decide.”
Foreboding words, if she’d ever heard them. She followed her guide down a wide stretch of patio leading to the ceramic-tiled pool. Beyond the pool, eight woven wicker chairs surrounded a teak oval table canopied by tree branches. She could only imagine what those gatherings must be like. Jet holding court over contestants, the glow of candlelight not softening their glares at one another through the overflowing flower centerpiece.
Past the cabana at the far end of the pool, the flagstone patio funneled into a walkway lined with shrubbery. At the back of the cabana, a door stood open, and two guys wearing identical polos worked at a long table loaded with equipment.
Slowing, she asked, “What’s that?”
The guy glanced over. “An ad hoc editing room.”
“Cool. Could I check that out later?”
“Check with Cindy.” He veered off onto a side path leading to a small cottage. From there, the walkway wound around and out of sight.
Unlocking the door, he set her suitcase inside the door and handed her the key. “Cindy said to let her know if you needed anything else.”
“Thanks.” The way it sounded, Cindy could be her best friend here, or her worst stumbling block. The gatekeeper to Stu, who controlled access to Jet.
The cottage appeared tiny from the outside, but actually had two stories if the bedroom loft counted. A boomerang-shaped overstuffed sofa dominated the main floor, and cabinets topped with bookshelves lined either wall. In a small nook sat a ceramic-topped iron bistro table and two chairs.
As cozy as a beach getaway.
She swung her carryon bag atop the tufted ottoman. Turning to retrieve her suitcases, she stopped short.
Jet leaned against the doorway. If his presence had been palpable in the house, he overwhelmed this small space.
His lopsided smile appeared almost shy. “Need any help settling in?”
The personal touch. If he hoped to make it literal, he could forget it. Despite her resolve, she found him overwhelmingly distracting. She had trouble recalling what she’d planned to do.
Glancing around, she thought she’d be pretty pathetic if she claimed to need help. “Nope, I think I can find everything.”
Stepping inside, he closed the door and moved toward her slowly. Purposefully.
Her pulse quickening, she tensed, but couldn’t find her voice to ask what he wanted.
He touched the cabinet. “There’s a small fridge under here. I’ll have Cindy stock it for you.”
Nodding, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Great. Thanks.” She felt sure he must hear her heart pounding. And think her an idiot. “It’s an adorable little place. You’re saving the magazine a bundle by letting me stay here.”
When he moved closer, his crystal blue eyes felt like a laser piercing her own.
To clear her head, she turned away. “It’s situated perfectly too. Right next to the house.” Could she possibly sound any more brainless?
She sensed him directly behind her. His soft tone made her muscles go fluid. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining his famous voice singing to her alone.
“If you look out your bedroom window, you can see into mine. Right over there.” His arm lifted beside her and pointed.
His warmth penetrated her skin. He smelled like ocean and musk. An impulse struck her to guide his arm around her, fit herself against him. Fill her senses with him.
Snapping to reality, she fumed at his flirting, but made her voice sweet as honey. “Oh, over there? I appreciate you telling me.” Smiling, she turned. “I’ll be sure to keep my curtains closed.”
Tensing, he straightened, and his nostrils flared.
Her muscles drew taut in response. You shouldn’t have made him mad–not the first day.
But his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he cocked his jaw and nodded. “Billie Prescott.” He said her name with a kind of wonder.
Not quite knowing what to make of it, she gave a giddy laugh. And wanted to die. “Jet Trently. We finally meet.” As though she’d been waiting. Or it had been prearranged. By whom? The universe?
To recover her composure, she went to her bag and pulled out her laptop. “Any internet connection in here?”
He flopped onto the sofa and extended his arms across the back. “Wireless, pretty much from everywhere.” With a kind of amused curiosity, he watched her. “We need to talk.”
Her mind blanked. The way he spoke sounded so intimate, as if he wanted to discuss their relationship. His gaze seared into her, and she had trouble remembering they had no relationship. “About what?”
His mouth curled into a smile. “The show. Don’t you want to interview me?”
She felt her face flush. He played a cat and mouse game. And he’d trapped her already. “Yeah, absolutely. I need to review the materials to get some notes together first.” And her head. She couldn’t let him mess with her mind any further. She’d come to do a story. And she intended to make it great. Get it over with, so she could go home.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I could give you the grand tour.”
“Yes, great.” Damn, his intense focus wiped clean her slate of thought. She stepped away to retrieve some semblance of dignity. “But what about the cameras? I have to be invisible. I’m not part of any of this.”
He rose slowly. “The show doesn’t start until tomorrow.”
“Right.” She must be making one hell of an impression. Stu would regale Everett with her complete idiocy. Maybe the flight had dehydrated her. Or the time difference had thrown her off balance. “Could I see the kitchen first? I’m really thirsty. My day started at four thirty this morning Eastern.”
“Sorry. Why didn’t you say something? Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Yes, I didn’t think the driver would want to stop along the way, even if I offered to buy him a drink.” Ah. The return of the old Billie. The girl not impressed by rock stars. Not starstruck like some teenage fan.
He went to open the door and inclined his head toward the outside. “Let’s go raid the fridge.”
“Are you sure you have time?” What, like he needed to study a script? All he had to do tomorrow, it seemed, was roll out of bed on time.
“Absolutely.”
Egotistical, but also a gentleman. Interesting combo.
Grabbing her messenger bag containing the essential digital camera and recorder, she followed him back the way she’d come. Much nicer walking beside Jet than following the Rock Bottom worker. Jet made eye contact when he spoke. Strolled along as if he enjoyed her company.
He kept the conversation going. “So you’re from Philly?”
A true marketing pro, pretending interest in her life.
“Yes. Pennsylvania born and bred.” God, she made herself sound like a crop of corn. “Where are you from?”
“Jersey, mostly. Though my dad lived in Philly, so we split our time with him.”
“That must have been tough. Do you have brothers and sisters?” The instant she said it, regret snapped her attention to him.
“A sister. My brother, Jeff, died a few years ago.” A catch in his voice, then he flashed a smile, though his pain still came through.
“That’s right. I’m so sorry.” The news came to mind then: the death of Jet’s brother, the lead guitarist, had nearly destroyed the band, already almost lost in obscurity. Then