Part 2 (1/2)

”The band?” Hudson prompted after it became apparent that I had disappeared into my own little cleaning-fueled world. I snapped out of it and turned to listen to him. The car beneath me hummed and rumbled as he switched gears. His long, strong-fingered hand gripped and moved the k.n.o.b of the stick s.h.i.+ft with grace and ease. He had musician's hands.

Suddenly I was intensely aware of the way the sensitive s.p.a.ce between my legs pressed and rubbed against the fine, b.u.t.tery Italian leather seats, and the way his muscles of his thighs s.h.i.+fted beneath the fabric of his fine, expensive trousers as he changed gears. It took great strength of will for me to drag my eyes back to his face, and when I did I saw he had a faint smile on his face. He had been watching me check him out.

Humiliated, I whipped my head around and stared out the window. The silence in the car was deafening. Where were we? Oh, yes. ”Yeah, um,” I said. ”Right. About the band... what band?”

He chuckled, and the dark sound dragged over my raw, exposed nerves like black velvet. I s.h.i.+vered in pleasure. ”Have you ever heard of a band called 'The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things?'”

Had I? Had I ever. Only a few months ago they had burst onto the music scene with dark, grungy melodies and a female vocalist with the voice of an angel, singing beautiful songs with complicated lyrics written by the band's guitarist, Carter Hudson...

Hudson.

My mouth dropped. Humiliation forgotten, I whipped back around and stared at Hudson. He was watching the road, his pouty lips parted in a pearly grin. ”You're...” I groped for words. But the guitarist was Carter. This man had said his name was Kent. ”You're a relative of Carter?”

”His brother, actually. Also the ba.s.sist and the band manager.” He seemed incredibly pleased with himself, and he should be. The Lonely Kings were blowing up all over the charts, their songs showing up in a thousand and one teen flicks, their concerts sold out within minutes of tickets going on sale. And here I was, sitting in the car with the band's ba.s.sist.

”Wow,” I said. ”That's... I had no idea.”

”Hmph,” he said. ”I think I actually believe you.”

”You should,” I told him. ”I'm a terrible liar. I seriously... I thought I was applying for a housekeeping job.”

”And the pool of strictly-business applicants didn't somehow tip you off?”

”I've been awake since Sunday morning,” I said defensively. ”I'm not at my sharpest.”

”Obviously.”

He gunned the car as we neared the highway, and the force of momentum slammed me back in my seat. A thrill bolted through me, and I sucked air through my teeth in appreciation. I'd never been in a car this nice in my life. The car seemed to fly low along the ground as we slipped up the on ramp and slithered into traffic. Traffic in LA is always atrocious, but Kent Hudson was blessed by the G.o.d of automobiles with hair-trigger timing, and I had to grab the door to keep myself from flipping out as he wove the car in and out of traffic at almost seventy miles an hour. Jesus.

”It will be interesting to see if the other candidates make it to the airport in time,” Hudson said. He seemed amused by the idea. ”I'd meant for this to be a part of the test-if you can get from point A to point B in time, but since you don't have a car I can't test you on that. Should you win the job, what methods of conveyance do you have at your disposal?”

I pressed my lips together. ”None,” I answered truthfully. ”My last car... yeah. I had to sell it quickly.”

”Oh?” The car swerved around a semi, and my whole body tensed. The rumble of the engine through the seat had me on edge, sending little ripples of something that could almost be called pleasure through my limbs, and it was hard to ignore. ”May I ask why you had to sell it?”

”You can,” I said. But I didn't want to think about it. Parting with my car, poor Sir Percival, had been a terrible wrench, especially since he had been worth only a thousand dollars. It had barely covered the debts I had to my name, and the guy I'd had to sell it to... I didn't even want to think about him. ”But, um. It's touchy for me.”

”I see.” His voice took on a slight tension. ”Was it trouble?”

I bristled. ”Not trouble with the law, if that's what you're asking,” I snapped at him. ”Just personal trouble. I don't want to talk about it.”

”You ran up debts?”

”I didn't!” I exclaimed, then clammed up. ”It's complicated.”

”Mm,” he said.

”So tell me about this job,” I said, desperate for a change of subject. ”You said I'd be a personal a.s.sistant for the band?”

Hudson laughed, but it was without humor. ”I said that, yes, but I'll be honest with you, Rebecca.” The way he said my name was like a caress running over my throat and down my body, leaving me breathless. ”I am looking for someone who will babysit the band with me. There are three other members besides me. There's Carter, whom you already know of, doubtless because he's the most trouble. Then there's our vocalist, Sonya Kyle, and our drummer, Manny Reyes. Neither of them are going to win an award for responsibility, but Carter is the worst.

”What I'm really looking for is someone to watch over Carter the most. He manages to give his personal a.s.sistants the slip easily, hence why we are headed to Vegas. His current a.s.sistant called me just before interviews were to begin and quit because he'd lost Carter yet again. I knew it was coming, don't get me wrong, but it's always bad when a well-compensated employee tells you they won't put up with their employer any longer because it's not worth the money. I made a few calls, found Carter in Vegas, and here we are. That is the gist of things. So prepare yourself. I'll be throwing you to the lions in a few hours.”

The lions. I tossed my head. I'd heard of Carter Hudson, sure, but he couldn't be much worse than most of my terrible friends back in San Diego. They were all s.h.i.+ftless drug addicts or lazy artists always trying to break into the biz while smoking enough juanita to kill an elephant. Which is a lot, because marijuana can't kill you. Those guys were sure trying, though.

”Okay,” I said. ”I think I can handle it. I've handled a lot of stuff. No big.”

”No big?” I glanced over and saw his face take on a hard expression. ”It is big. Carter is a handful. I can handle the other two, but I need someone on Carter's a.s.s twenty-four seven. In fact, it might be good that you don't have a car...”

”It is?” I said.

But he shook his head. ”Never mind. Just a stray thought.” He cleared his throat and gunned the engine again. I felt my blood rise in response to the raw expression of power. His long fingers wrapped around the stick s.h.i.+ft and moved the car into high gear. He wore silver rings on most of his fingers, and the tattoos on his wrists were bright flashes of color against his monochrome businessman's uniform. I swallowed and forced myself to look at the road. An exit sign for LAX was coming up. How was it that we were already here?

”You say you think you can handle this job?” he said suddenly.

”What? Oh. Yeah, I bet I can. I worked as a bartender for years and I hung out with some people that were basically walking drama bombs. They all went off like clockwork, too.”

”I see,” he said, but he sounded as though he didn't believe me. Suddenly he reached forward and turned on the radio player. It roared to life, right in the middle of a song I recognized.

High, beautiful vocals soared over a hard, grinding beat.

'You came from nothing, nothing came to me, I missed your face as we pa.s.sed by, in the boundless dark of the sky...'

”A Dark Moment,” one of the singles off the first alb.u.m by The Lonely Kings. I recognized it because it wouldn't stop playing everywhere.

Then Kent Hudson put his hand on my thigh and all my thoughts flew out the window.

Everything in the world funneled down to that hand. It was huge and warm, splayed across my raggedy jeans, the heat of his palm leaking through the denim and spreading across my skin. He hadn't even bothered to put his hand on my knee. Instead he'd left it on the inside of my leg, mere inches from my suddenly red-hot arousal. My mouth went dry and my body was suddenly paralyzed. What the h.e.l.l does he think he's doing? my brain demanded.

My body, of course, didn't care what it was he thought he was doing as long as he kept doing it. The car swerved off the road and down the exit ramp as Kent Hudson slipped his fingers down the swell of my thigh to the hot valley between my legs. I tensed, clamping my legs together, and he chuckled over the pounding din of the music.

”You see?” he said. ”Anything can and will happen to you in this industry. You will be expected to rise to meet the occasion each time.”

But what occasion did he want me to rise to? I wondered. The occasion where a top man in the music industry made an unwanted advance on me, or the occasion where that advance was very much wanted?

I shot him a glare and saw the smug look on his face. He was trying to scare me.

My cheeks flared, but I wasn't going to let this bully push me around. I wanted to make him as off-balance and uncertain as I was.

”I don't understand,” I said. ”Are you trying to s.e.xually hara.s.s me?”

”I am s.e.xually hara.s.sing you.”

”And what do you think you're going to get out of it?” I asked. I forced myself to relax, to set my elbow on the sill of the door, letting my thighs loosen and fall open. The hot private s.p.a.ce at the apex of my legs heated intensely, flooded with moisture as Hudson's fingers stuttered and stalled in their bold exploration. ”I'm not sure what you're looking for from me.”

I lifted my chin and watched as he pulled up to the airport, still pedal to the medal as he pushed and weaved through the thick, snarled traffic. The hand on my leg grew tense. ”I expect you to respond appropriately,” he said at last.

I might as well come out with it, I decided. ”Appropriately how? You want me to come over there and make out with you, or do you want me to fight you off?”