YONI

Baz drove us back to my hotel. In this lovely moment, with Baz blushing while he drove and me smirking like a cat, my cell buzzed. I’d turned the ringer off, but the calendar function still gave warnings.

I looked. “Oh, shit!” I wailed.

“What?”

“This club gig.” I could have cried with disappointment. I sent him a pleading look of apology. “I have to do it. I promised.”

He grumbled, “Everything you agree to do is a promise.”

“Well, it is. My word is my word.”

He jerked the wheel savagely. “You making a point?”

I opened my mouth to deny it, then I had an idea. “Maybe.”

He glared at me. “What?”

“You tried to blow off my session this morning.”

“Tried,” he snapped. “Your goddessness fixed that.” If I didn’t know he was too ruff’n’tuff for that, I’d have said he was cranky with sexual frustration.

“So make it up to me,” I said.

“I thought that was the plan. Before your club gig busted it up.”

I wheedled, “Do the club gig with me. Cameo appearance, one or two numbers.”

We pulled into the hotel parking ramp. He turned to me, trying to look hard-faced and blowing it. “One.”

“One song and one encore.” I could see him wavering. “C’mon. The one we recorded this morning. Sneak preview on the new CD—we’re previewing it tonight anyway. We’ll blow ’em away.”

“All right,” he growled, but he was kind of smiling.

He likes me! I was such an idiot.

The stick had worked. Now for the carrot.

“Meanwhile,” I said briskly, “I have a couple of hours before I have to show up at the club.”

We eyed one another, me refraining from needling him about slacking, him not needling me about overwork. It was an understanding.

Somewhere in the depths of my belly, I was going all fan-girly. I have an understanding with Ashurbanipal!

He turned off the engine, jerked on the handbrake, leaned over, grabbed my chin, and kissed me slow and sweet.

“So let’s go upstairs,” he whispered.