Color Me Crazy (17 page)

She shivered a little. Because it was chilly.

“What floor?”

“What?” Everyone in the elevator stared at her, especially the guy in the corner with his finger poised over the button panel. “Three, I guess.”

She had no idea where their room was or what floor it was on. That explained the stupid smile she’d seen on Julian’s face as the elevator doors closed.

Cleo got off a few seconds later and plopped down in a comfy chair by a window. Her odds of saving face were slim.

Outside the window, the California palm trees swayed in the breeze. Houses terraced a hillside in the distance, dotting the landscape with orange and red terra-cotta rectangles. She put her fingertips on the glass. It looked sunny and hot, just like home. But the radio in the shuttle had said it was a cool and refreshing sixty-six degrees. San Antonio was still pushing upward of ninety-five, and she preferred the Los Angeles version of October.

According to the clock above the elevator, it was time to get ready for the Dead Ringer release party. Julian hadn’t wanted to come, but he had. And she knew it was only to keep an eye on her.

Having learned her rock star lessons the hard way, she didn’t need Julian to watch out for her. The only idiot with a guitar she was falling for was him. And he wasn’t like the other idiots. This was a different deal. For one thing, he wasn’t a rock star. He was an artist, a musician, and a studio owner, but he was not an egotistical, maniacal, posing faker of a rock star. He was
real
. And her feelings for him went way beyond her usual obsessive crushes. For the first time in her life, she thought she really might be falling in love.

Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts. “Hello, love,” Julian said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’m exploring the hotel.”

“Lovely, isn’t it? You should see the room. Wait, you can’t. You don’t know where it is.”

“You’re a hoot.”

“We’re in 512. Don’t be intimidated by the king-size bed. They’re bringing up a rollaway for you.”

“I’m sleeping in the bed. You can have the rollaway if you’re that scared of me.”

“I’m fucking terrified of you, but since the room is in my name, I get the bed. You’re technically my guest.”

“I received my own invitation to this affair, so if I’m anybody’s guest, it’s Cory Maxwell’s. Maybe I should see what kind of bed he has in his room.”

Julian stuttered a little before saying, “Fine. You get the bed. And stay away from Maxwell.”

“Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t.”

She hung up, feeling smug. She had no interest in Cory. But she didn’t mind Julian thinking she might. Because instinct told her if he suspected how she felt about
him
, he’d jump right over the rollaway and hurl himself out the window.

...

The familiar Los Angeles landscape rushed by. Julian hated limos and hadn’t expected Utopia Records to send one to the hotel. He’d have sent the ridiculous thing back, but Cleo would have been devastated. She was messing with the sunroof controls, as thrilled as a teenager heading to her prom.

He took a deep, cleansing breath. He didn’t like going to large studio parties and never would have attended this one were it not for the redhead bouncing on the seat next to him. She’d made it clear she was going, with or without him. And after the picture he’d seen in her nightstand, and the incident with his guitar, there was no way in hell he was letting her walk into a nest of guitar-wielding demons unprotected. Some women were crazy for rock stars, and Cleo was one of them.

She fidgeted next to him. “What time is your appointment tomorrow?”

That was the other thing he was nervous about. “It’s at ten, and you can come if you want, although it won’t be fun. I’m going to be hooked up to electrodes and EEG machines all morning. And probably for nothing.”

“Won’t it be wonderful if it works?”

It would, but he couldn’t let himself think about it for fear of disappointment. Over the years, he’d taken countless medications, some of which had helped him control his synesthesia to a certain extent, but all of which had taken dire tolls. He always had to give something up—his creativity, his libido—it was never an equal trade. He’d quit trying new ones several years ago. But last week, a psychologist he’d worked with in the past called him about a biofeedback program. It sounded like New Age mumbo jumbo, but the clinic was in Los Angeles and so was he. He had nothing to lose.

“I haven’t been in a limo since my uncle’s funeral,” Cleo said. “And it wasn’t this nice.” She reached over and turned up the music.

“Really? No disco ball in the funeral limo?”

She made a weak attempt at kicking him with a chocolate-brown lace-up boot. When she’d asked what people wore to big studio release parties, he’d replied they wore a little of everything. So, she’d thrown on a little of everything.

A cinnamon-colored, silky, strapless dress was cinched at her waist by a western-style belt with a silver and turquoise buckle. The color was pretty on her, and the style showed off her curves. Turquoise also dotted her ears, neck, and fingers. Somehow, she’d managed to look incredibly L.A. chic without even trying. That was good. Because she sometimes seemed to dress herself by spinning through her closet like a tornado and going with whatever stuck.

He threw his arm across the back of the seat, catching some of her hair. She’d ironed it straight. It was sexy as hell, but he missed the curls. “Sorry,” he said, raising his arm and gently lifting the glossy auburn curtain to drape across her shoulder. It slipped heavily through his fingers like liquid fire. “We’ll be there soon,” he said, resettling his arm on the back of the seat.

Cleo’s outfit had dictated what he wore, and it had been a no-brainer. He’d chosen a 1968 western suit snagged from Threadbare Vintage. It was coffee brown with black piping along the collar and a fancy yoke on the back. The pants were slim and snug, a nice fit. He’d paired the suit with a black silk shirt and bolo tie that almost perfectly matched Cleo’s belt buckle. His hair was pulled back with a leather strap, and silver loops dangled from his ears. If he and Cleo had their picture snapped, they would make a striking pair. He’d mentioned that to her, and she’d squealed with delight. The idea of being identified as his gal pal apparently held infinite appeal for her.

“I’m excited about meeting Cory Maxwell,” she said, cutting into his thoughts. “I hope I don’t make a fool out of myself. Sometimes I get a bit starstruck.”

“Cory Maxwell,” he said. The name left a bitter taste on his tongue. He couldn’t let Cleo get caught up in Cory’s clutches tonight. “Try not to have an orgasm when you see him, and you should be fine.”

Cleo’s mouth fell open. “You were waiting for the perfect time to bring that up, weren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right. You set me up with that stupid guitar. And for your information, I did not have an orgasm. You’d have to work a lot harder than that, buddy.” She scooted away, crossed her arms over her chest, and took to huffing and puffing.

“It was an expression, love. No need to get excited and build this to a climax.”

The pain of her elbow in his ribs put an immediate end to his teasing. Harassing her was fun. She turned interesting colors when she was embarrassed or furious, and usually, those two emotions rolled out together.

“You give me chills when you play guitar,” she said, turning suddenly serious and thoughtful.

“Come again?” He couldn’t resist.

She sighed, and he feared another elbow jab. “You heard me,” she said. She looked out the window, and her voice grew softer. “Sometimes, when I watch you play, I lose you for a moment, like you disappear in the music. You
become
the music. But then you look at me or flip your hair out of your eyes, and I see you again. I love it when that happens.” She rubbed her hands up and down on her arms as if she had goose bumps.

What could he say? The woman was nuts for a guy with a guitar. Luckily, he had several. “I really like you, too,” he blurted.

He cringed. He’d managed to sound like a six-year-old boy talking to a little girl on the playground. She laughed at the awkward sentiment. “Of course you like me. I’m extremely likable.”

The driver announced they were almost there, and their B-list status was confirmed when he offered to let them out on the curb. They were still half a block from their destination.

“Let’s go, Big Red,” he said, taking her hand as she exited the vehicle like a pro. Two guys on the sidewalk did an immediate double take as she straightened her dress.

“Are you sure I look all right?”

“You’ll do,” he said, grinning like a fox.

...

They were swarmed by people the moment they entered the party, and although Julian did his best to keep introductions flowing, it was obvious to Cleo that he didn’t know the names of half of the people clamoring for his attention. At least her concerns about standing out and drawing unwanted attention to herself were alleviated. She was, in effect, invisible. All eyes were on Julian.

“No fucking way,” boomed a voice from across the room. Cleo’s stomach lurched. She knew that voice.

“Julian Lazros. I don’t believe it.”

Lou Michaels moved toward them through the crowd. Of course Julian knew Lou. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? More importantly, where could she hide?

Lou smothered Julian in a bear hug, and Cleo tried her best to disappear. But Lou spotted her. The shocked blankness on his face quickly shifted to a sneer of contempt.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Cleo.”

“Hi,” she squeaked.

“She’s here with me,” Julian said.

Lou faltered for a moment, but then delivered an icy kiss to her cheek. “I had no idea you two were an item.”

“She works for me is all.”

Lou seemed to wrap his mind around that. “I see. She used to work for me, you know.”

Cleo cringed. She was certain Julian didn’t miss the implication, but his face gave nothing away. He was good at impassive.

Lou looked across the room, pretending to be beckoned. With an apologetic smile, he excused himself.

“Wee bit awkward,” Julian said, grinning as he watched him go.

Someone tapped her shoulder. “Cleo?”

It was Zachary Sims, the guitarist for Stalemate. She’d met him through Lou, and they’d had a whirlwind rebound romance for about two months before she’d realized there were three other women going around the whirlwind with them.

“Hey, Zachary,” she said. “It’s so good to see you.”

That was a lie. He was an ass. To prove it, his eyes took the creepy scenic route over her body, and the gleam in them left no doubt that he remembered every curve of the road in detail. “You look hot.”

Julian cleared his throat. Zachary looked up, and his jaw dropped. “Are you—I mean—are you who I think you are?”

“I’m Julian.” He held out his hand, and Zachary pumped it furiously.

“Oh, fuck. Dude, you’re, like, my idol.” He let go of Julian’s hand and began a flurry of not-worthy bows.

Julian shook his head and took a step back, as if mortified. He looked at Cleo.
Get me out of here.

“Oh, look,” Cleo said. “There’s Slash.”

“Where?” Zachary asked, eyes frantically scanning the room.

Cleo pointed to the left. “He went thataway.”

She giggled as Zachary took off like a preteen girl in pursuit of the latest boy band.

“Slash isn’t here,” Julian said.

“I know.” Cleo grabbed Julian’s arm and headed in the other direction. “But looking for him will keep Zachary occupied for a while. He’s a Slash fanatic. No offense, big shot, but during the time we dated he never mentioned you.”

Julian froze in his tracks. “You dated him, too?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You should stay away from rock stars.”

“Even you?” she teased.

“Especially me.”

She smiled and waved a hand in the direction where Lou and Zachary had disappeared. “You’re not in their league, believe me. You’re way too—”

“Gotta go,” he said. “I promised publicity photos.” Without so much as a good-bye, he turned and headed toward the flashes.

That was weird. And she hadn’t even gotten to finish complimenting him. Abandoned in a crowded room, she initiated her emergency plan and made a beeline for the bar, where people were stacked three deep. Standing on her toes, she waved her hand in the air to get the bartender’s attention, but to no avail. He was probably too mesmerized by the endless Silicone Valley of boobs to notice her. Just as she was about to give up, a warm hand pressed against the small of her back. She turned and came face-to-face with Cory Maxwell.

“You must be the fabulous Cleo,” he said.

She stared into those famous blue eyes, or at least the one that wasn’t covered by a splash of blond hair, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The silence grew like a gigantic helium balloon, and that only led to one thing: a gushing of hot air.

“Wow! You’re Cory. I knew that immediately. I’m Cleo, but you already knew that. How did you know that, by the way?” She held out her hand, but as he was about to take it, she jerked it back and wiped it on her dress, in case it was sweaty. Then she held it out again. “That was weird. Sorry.”

Cory stared at her like she was a performance artist. She dropped her hand, but he quickly reached out and brought it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure, Cleo.”

“Seriously, how did you know who I was?”

“I saw you walk in with Julian, drew some conclusions,” he said with a smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, that would be great.” With relief, she stepped back from the throng at the bar. People made way for Cory, who caught the attention of the bartender with an almost imperceptible gesture.

Soon, he headed her way with a tray laden with colorful martini glasses. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to the elbows in what was probably a calculated effort to appear casual. His expensive jeans were faded and stressed in all the right places. His dirty-blond hair was coiffed to bed-head perfection, the bleached bangs gelled flat across his forehead and hanging down the right side of his face, covering the outside corner of his eye. Every strand was exactly where it should be. In contrast, the back of his head resembled a feather duster, with tufts of hair sticking up every which way.