I Want You to Want Me (Rock Star Romance #2) (3 page)

She pushed the button for the elevator. Glancing down at her outfit, she wondered if the supershort shorts and thigh-high boots made her look more like a hooker than a groupie.

“Other than that . . .” Violet could hear her friend shuffling through papers. “Other than that, we’ve got a new order from Mirabelle’s for the tins. They’d like to try ten tins of each flavor.”

“Are you serious? Mirabelle’s in East Hampton contacted us?”

The doors opened, and she wheeled her suitcase inside, then pressed the button for the lobby.

“Yes. I got a call this afternoon.”

“Way to bury the lead.” Violet smiled. “Francesca, that’s huge. I can’t believe you didn’t call me as soon as you got off the phone with them. That’s fantastic.”

“You were at Joe’s engagement party. Oh, and if it sells well, they might include us in their catalog.”

“Are you kidding me? This is amazing. This could change our lives completely.” She could close her company, live on the farm full-time.

Of course, she didn’t own the farm yet. Doubt worked its way back into her consciousness. She tried hard not to worry about things out of her control, but come on. Hard not to worry when all she had to prove ownership was a paper napkin contract. If it came to it, she’d fight, of course, but the more money she earned, the sooner she could own the land outright and put her fears to rest.

“Okay, anything you need me to do before I go?” Violet asked.

“You’ll need to transfer funds into the business account, but other than that we’re all set.”

“I can do that electronically, once I’m in the car.”

“V, with all we’ve got going on, what about skipping this job and spending time on the farm?”

A little jolt of energy passed through her. She would love nothing more than to spend the summer out there. They’d gotten a firm handle on the wildflower tea products and were ready to launch the soap. She’d planned on developing stationery and honey next. Oh, and potpourri. She’d have to remember that one
.
Easy, simple to package.

“That sounds amazing, but I need the money.”

“The sooner we get the products into the marketplace, the sooner you won’t need to take jobs.”

True. But she’d have no peace until she owned the farm outright, so she needed the income. “You could ask Mimi to come out and help you. Just until she finds a job.” Francesca’s twenty-four-year-old daughter had recently graduated and hadn’t found a job yet. “Would she like to work on the stationery this summer?”

“I think she’d love it. But you know she’s not going to give up her dream of working with her dad. So, no, I don’t see her coming out here. Even if we both know it’s where her heart is.”

The elevator rocked to a stop. “Okay, I have to go.”

“So you’re going to take the job?”

She had to. Ever since Jedidiah Walker had died, Violet had waited for someone to show up and kick her off the land. She knew he had two adult children. One lived overseas—Tokyo, she thought. The other, in the city. Neither one had ever visited him on the farm in all the years she’d known him, so she clung to the possibility they simply didn’t care about the little bit of land at the tip of Long Island.

But another part of her knew better. They—or their lawyer—would show up—any day now—wanting to put it on the market. Would they accept her handwritten contract?

Even so, at the rate she was going in the lease-to-own plan they’d agreed on, it’d take twenty years to finally own the land. So any chance at earning a big chunk of cash . . . “Probably. I have to meet them first.”

The elevator doors parted.

“Okay. Let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks, Francesca. Talk soon.” She tucked the phone into her leather messenger bag, hitched the laptop case higher on her shoulder, and reached for the handle of her luggage. Moving forward, she walked smack into the hard wall of a body. “Oh, my God, I’m
so
sorry.”

Randall stood before her, eyeing her oddly. He clearly didn’t recognize her.

“Randall?”

He cocked his head, gaze narrowing. Once recognition hit, his eyes widened comically. “Scarlet?”

Violet’s gaze shot to Louis. The doorman gave her a barely noticeable shake of his head. His expression said,
You’re in trouble now
.

Well, hell. Should she tell Randall her real name?

No, of course not. Then she’d have to explain why her boyfriend of three months had called her Scarlet. Oh, brother. She turned back to Randall. “What’re you doing here?”

And just like that his features shuttered. “You left so quickly, I was worried.” Gone was the earnest man she’d left in the restaurant.

“I have to work.”

“So you said.” He gave her a long look, and she hated that he was seeing her in this outfit. “On a Saturday night?”

She couldn’t even imagine what he was thinking about her,
standing in her Upper East Side lobby, wearing thigh-high boots and supershort shorts. How did she get out of this one?

“What kind of consulting do you do, exactly?”

She gave an uncomfortable laugh. Normally, she had an easy, professional answer for everything. But it was
Randall
. And an hour ago he’d surprised the heck out of her by wanting to date her. Now . . . God, now she stood before him in thigh-highs.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain, Randall. I’m heading to the airport.”

Giving him a warm smile, she stepped around him, continuing across the marble-floored lobby. “Maybe when I’m back in town, we can grab a coffee and catch up.”

“Scarlet.” His commanding tone made her stop to face him. “Can you please tell me where you’re going? I don’t understand.”

She flashed a look to Louis, but he just rocked back on his heels and pressed his lips together disapprovingly. “God. I hate what you’re thinking right now.” She blew out a breath. “I really am sorry, but I have to go.”

Randall’s nostrils flared, and she could see him fighting for self-control. “Go where, exactly?” He strode over to her, leaning down to her ear. “Please tell me right now what kind of consulting job requires you to dress like . . . like . . .”

“Like what? What do I look like?”

“Well, frankly, like a hooker.”

“I look like a hooker?” Oh, hell. She
had
gotten it wrong. Did she have time to change? A lot of the groupies she’d Googled had worn jeans. Plain—but tight—jeans. She turned to Louis for help.

The fifty-eight-year-old father of two tipped his head, giving a jerk, indicating she should come closer. “What’re you supposed to look like?” he asked quietly.

“A groupie.”

Mouth in a tight line, he assessed her thoughtfully. “The boots.”

“Too much? Okay.” Resting a hand on his desk for support, she pulled the boots off.

“Scarlet,” Randall snapped. “What the
hell
are you doing?”

“I don’t want to look like a hooker.”

“You . . . What are you talking about? What do you want to look like? None of this makes any sense.”

Ignoring him, she laid her suitcase on the floor and dug through it until she pulled out a pair of wedges. She held them up to the doorman, who nodded with confidence.

“Okay.” She slid her foot into the sandal. “Great. Is my car here?”

“Waiting out front.”

She stuffed the thigh-highs into the suitcase, zipped it up, and gave Louis an appreciative smile. “Thanks so much.” Swinging the messenger bag over her head, she turned to Randall.

He looked a mixture of worried, angry, and confused. “Wait. Tell me what kind of job requires you to dress like that. Can you just give me that?”

“Give the kid a break,” Louis murmured.

Randall probably thought she’d been Joe’s
escort
for three months.
God
. How humiliating.

Louis relieved her of the suitcase, holding the door open for her, while Randall followed them out. It was fairly chilly for June, and she wished she’d brought a wrap. She’d only thought of summer and outdoor concerts.

Louis loaded the suitcase in the trunk as the driver set her laptop case and messenger bag on the backseat. Just before she slid in, Randall appeared at her side.

“I’m sorry for saying you’re dressed like a hooker. That was uncalled for.” Frustration pulled on his features. “I just . . . I don’t understand. Did you bail on the engagement party to go to a concert, is that it?”

“No, of course not. I really do have a job to get to. I wish I could explain. I do. But it’s the nature of my work . . .” No, she couldn’t talk to him about client confidentiality. He might put the pieces together and figure out the truth. That would be devastating for Joe.

“Go on.”

“I don’t want to leave you with terrible thoughts, but there’s not much I can tell you. I really am dressed like this for a job.” She smiled, because she knew that comment made it sound like she
was
a hooker. “But trust me when I say I don’t do anything illegal, unethical, or immoral.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. I’m sorry.”

“No,
I’m
sorry, Randall.”

“Can we talk later?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.” She moved to get into the car, but he reached for her.

“Wait. Just . . . wait.” He stood there confused. “I knew it didn’t make sense for you to be invited to his engagement party. That’s all kinds of messed up. And you just stood there, smiling, like you were proud of him or something.”

“I
am
happy for him. She’s the right woman for him.”

“I don’t understand . . . nothing rattles you. The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never shown an ounce of emotion.”

Way to hit a girl where she hurts.
“Joe and I had a nice time together, but it wasn’t a love affair. Not like what he has with Judy. I’m happy for him.”

“Is that all you want out of a relationship? Something
nice
?” He jammed a hand through his short blond hair. “Do you remember that closing dinner? When you first started dating him? I was there, Scarlet, right behind you when he came out of the bathroom with another woman. You didn’t yell or cry or anything. You didn’t even look upset.”

Well, of course she’d been upset. But jumping into the drama with her coked-out clients accomplished nothing. Her handling of each situation built the foundation of trust, cultivated an attitude of willingness with them. “Joe and I worked out our issues.”

“Jesus, listen to you. Are you always this flat emotionally?”

He was really twisting the knife, wasn’t he? No, she wasn’t a passionate person—and she hated that about herself—but she certainly couldn’t show emotion on a
job
.

But she couldn’t explain any of this to him. “No, Randall, I’m not the most emotional person. So maybe it’s best we don’t date, after all.”

He shook his head, looking frustrated. “But I want to get to the woman underneath.”

Oh. Oh, that was so nice. Okay, enough. She really couldn’t take any more of this. “I’m sorry, Randall. I have to go now.”

“Jesus, do you feel anything?
Is
there a woman underneath?”

And just like that she flashed back to the social worker talking to her grandma.

I’m afraid children without touch or nurturing lose the ability to form attachments for the rest of their lives.

She’ll likely never be able to trust or fully experience love.

I wish I could be more encouraging, but it’s unlikely she’ll ever have normal relationships.

The pain of those words still packed a wallop. “God, I hope so. Good-bye, Randall.”

Did she have the right bus?

Violet peered through the tinted window of the door. She could see the driver locked in conversation with a figure that certainly looked like Emmie. Why weren’t they letting her in?

She pulled out her phone and texted.
Outside the bus.

Within seconds, the door whooshed open, and Emmie charged down the stairs. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you at all.” Her hands covered her mouth. “I thought you were a groupie. A really determined one.” In her pretty summer dress, she stepped back up. “Come on in.”

The bus driver reached for her suitcase. “I got that.”

“Oh, thank you.” Violet held out her hand. “I’m Violet Davis.”

“Abe, the driver.” He motioned for her to go ahead.

Relieved to get out of the humid Florida air, Violet followed Emmie into a wood-paneled living area. Black couches on either side of the aisle, a long table, and a big flat-screen TV in the wall made up the space. She pulled off her messenger bag and set it and the laptop case on the table.

“Oh, my God, look at you.” Emmie’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

Gesturing to her outfit, she said, “Yeah, so hooker or groupie?”

“Can I say a cross between the two? Although, to be honest, you’d be amazed what some of the nymphs dress like.”

Nymphs?
“You should’ve seen me in the thigh-high boots.”

Emmie’s eyes widened. “I can’t even imagine you dressed like that. You’re always so elegant and polished.”

“Yeah, well, my doorman made me take them off. But I brought them just in case.”

“Where do you want this, Em?” Abe asked.

“How about the lounge until we figure things out?” Emmie looked to Violet for confirmation.

“Sounds good.” She hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements on a band’s tour bus. Where
would
she sleep?

Abe edged around them, carrying the suitcase close to his chest, as he angled down the narrow hallway.

“What time will the guys get here?” Violet thought about changing her outfit, now that Emmie thought she looked like a hooker. The right presentation meant everything to a successful job. She needed to fit in seamlessly, so they didn’t view her as an outsider.

“The show ended about fifteen minutes ago. Right now they’re doing some press. So we have, maybe, ten minutes or so to talk privately.”

“How long does it take them to run the gauntlet through the army of groupies?”

“Yeah, it’s not easy dealing with them. You can’t really run through the nymphs. The guys have to stop and sign autographs along the way. You want to keep the fans happy.”

“Nymphs?” Violet smiled.

“Irwin doesn’t like the word
groupies
. He prefers to call them nymphs.”

“Got it. Okay, well, I guess I’ll be learning all about it soon enough.”

“You don’t have to worry, though. Derek does a great job of managing everything. He gives the guys an hour or so to party on the bus, but then he kicks the girls off.”

She’d seen throngs of groupies as the car had driven
through the festival grounds. They surrounded the artists, hovered outside the buses. How did Emmie do it? “I know tonight you’re waiting here for me, but you usually stick with the band, right?”

“Not every night. I don’t like all the chaos.”

“You leave Slater with all those girls?”

It was interesting to see Emmie’s features soften. “Oh, sure. He’s . . . he’s not into all that.”

With her long, dark hair and lovely figure, Emmie Valencia was indisputably a beautiful woman. She stood out from the fans with her fresh-faced, girl-next-door beauty. Still, Violet wasn’t sure she’d share Emmie’s confidence. Not with all the temptation thrown at these guys.

Emmie motioned to the couches. “We’ve got a few minutes before they come on board, so let’s talk. What can I do to convince you to take this job?”

Abe came back down the aisle. “She brought her entire wardrobe. I wouldn’t worry too much about whether or not she’s taking it.” He gave her a wink.

Violet laughed. “Hey, I had to come ready to work.” It wasn’t like she could fly back to New York. The job would start immediately.

Abe went back to his seat, flicking on an overhead light to read his cell phone.

“Okay, so what happened exactly?” Violet asked. “Why am I here?”

“Well, things have been building. The guys are partying harder, which is a problem in itself, but it’s worsened by the fact that my brother has developed a relationship with the media. He likes to tip them off when he thinks he can get some good press for the band. Unfortunately, when you get the press involved, they’re not looking to post a nice, clean story. And last night was a perfect example. Derek invited some paparazzi to the show because we had some celebrities jamming with us at the Miami festival. Well, of course, they wanted more than just shots of Jared Leto rocking out with the guys. They followed us back to the hotel, hung around waiting, and . . .”

“And they got their shot.” Violet had spent the car and plane ride looking up Blue Fire and Derek Valencia. She’d
seen the shots of naked women in the pool, and Derek looking down at them.

Emmie cringed. “Yeah, but I have to tell you, Derek was only on that balcony to make sure no one had gotten hurt. He wasn’t throwing girls into the pool. In fact, he’s the one who shut the party down. Unfortunately, Irwin saw the picture of Derek and assumes he was the ring leader.” She let out a breath. “It’s not good. Irwin’s not coming to the show tonight. He’s going into the studio with another band instead. Which, in Irwin-speak, means he’s losing interest.”

“So he asked you to hire me?”

“Oh, believe me, he hasn’t said a thing. No, I met with their publicist. We’ve been racking our brains trying to come up with a way to get Irwin’s attention back on the guys before it’s too late. And I thought of you. He trusts you. If you’re involved, he’ll believe the guys will get their heads on right.”

“And what about the guys? What exactly do they know?”

“Slater, of course, knows everything. I don’t keep any secrets from him. But you told me not to clue the others in yet, so I haven’t.”

“Okay, so let’s start with Derek, since he seems to be the leader. How do you think he’ll react to having a minder?” It never went well. And, in fact, it only worked if the client wanted to keep his job more than he wanted to party.

Emmie looked uneasy. “His initial reaction won’t be good. But once he gets that it’ll keep Irwin, he’ll go along with it.”

“Let me ask you something. What does it mean to him? Why is it so important to have Irwin, specifically, as his A&R guy?” The answer would determine the outcome of the job.

“Well, it’s kind of personal.”

“Everything about my involvement with him will be deeply personal. That’s how I’ll be able to help him.”

“Right. I know. But . . .”

“He’s your brother.”

She smiled. “Yeah. But I know how much this means to him, so I’m going to tell you what I can because he absolutely won’t get what he wants if you’re not involved. Okay, so I told you about our dad, and the way he’s constantly
criticizing Derek. Well, as soon as Derek signed with Amoeba Records, my dad started nosing around the industry again. He tried to get me to come back and work for him. I mean, knowing I was Derek’s manager, he still wanted me to quit my job and work for him. That sums him up right there. It’s all about
him
. Total narcissist.”

“I read some articles on the way here. Your father makes veiled remarks about modern-day musicians with their scandals and preoccupation with social media. He’s obviously talking about his son. Is that why Irwin doesn’t think Derek’s taking his music seriously? Could Eddie Valencia, jazz virtuoso, have that kind of power over Irwin?”

Emmie sat back in her seat, looking a little stunned. “Uh, yeah. Wow. You’re good, V. I mean, incredibly good. We haven’t even gotten started yet. How can you be this insightful at twenty-five years old?”

She smiled. “I had to grow up fast.”

“Well, as much as I’d like to say Irwin can’t be influenced, I think it’s hard to dismiss the opinion of someone who stayed on the Ledger List for ten years.”

“The Ledger List?”

“Irwin puts out an annual list of the best rock and jazz musicians in the world. My dad stayed on the list for a decade.”

“What would it mean to Derek to be on that list?”

Tears glistened in Emmie’s eyes. Oh, Lord. She must’ve hit on something. She waited for Emmie to pull herself together.

“I don’t even know what to say. You got it. You just friggin’ nailed it.” She wiped her eyes. “It would mean everything to him, V. I mean, he’d never say it out loud—I’m his sister and he’s never actually said it to me—but I know it would mean the world to him. The whole thing about having Irwin as his A&R guy means he’s made it. Something our dad told him would
never
happen. Losing Irwin’s interest just confirms everything Dad ever said about him. But making the Ledger List? It would be proof that he’s got true talent. On his own, outside of the band. It would make him believe in himself.”

Violet couldn’t help picturing the little boy, looking up
with adoring eyes at the dad he revered and seeing pure rejection reflected back. She could imagine the hard nut of pain in the little boy’s heart. God, it made her sad for him. “Got it.”

“So what do you think? Will you take the job?”

“Normally, I come in after rehab. Sure, I can see hiring me to get a handle on the situation before it gets so far that they
need
rehab, but if no one has a substance abuse issue, then I’m not sure what my role would be. Other than, obviously, winning over Irwin. And that doesn’t feel right to me. This is my livelihood, you know? My reputation is my calling card. Not to mention, Irwin was nothing but good to me. As much as I want to help you out, I’m not sure I’m willing to spend my summer on tour with a bunch of hard-partying rockers just so they can keep their A&R guy.” Of course, she needed the money, but she only got jobs on referrals. She couldn’t ruin her reputation.

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’ve given you the wrong impression. Everything’s just happened so fast. The pictures went viral this morning, Irwin bailed on the show tonight, and I’ve just been going crazy trying to figure out how to get him back. Last night showed us—all of us—that the guys are out of control. So, yes, we want you because we believe it’ll get Irwin back, but the guys
do
need your help in finding ways to manage life on the road without drugs and too much alcohol.”

“That makes sense.” And that she could definitely do.

“See, when they were opening for Piper Lee last fall, they started to go down the wrong path. That’s why . . .” Emmie held out her wrist, revealing a small black tattoo. Two arrows pointing toward each other, their heads merged. “We all have these. It’s basically a symbol for balancing opposing forces. The music industry is really chaotic, and we need to keep our heads on right and find our balance, so we can enjoy it without letting it destroy us.”

“I like that. A lot.” She wondered if Emmie knew how lucky she was to be part of this tight-knit band. She
belonged
to these guys.

Emmie’s phone buzzed, and she picked it up off the table. A smile lit her features. “They’re on their way.” She turned a hopeful expression on Violet. “So what do you say? Please tell me you’ll do it?”

The quadrupled fee would nearly buy the farm outright. And she couldn’t resist the force of Emmie’s passion for her guys. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” And then she drew in a breath. “What do you need from me?”

“First, when you say partying, I need you to be specific.”

Emmie nodded. “Alcohol, for sure.” With a troubled expression, she looked at her hands. “I know they’re doing drugs. Pete, especially. Not Derek, and of course, not Slater. I’m pretty sure Cooper and Ben are doing stuff, too, but not nearly as much as Pete.”

“Listen, I know we’re talking about your boyfriend and your brother, but I’ll need some time to observe. I hate to start off with deception, but I really do need to assess the situation. The moment they know I’m a minder, they’ll hide their drugs and alcohol and their sources. Can you give me some time?”

“I can’t keep anything from Slater but, then, he’s not the problem. Lie to my brother?” Clearly, Emmie didn’t like that. But she had to see how important it was not to tip anyone off until she figured out who was doing what and who was supplying. “How much time?”

“Twenty-four hours. Can you give me that?” Even that wouldn’t be enough, not with the craziness of touring—the unfamiliarity with venues, the hangers-on. But she had to consider Emmie’s relationship with her brother.

Deep male voices and shrieks of girlish laughter drew nearer.

“They’re here,” Abe said. The doors whooshed open.

Emmie slid out of the bench seat, her smile luminous. “Jonny wants a few minutes alone, okay? Just to meet you.”

“Jonny?” Violet asked.

“Sorry, Slater. His real name’s Jonny. That’s what I call him.”

Violet nodded, her attention turned to the big hand grasping the rail, pulling up a huge, muscled body. Slater Vaughn topped the stairs, latched his gaze on to his girl, and strode right to her. He scooped her up, arms banding around her waist, lifting her so her feet dangled. Angling his mouth, he kissed her like he’d just come back from war.

And then Emmie’s legs wrapped around his waist, and he gripped her bottom, pushing her back against the wall.

A bolt of electricity shot from Violet’s core right to her heart, making her scalp tingle. She had to look away from the insanely intimate moment.

She got that she couldn’t love the way a normal person did, but could she feel
passion
? Were the two inextricably linked?

She hoped they were separate. She wanted that. She wanted that so much.

Murmurings pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to find Emmie unlocking her legs, gently stepping away from her boyfriend. “Sorry about that. The guys have a crazy amount of energy after a show.” She reached for Slater’s arm. “Jonny, this is Violet Davis. You remember Caroline’s minder?”