Rock Bottom. Cate Masters

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СКАЧАТЬ him an honest opinion, anyway.

      Stu’s elbow connected with Jet’s side. “Why the long face?”

      “Ah. You know. All this.”

      “What, you’re depressed because you’ll have gorgeous girls hanging on your every word again?” He gave a false wince. “Come on.”

      “Yeah, it’s great. Really. But it would be nice, just once, to find someone–” He shrugged. “–to talk to, all right? For once, it would be nice to feel the passion in my lyrics for a girl who’s beautiful and intelligent.”

      “You want the package deal, eh? Forget it. You don’t want someone who understands you. She’d blow your whole mystique.”

      He blew raspberries. “I’m just a guy, Stu. It’s not impossible–look at McCartney. He’s miserable without Linda. Or…” He cast about for another example of a successful long-term marriage.

      “The public loves Jet Trently–rock star. Not Jerry Trently from New Jersey. Anyway, rock stars aren’t supposed to find real love, or their muses become jealous and abandon them.”

      “Right.” He should’ve known better than to broach this subject with Stu. Divorced three times himself, Stu had no idea how to talk to anyone without an angle. Blowing smoke up asses was Stu’s specialty, his talent. He couldn’t set it aside if he tried.

      “Look, you made it into your thirties. You’re healthy, and thanks to me, wealthy. You have millions of fans. Women throw themselves at you, would leave their husbands for you. What the fuck are you complaining about?” His mouth curled in disgust. Probably because he wished he could change places.

      “Nothing. You’re right.” He blew out a breath and lied, “Just nervous about this next round, I guess.” Especially after reading the contestants’ bios. They might well have been the same as last time, for all he knew.

      “No worries, bro. You’ll knock ’em dead like always.” Stu winked. “I have to check in, make sure everything’s set up in the edit room. My work is never done.”

      “You’re the man.” Such phrases placated Stu. Got him off his back.

      “Catch you later.” Stu stepped inside and closed the door.

      Jet stood there, a trickle of sweat reminding him to get out of the hot sun. But to where? His studio? He could practice, he guessed. Or work on the song that had been nagging at him.

      Or go back in the house. Where Billie was.

      Hit the studio, man. Yeah, probably should.

      Having another woman around didn’t raise his expectations for real conversation. Most women told him what they thought he wanted to hear. Season one gave him his fill. It was like falling into pheromone quicksand. Almost cozy at first, then it closed in tight, squeezed away his breath and left him nowhere to turn.

      And now there was one more to deal with. Billie Prescott. A reporter, to boot–someone he could never speak to without selecting his words carefully. Guarding against misquotes or misconceptions. Mis-whatever.

      He couldn’t deny she made a hell of a first impression. Something in the way she looked at him contradicted her screw-you attitude. Ah, shit. With women, it was always the same. Some sort of con to gain a foothold. They all wanted something he couldn’t give. Total devotion. He gave all to his music. Girls provided inspiration, for a while. None had ever gotten to him the way his songs made him think they should. He’d never fallen in love like that. Probably never would.

      Still, maybe he should go check on Billie. Make sure she had everything she needed.

      * * * *

      At Cindy’s summoning via walkie-talkie, a man in a polo bearing the Rock Bottom logo begrudgingly dragged Billie’s luggage through the dining room to the spacious eat-in kitchen beyond. She followed him out the French doors to the patio. Between the doors stood an outdoor fireplace, its mustard-hued chimney flanked by tall concrete pineapple statuary. In front, cushioned seating around a low coffee table, then two oversized chaise lounges with matching umbrellas sat atop an outdoor rug.

      “Because they can’t decide whether to tan or not?” she joked to her unhappy valet.

      “If they’re anything like the last batch, it’ll be the least of what they can’t 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 СКАЧАТЬ