Bear Treble (Highland Brothers 4) (2 page)

S
he’d never met Dylan
, but she didn’t expect him to be so tall. Actually, she didn’t expect him to be hot and sexy either. Most songwriters she worked with were lanky guys who were too many days overdue for a shower. She tried not to stare at his physique, but under the porch light all she could see was the sharp lines of his jaw and a definite pulse in his neck.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” She sashayed up the stairs until she was next to him on the landing. “I’ve come to help. I want to speed things along.”

“Y-you can’t do that. I’ll get you the songs.”

“That’s what Billy said. And I know you two are friends, but I can’t put my entire career in Billy’s hands.” She paused. “Or yours.”

She felt Dylan’s eyes on her as she strolled toward the guitar. “Billy is a great producer. You should listen to him. He knows what he is talking about.”

She saw the notebook resting on the railing next to a cup of coffee. “Is this one of the songs?” There were two lines scrawled across the top next to an apparent ink stain.

He walked toward her, snatching the notebook from her hands. “They aren’t ready for you to read.” He took a solid breath. “You didn’t need to drive out here, Layla. I promised you the songs and you’ll get them. I work better without distractions.”

She placed her hand on her chest. “Are you calling me a distraction?”

“Something like that.”

“I write your check. I write everyone’s checks,” she huffed. “I’m going to be singing these so-called lyrics you’re guarding. I have a right to be a part of this process.”

Hal was waiting by her car, and she still hadn’t decided what to do with him. He was good at pretending to ignore her conversations. He had certainly overheard his share of her personal exchanges. Hal probably knew more about her than anyone.

“Are you pulling the boss card on me?” Dylan’s eyes suddenly looked dark and fierce. “Because you’re not my boss. I don’t have a boss. I choose who I write for.”

“You signed a contract and I want my songs.” She was close to pressing her finger into his chest. It was tempting if only to feel how solid it might be.

“You’ll get them,” he snarled.

His shoulders were broad. She could see how the tops of his biceps bulged against his T-shirt. Dylan Highland was possibly an ass, but damn he was built like a football player.

“Then I’ll stay until they’re done.” She called over the porch. “Hal, unload my bags please.”

“What? Stay here? I didn’t invite you in.” Dylan’s eyes protested as much as his words.

“The house looks enormous. Are you telling me you don’t have room for me?”

He took a step backward. “Look, Layla. I can’t finish these songs if you’re hovering around, waiting for them. Have your driver take you back to Seattle. I’ll get them to you Saturday. How about that? A day earlier than I told Billy.”

She smiled at Hal as he dropped her bags by the front door. “Thanks, Hal.”

He nodded at her, waiting for his next set of instructions. “Would you like for me to inspect the premises, Miss Love?”

“I think I’ll be fine.”

“No you will not.” Dylan spoke through clenched teeth.

She ignored him and looked directly at Hal. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to get back to the city.”

“Are you sure you want me to leave you here?” The bodyguard leaned toward her ear. “There’s no security out here.”

“I think Mr. Highland can handle security for the weekend. Besides, no one knows where I am. And there certainly isn’t anyone out here.” She had noticed how civilization seemed to vanish as they drove out of the city and neared the family estate.

Dylan held his breath, his face almost turning red. “He’s right. There’s no security out here for you. It’s better if you go back with him.”

“I’m staying.” She tilted her head toward him. “I’ll leave as soon as we have the right songs for the album. I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?”

He exhaled through his teeth. “Fine. You can stay. But as soon as we’re done, you’re headed back.”

Layla folded her arms across her chest. “Perfect.”

H
e stood there staring
down at her bags on the porch. He was sure they were made from Italian leather—he could smell the rich hide. The taillights faded around the corner as Hal drove the SUV back to Seattle. Layla had walked inside, oblivious to the sheer pain surging through him.

The pages on his notebook fluttered on the porch, reminding him unfinished songs were only the beginning of his problems. His bear was ready to rip through him.

“Are you going to show me around?” she asked from the foyer.

Dylan heaved her loaded suitcases over the threshold. “Do you usually pack this much?”

“I never know what I’m going to need.”

“So you pack up your entire apartment?”

She spun on her heels. “Do you always talk to artists like this?”

“Do you always invite yourself into other people’s houses?” He felt the shuddering under his chest. He could barely steady his bear. It was a battle of wills beneath his skin.

He’d seen pictures of Layla before, probably hundreds if he was honest. And hell, he’d always thought she was a pretty woman, but standing in front of her he was thrown by how gorgeous she was in person. Her hair was layered in thick auburn waves, and though he wasn’t much for makeup, her skin was flawless. The lines around her eyes made the green stand out. She had the most lush, kissable lips he’d ever seen.

She was known for her powerful voice. For her heart-wrenching ballads that spoke to people’s souls. She had been called the voice of the century. Her songs had enough rock to keep her on the pop charts, and so much soul you’d never forget them. But all he could think about was how fucking sexy she looked standing in the foyer. She was killing him with her curves.

“I’m only here to make sure this album is perfect.” Her hands sank at her hips. He suppressed an immediate growl.

“I don’t work with other writers. I do things on my own.” He dropped the bags in front of the staircase.

“Doesn’t seem to be working for you.” She smirked.

He knew he could kiss that look right off her face. He could make her head spin. But he closed his eyes instead.

“You know this won’t work.” His dark brown eyes met her gaze.

“Of course it will. We’ve already worked together, just not in the same place at the same time.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “I wrote songs. You recorded them. That’s not exactly the definition of a working relationship.”

He watched as she struggled to pull her first suitcase up the stairs. It was obvious she never carried her own luggage.

“Hold on. Give me that.” He took the bag from her grasp, and his breath caught when he felt the softness of her hand.

Layla moved to the side of the staircase. “Thank you. They are a little heavy I guess.”

“I’ll leave them at the top of the stairs.”

He left her waiting while he delivered the bags to the upper landing. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Layla smiled up at him. “You made that look easy.”

He shook his head. “Nah. I life weights, that’s all.” He hesitated. “I was about to make something to eat for dinner. Are you hungry?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Actually, yeah. I’d love to eat.”

“That’s something we can agree on. Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”

She followed him through the house.

“Wow. This place is impressive.” She gawked at the chef’s kitchen Dylan’s cousins had designed.

“My cousin Crawford did most of the remodel work.” He opened the fridge, trying to think of something he could fix them to eat.

“I should have him look at my beach house. It needs some help.”

His eyebrows rose. “What beach?”

“It’s on the East Coast.”

“Not California?” He pulled bacon from one of the trays.

She shook her head, her curls dusting over her shoulders. “I’m not an LA girl.”

“Shocking,” he murmured.

“Hey, I’m not all Hollywood. Just because you think you know who I am, doesn’t mean you do.” Her eyes set on him in determination.

He raised his hands. “You’re right. Sorry.” He pulled a frying pan from the cabinet. “Looks like BLTs for dinner. That alright?”

“Mmm. Sounds better than the stupid cardboard my trainer makes me eat.” She slumped into one of the barstools, kicking her high heels to the floor.

“Don’t tell me you’re on one of those stupid celebrity diets.” He turned the gas on low.

“You and I both know there’s no one else in the music business with my shape.”

He jerked around. “Or your voice.”

She smiled. “Right. The voice. Well, I’m supposed to have the body to go with the voice. Thus, the trainer.”

Dylan layered the bacon on the bottom of the pan. “Don’t listen to them. You’re beautiful.” He froze, his hand mid-air with a piece of bacon dangling from his fingers. What in the hell did he just say? He tried to think of something to cover it up. Something that would make her forget he just called her beautiful, but he thought about it too long.

“You think I’m beautiful?” she taunted.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to drown out the sounds his bear was making. He needed to quiet him, rope him back in to a dark corner. Layla wasn’t for him.

“Everyone thinks you’re pretty. You’re Layla Love.” He tried to chuckle, but there was no way he could pull it off. His heart was splitting open, his bear tearing at him to look at his mate. To comfort her. To tell her everything she needed to hear.

She sighed. “Oh, yeah. Everyone.” She hopped off the stool. “I’m going to go change. I’ll be down in a few.”

“Sounds good.” He didn’t want to turn around and see her. He could feel the way the air had changed after his blunder.

“Is any room ok?” she asked.

He focused on the bacon sizzling in the pan. “Yeah. Help yourself. The back wing upstairs is mainly for guests. Take your pick. Go to the end of the hall and hang a left.”

“Thanks.”

He turned around to see Layla pick her high heels off the floor. She walked out of the kitchen holding them in her right hand.

Damn it. In less than an hour that woman had completely gotten under his skin.

S
he pulled
the suitcases behind her, ducking her head in each room. Dylan wasn’t kidding. There were tons of empty guestrooms on the second floor.

By now she thought she would be used to the wealth and money that came with her success, but standing in Highland House she knew her money wasn’t like this. Hers came to her fast and furious after one breakout album.

Sure people loved to write articles about her rags to riches success. But no one really liked to think about it. How she grew up with nothing. How there was only one pair of shoes. Only one pair of jeans. And if she was lucky, she got a new summer outfit, not her sister’s hand-me-downs.

She thought about that girl as she walked along the corridor of the guest wing. It made her feel small, just like that girl she used to be. If this was the life Dylan grew up in, they didn’t have much in common. That didn’t matter. She only needed him to give her a song now that would keep her on top.

Every time she walked in the studio she was terrified the new music wouldn’t live up to the old albums. It would be judged and ridiculed for being too artistically indulgent, or too close to the trend. It kept her up at night. It kept her up all day. It was the only reason she had allowed Billy to sign Dylan Highland. She had to have the best to keep her at the top.

She settled on a room near the end of the hall. There was a fireplace and a four-poster bed. Almost quaint, but big enough she could spread out all the suitcases.

The smell of dinner floated up from the first floor.

For a moment in the kitchen she thought Dylan was hitting on her. It was brief, but there was something in the way he called her beautiful that tugged at her. Just as unexpectedly as it came, it vanished. She shook her head. He was a moody songwriter. Brilliant, famous, and even called an artistic genius, but it didn’t take five minutes with the guy to realize he was also cocky, arrogant, and rude. He didn’t want her there, but she wasn’t leaving until she had what she wanted.

Layla unzipped the first bag and began to arrange her cosmetics on the bathroom counter. It wasn’t like she needed his attention or his approval. She dabbed a bit of her lotion against her wrists and rubbed them together. She loved the way the white rain smelled on her skin. It was almost as good as taking a shower. She had bought the bottle on her last trip to Paris.

She shrugged off her leather jacket, and pulled out her new tartan shirt. It had been $400 at a boutique. She fastened the buttons and looked at her reflection. Dylan had studied her body—she saw his eyes coast over her hips. A slight rush ran up her throat. She swallowed. That was stupid. He wasn’t checking her out. He was annoyed she had crashed his songwriting retreat.

She turned off the light as she walked out of the room. It didn’t matter what kind of broody artist he was. She wasn’t leaving until she had the perfect set of songs for her new album. And as far as she was concerned Dylan was the only man that could give her what she wanted.

H
e arranged
the sandwiches on the plates with a side of fruit. He debated on whether to break into Hudson’s wine collection, but decided if he was hosting one of the world’s greatest voices, his cousin wouldn’t care about a bottle or two. He returned from the cellar with a pinot noir and cracked it open just as Layla walked into the kitchen.

“Took a gamble you might like red.” He pointed to the open bottle.

“Good bet.” She smiled. “I don’t drink much though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I have to protect my vocal chords. Alcohol can weaken them.”

He immediately regretted opening the bottle and shoved the cork back on top.

“No, no. Don’t do that,” she urged. “I want it. Believe me.” She grinned.

His nose caught something in the air. She smelled amazing like new rain in the forest. He felt the hammering against his chest to finally grab her in his arms and pull her pouty lips to his mouth. He groaned. Not happening.

He handed her a glass. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. I think we should toast.” She held her glass forward.

“Toast?”

“To writing six number one songs.” She clanged the glass against his.

He took a gulp, hoping the wine was a strong one that would knock his bear out. “You really think you can have six more number ones?” He sat next to her.

“Why not? It’s not worth recording the song if I don’t think it can be a hit.” She placed her glass on the counter.

“Hmph,” he grumbled.

“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so. I write for the song. For the lyrics. For the power of the music. I don’t write for where it might land on the charts.”

She laughed. “This coming from a guy with too many hits to count. Easy for you to say.”

“That’s not why I write.” He felt his defenses going up. “I don’t give a damn if any of these songs make it on the top one hundred.”

Her eyes widened. “You have got to be kidding me. You know exactly what it means to write a hit, and to write a bomb.”

“That doesn’t matter to me.”

She scoffed at him. “You’d give back your Grammy Awards?”

“Yeah, I would.” He whipped his head to face her.

“Well I wouldn’t,” she stated. “I earned every single one.”

“Let me guess—they’re on your mantle?”

“In my awards room, actually.” She looked proud of the announcement.

He shook his head. He couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she wasn’t any different than what he had always thought. All she cared about was making money and landing at the top. She didn’t even value a good song.

“You have everyone fooled, don’t you?” He tossed his sandwich on the plate.

Her green eyes fired. “Fooled? Why? Because I want to maintain my success? I don’t think that’s any different than any other artist out there.” She grabbed the wine goblet and Dylan noticed how her knuckles turned white under the strain.

“Artists? If all you’re doing is plucking popular songs I don’t see how you can call yourself that.” He pushed back from the bar and tossed his plate in the trash.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Dylan, come back.”

He turned on his heels. “You’re in my house, Layla Love. And as long as you’re here you don’t get to tell me what to do.” He walked out of the kitchen, and headed for the front door.

He slammed it behind him, feeling the cold gust of air wash over his face. He inhaled, trying to submerge the rage bubbling in his blood. Damn it. She was a self-absorbed diva. He gripped the railing. How was he supposed to work with her?

He picked up the guitar and the pad that he had dropped.

And then it hit him. He knew exactly what to write.