SAM STOOD WITH HER hands on her waist, mirroring his pose, trying to maintain an upright-and-locked position. He was inches away, filling her vision, making her heart jackhammer and her knees go weak.
She couldn’t swallow.
Nick Stack. Wearing his trademark black jeans and shirt—open to that critical fourth button—and black Italian boots. Six feet three inches of free-range testosterone, with prominent cheekbones and fabulous teeth. He seemed leaner than he had been back in the day, but somehow he came across as all the more defined for it…as if the ease and artifice had been stripped away to reveal the raw essence of the man underneath. Twelve years after his hard-rocking heyday, he exuded a tested but still defiant sexuality that dared women to look. And touch.
She curled her hands into fists at her sides.
She had enough trouble with his cursed music. Having to resist both it and him at close range—she sucked a sharp breath.
Focus, damn it. She was here to see he fulfilled his contract. This was business, not pleasure.
Stepping back, she looked for photographer Halcyon White. He stood nearby with his assistant, watching them in a very intent way.
“Where’s the stereo?” she asked, grateful she didn’t sound choked.
When he directed her to a rack of electronic equipment on the back wall, she pulled out her cell phone and headed for the system controls.
“It’s me,” she said when Renee answered in their offices, above, on the thirty-eighth floor. “Find that CD of Stack’s and bring it down…fast.”
“He’s there?” Renee asked, perking up. “He made it this time?”
“In the flesh,” Sam said, regretting that choice of words the instant she clicked off. Flesh. Suffering a brief shiver, she made herself focus and located the receiver, disk tray and output controls.
When she returned, Stack had sent an assistant running for his pricey water and was sorting through the backdrop choices, declaring them to be “crap.” She clamped her jaw and headed for him, but Halcyon—living up to his name—grabbed her by the elbow and shook his head.
“I look best in grays and white lights with a hint of ultraviolet,” Stack declared, seizing a glaring white backdrop. “This’ll do.”
“Brilliant,” Halcyon declared, strolling over to him, seeming oddly relaxed. “If you’re going for a vampire-in-the-morning look.”
“It works for me,” Stack said with a fierce smile.
Halcyon chuckled.
“I think we need a warmer background to showcase you,” he said in measured tones. His own handsome chocolate skin and winter-white ensemble were such a statement that it was hard to argue with his eye for the subtleties of lighting on a human form. “This is going on a CD cover as well as a POS poster surrounded by valentine reds.”
“P-O-S?” Nick said, frowning.
“Point of sale.” Sam crossed her arms. “You’re going to be hanging in four thousand corporate stores, nation-wide…with feature space in another five thousand outlets that carry CrownCraft goods…surrounded by flocked red velvet and fuzzy teddy bears and pictures of swans with their necks entwined to form hearts.”
She couldn’t tell—did the news cause that blanch or was he just making another bid for his vampire lighting scheme?
“I’ll need a mike,” he said to Halcyon’s assistant, his jaw flexing. “Doesn’t have to be live, but I always use one.” He spotted and headed for the makeup table. The fortysomething makeup technician looked positively orgasmic as he slid into her chair and winked at her.
Sam made herself look away. He still had it, all right.
When Halcyon called that he was ready, Stack sprang up from the chair, took a swig of his expensive water and grabbed the prop mike. She had Renee punch the sound system and braced as the riveting, bass-heavy introduction of “Baby, Tonight” went rumbling through the studio.
They all watched, growing spellbound as he did a few deft slides, steps and hip thrusts that carried him through the opening bars.
“A man that tall shouldn’t be able to move like that,” Renee said from beside her, sounding a little breathless.
Sam shivered and clamped her arms fiercely around herself. Between Stack’s aphrodisiacal music and eye-popping exhibitionism…she had to get out of there…maybe slip upstairs to her office…
She took two steps backward, tripped on a fat power cable and nearly went down on her rear. Her flailing caught Stack’s eye.
He halted and the recording went on without him, sounding thin.
“This isn’t working,” he declared. “I don’t just sing, I sing to an audience.” He glanced around the studio. Before anyone could point out that there were half a dozen assistants standing around, he fixed on Sam.
“Brunhilda. Come on down.” He made for her.
“I have work to do. My assistant can—”
“This was your idea, right?” He grabbed her by the wrist and snagged a stool as he headed for the backdrop. “See it through.”
“This is absurd,” she growled, trying frantically to pull back.
“Actually it’s not.” Halcyon appeared at her elbow to usher her toward the stool. “It will give him a focus and keep his energy up.”
“I don’t want to—” keep anything of his up “—be in these photos,” she said, digging in her spike heels.
“Just sit still and keep your hands to yourself,” Halcyon said with a chuckle. “I’ll shoot around you.”
It was a nightmare; she was stuck on a stool under hot studio lights with Stack bombarding her with provocative lyrics while pictures were snapped all around her. She hung her heels over the top rung of the stool and tucked her arms tightly, trying to make herself a smaller target.
Just an hour or so, she told herself frantically. Ignore the heat. And the beat. And for God’s sake keep your knees together.
Then Stack put the mike to his mouth and began to belt out lyrics.
Ohhh.
Damn.
At point-blank range, his voice was deep and full of earthy undertones and had an edge of raw half-pained pleasure not unlike the burn of hot chilies sliding down her throat. The sound seeped into her blood and co-opted her heartbeat, replacing it with a steady quarter-time rhythm. Her exposed skin went taut and began to vibrate as if it were a drum head, and she trembled as he crooned about how he wanted to make love to her until he couldn’t tell her body from his own.
He moved in, swaying, undulating as he ground out the raw, erotic invitation that had made him famous.
She looked away, but he danced himself in front of her, filling her vision and dragging her gaze toward his. It took heroic effort, but she swiveled on the stool, giving him her side and shoulder. There was a tug at the back of her head and she felt her hair slide out of her ponytail. Shocked, she reached up to feel her shoulder-length hair hanging free.
“Loosen up, ’Hilda.” He tossed the elastic band in her lap.
It was a small but telling encroachment, a declaration that nothing—not even her person—was out of bounds where this man was concerned. Stiffening with panic, she sent him her hottest glare and prayed he couldn’t tell how the liberty he’d just taken affected her.
As the serenade continued, her legs ached with erotic tension and sweat droplets trickled down the side of her face and between her breasts.
“Getting hot, are you?” Stack gave her a wink.
Flirting? More like taunting, she thought, fanning herself with the sides of the jacket she was afraid to shed. Her nipples stuck out like hood ornaments beneath her thin sleeveless sweater.
Looking from Halcyon to Renee and the rest of the crew—all watching eagerly—she felt her face flame, lowered her feet and tried not to squirm on the stool. She had to gut this out.
Another song came and went, and then came one that was slower and more evocative, a steamy ballad she knew well and had been dreading.
Halfway through, she was jarred by the feel of her jacket sliding from her shoulders. She was shocked to have Halcyon direct his assistant to take it from Stack. She had apparently drifted into a memory-upholstered lull.
A shudder rippled through her as she folded her arms to cover her breasts. The Stackman went down on one knee beside her, engulfing her with his seductive presence and suggestive words. Then he pulled her gaze into his…ran a hand over her shoulder…massaged his way down her spine. Could he feel her body trembling?
She swayed, gripping the edges of the seat, wishing she could give him a shove to back him off, but Halcyon was in close now, working furiously. The camera was whirring and snapping just over her shoulder.
She closed her eyes and began to repeat the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner” over and over in her head. When the barrage of sensation ended, she opened her eyes and found Stack looming over her with a smug twist of a smile. What was he…? She froze.
Something wasn’t quite. Her breasts felt…loose. The memory of his hand moving down her back suddenly made a very different kind of sense. Her face caught fire as the realization hit.
The son of a bitch had unfastened her bra!
Her heart pounded in her throat as she exploded off the stool, grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him around to face her. He was grinning broadly now, watching her realize what he’d done and enjoying the way her D cups were riding up beneath her thin knit sweater. She clamped her other arm under her breasts.
“I need a word with you, Mr. Stack. Now!” She hauled him out the doors and into the hall. But the staff and crew collected in the doorway, so she pulled him down the hall…where the floor receptionist stared at them.
Apparently the only place she could have this out with him unobserved was the damned elevator! When she shoved the button, the door miraculously opened. She hauled him inside and hit the stop button as they started down.
Turning her back to him, she pulled up her sweater to bare her dangling bra hooks.
“You undid it, you fix it. You’re not getting out of this elevator until you do.”
“Promises, promises,” he said with a laugh. “You sure you don’t want to just take it the rest of the way off?”
She shot him a fierce look over her shoulder.
“Fasten it.”
After a nerve-racking pause, he refastened the hooks.
She dropped her sweater back in place and whirled on him.
“Look, you’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t want to be here.” She jammed her fists on her hips. “News flash—I’m not crazy about you being here either. But if you think a little personal harassment is going to get you out of your contractual obligations, you’re badly mistaken.”
His sardonic smile disappeared.
Three months of anger and humiliation came boiling up in her.
She raised her chin and stalked closer, sending him back a step.
“This line is too important to fail because of one asshole’s ego.”
He backed another step, and she advanced again.
“Whether you realize it or not, people’s jobs and homes and families are on the line, here. Designers, sound engineers, photographers, production line personnel, wholesalers, retailers, promoters in three cities, merchants in the malls you’ll appear in…In the worst economy in decades, we’ve sunk a million dollars in development costs and hundreds of design hours into producing musical cards, a CD and posters that feature your face and your signature sounds. Not to mention the slice you took right out of the middle of the pie.
“This has to work. I’m not going to let it fail, you hear me?” She punched his chest with a finger. “I am not laying off my people and watching them sink into foreclosure beca-ause—” she had to force out the last part after her voice broke “—because you insist on acting like a horny, out-of-control fifteen-year-old!”