how it might feel against her hand. And how its roughness might contrast with the softness of his lips.

“What if I make it a condition?” she asked. “You play, or I won’t do it?”

“This isn’t a negotiation. I have other women I could take.” But he stripped off his suit jacket and dropped it onto the mixing desk. Watching him, she couldn’t help but lick her lips. That body. His wide chest tapered to a slender waist, and the way his shirt clung to his muscles made her want to see more.

“One song?” she asked. For some reason, she was walking to him, her feet moving of their own accord. And when his cologne seeped into her senses like a musky caress, she couldn’t help herself. She reached for his tie. “You can’t play guitar wearing this.”

He put his hand on hers, and for a moment they were frozen like that. His touch was electrically charged, sending shivers of awareness over her skin. Her breath was suddenly too fast, her heart pounding. His eyes were dark and his lips close. He was going to kiss her.

“I’m not playing,” he said, his voice low and as intense as his gaze.

The double meaning in his words filtered into her brain. He was right. This wasn’t a game. She had a plan to follow, and this wasn’t part of it. She was supposed to be getting her life back on track, not complicating it further.

Pulling her hand free, she stepped back. “Sorry. You don’t have to play.” Her face was warm. Looking down at the mixing desk, she let her long dreadlocks fall around it so he wouldn’t see her blush.

“Do you agree to my terms?” he asked.

He was still standing close enough to trigger full-arousal mode, so she took another step back and forced her brain back to the deal he’d offered. Three nights. One thousand dollars. And then he’d show her the door.

Truth be told, his expiry date would make things simpler. Even if she slipped and let something happen between them, it wouldn’t have to affect her plan to get her life on track. Putting an end date on their reunion could be good for both of them.

She reached up to finger the silver stud in her nose. “One problem. I’m not exactly going to fit in at your corporate parties.”

“The first event is a costume party. I need to meet with some people to talk business, but I’m not planning to stay long. Come with me and see how it goes. No obligation. If you have a good time, accept my offer. If not, I’ll still pay for one night.”

“A costume party? I suppose you’d expect me to go dressed up like Cinderella, or something just as boring?”

He crossed to the phone extension by the couch and picked up the handset. It must have automatically connected, because after a moment, he spoke. “Freya, if Meghan decides to come with me to tomorrow night’s costume party, please help her with an outfit. Any costume she likes. No rules.”

“No rules?” muttered Meghan. “What if I want to go as a giant carrot?”

He didn’t glance at her, though he must have heard her question. “Correction, Freya, there’s one rule. No oversized vegetables.” He was silent for a moment, listening. Then said, “The theme for the party is Lords and Ladies? Good. That rules food costumes out completely.”

Meghan rolled her eyes. So much for ‘no rules’. Going in period costume would mean lacing herself into a long dress with a bustle and corset, and how ridiculous would that look with her tattoos, dreadlocks, and piercings?

“It’s up to Meghan whether she decides to also attend the other two conference events with me,” continued Jackson. “But if she does, please arrange for a stylist to come to the house and fit her with clothes, and whatever else she needs.”

Meghan blinked. That sounded expensive. Wouldn’t a stylist want to dress her in designer outfits? Was Jackson really prepared to spend that kind of money just for a couple of business events?

When he hung up, she asked, “Did you call a fairy godmother to wave her wand and magic me up a costume?”

“Something like that.”

“Maybe I’m getting my fairy tales muddled, but I feel like I’ve fallen through a rabbit hole into Never Never Land.” She went back to the guitar on its stand. “And now I have a strong urge to sing White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane.”

“I’d like to hear another song, Alice, but I have work to do.” He looked at his watch. “You can either stay here and keep singing, or go and freshen up. We’ll have dinner at seven.”