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Her greatest fear was that an evening of feeling sexy with Damon, and wanting Damon, would lead right where it had last night—to a desperate masturbation session alone in her room. And frankly, now that the day was waning and her body had felt wired for hours, just from being in Damon’s company, she was beginning to remember exactly what had made her indulge in such an extreme form of self-pleasure.

Oh well, if that’s where the night led, then that’s where it led. But as she finished her makeup, going daring with the eyeliner, she decided to stop worrying and instead resume looking forward to all that would come beforehand.

Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Damon.

Her pussy went moist just knowing she was about to see him. Which was bad. Very bad.

But she took a deep breath and hurried to whisk the door open. He stood before her looking…masculinely beautiful. No other way to describe it. His raven hair fell in beautiful waves to his shoulders. His beautiful eyes captivated her with a glance. And his beautifully hard body made a simple black button-down shirt over black jeans look like haute couture.  A small silver cross hung on a chain at his throat.

She bit her lip and lowered her gaze, trying to hide the physical reaction that rushed through her body like a river of heat. “No vintage tee tonight, huh?” she asked, working to raise her eyes back to his.

He grinned in reply, then gave her a not-very-subtle once-over. “Good thing I put on a real shirt or I’d look like a slob next to you.”

His gaze stuck on her skirt, which stopped halfway down her thighs, and the eye-to-thigh contact made her whole body tingle. “Nice,” he said.

“I decided to do…a little leather,” she explained.

“I like.” Then his look reconnected with hers. “Ready?”

“Very.”Oh crap, had she just said that? “I’m really anxious to do some official scouting,”

she added, trying to cover her lust.

“You mentioned liking Mexican food, so I made reservations at Taqueria Cañonita

downstairs along the Grand Canal. Good people watching,” he added with a wink.

But as they headed up the hall, Brenna couldn’t help thinking they might be the people who would be watched. She’d kept herself feeling Vegas cool and confident while getting dressed, but the fact was—she’d never worn such a racy outfit in her life. And she couldn’t deny that something about the raciness made her feel a bit more in keeping with the man at her side—like maybe, just maybe, little Brenna Cayton from Ohio might actually be a worthy companion for him.

Ten minutes later, they were seated at a table for two at the edge of the canal where it ran through the Venetian’s indoor shopping area. But the lighting and the blue-sky-and-white-cloud ceiling above had the effect of making Brenna feel as if they sat at another outdoor café. “This is wild,” she said, leaning back to look at the “sky.”

“This is Vegas,” he said, taking a sip of the wine that had just been poured.

Just then, they both heard a snap and flinched at the bright flash of a camera. Brenna turned her head to look.

“Don’t,” Damon warned before she was even able to spot the photographer, reaching to  touch her hand where it rested on the table. She shivered inside at the contact. “If you  ignore them, they’ll go away.”

Which is when she realized—dear God, some member of the Vegas paparazzi had just taken a picture of her because she was with him. How utterly strange.

“Don’t be surprised if you turn up on the Internet tomorrow above some caption like

‘Damon Andros’ mystery woman.’ Sorry about that.”

The truth was, she didn’t mind. In fact, she found the notion sort of exciting. But she didn’t say so; she just shook her head. “It’s all right. No big deal.” Then she lowered her chin.  “But is that weird for you? To have strangers taking pictures of you all the time? Or are you used to it by now?”

“Honestly, it’s still pretty fucking strange,” he replied, his expression wry. “And I still don’t

get it. This shit doesn’t happen to other A&R guys—how did I get so lucky?”

Because you’re beautiful. It all came back to that. Surely he knew how enjoyable he was to look at. But thank God she hadn’t blurted it out, and she certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. “You hang with a lot of rock stars and starlets,” she reminded him with a smile. “Maybe that makes you a celebrity by association.”

He shrugged. “Still, it’s bizarre when people you don’t know think they know stuff about you.” Then he tilted his head, his brown eyes intense upon her. “I assume you’ve heard the rumors.”

“About womanizing? And sex for a contract?” She pursed her lips and answered

succinctly. “Yeah.” She saw no reason to lie about it.

He nodded, then gave her an easy smile. “The upside is I’m saving a hell of a lot of money on clothes. People I don’t know keep sending me T-shirts with band logos on them. Saw me wearing them in pictures, I guess. Now I get a new one in the mail every few days.”

She grinned. “From admiring fans? Or bands wanting you to walk around wearing their T-shirt?”

“Some of both—they come from everywhere. Hell, Hugh Hefner’s people sent me a

Playboy tee last week with a note thanking me for stopping by the mansion.”

Brenna blinked and sat up straighter. “You’ve been to the Playboy Mansion?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah.”

“What was that like?”

He took another sip of his wine, and Brenna decided she could use a little alcohol in her system, as well, so she reached for her own stemmed glass. Because cool new Brenna shouldn’t be intimidated or freaked out by the idea of what probably went on behind those particular doors, but old Brenna was and she’d forgotten to disguise it.

“Pretty damn fun,” he said, eyes sparkling once more, a bit lecherously this time.

Her stomach churned with a blurred mix of repulsion and excitement imagining what sort of fun he might have experienced there. Indeed, it seemed that Damon Andros had the same effect on her that all of Las Vegas did.

“Will I now be…uh, required to go places like that?” she asked.

He lowered his chin. “Required, no? But it’s the kind of place where people in entertainment congregate, so…if you get an invitation, you’d be smart to accept.”

“Ah,” she said, still stuck in old Brenna world. Then she swallowed nervously. It was one  thing to put on a leather skirt and see-through blouse. But when it came to walking the  walk and talking the talk, could she really do it? She’d never even thought about having to  go to places where she might be uneasy. Even this bar tonight—would she be comfortable  going to a place called Fetish by herself, without Damon as an escort?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, clearly reading her face.

She thought of faking it, claiming nothing was amiss, painting herself as cool, confident  Brenna again. But she’d spent the whole day with Damon now, and she truly liked him—so she couldn’t help being honest. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but…I’m not sure I could handle that.”

Damon replied by propping his elbow on the table, planting his chin in his fist, and pinning her in place with his eyes. “Oh, I bet you can handle a lot more than you think, babe.”

Four

Fetish was a dark but not dumpy building on the edge of town. They’d taken a taxi and now exited into a crowded parking lot lit with dim streetlights. Red gothic neon announced the bar’s name above the door, beneath which hung a sign with black plastic lettering that said, simply: BLUSH .

Despite the bold new Brenna she’d been trying to become, her stomach swam with nerves. She’d been to plenty of clubs in her day, but never one like this. While she could see that Damon had not steered her wrong—many of the people coming and going could have been at any bar, judging from their appearance—at least half the patrons sported a goth look that made her glad for her leather skirt. Now if only the terror in her eyes didn’t give her away.

As Damon paid their cover charge to a big bald guy at the door with a spider tattooed on his neck, the man squinted at him and said, “Hey, aren’t you…that guy?”

Damon just smiled slightly and replied, “Nope, I’m not him,” and placed a hand at the small

of Brenna’s back to usher her inside.

The interior of Fetish was even darker—she could barely see the people who packed the place even as she and Damon squeezed through, and deafening music blocked any  Going to clubs. Listening to loud music. And to her surprise, she suddenly felt rather adrift, chance of easy conversation. And that’s when it hit her—this was her life now, her job. not sure where to go or what to do.

That’s when Damon’s palm closed warm over her shoulder. “Listen,” he said in her ear.

And again, she was reminded why they were there. The music. Blush. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is this them playing now?”

He nodded.

The sound was fast, hard, funky, and—when she forgot the fact that it was blaring—undeniably appealing.

“Initial impression?” Again, he leaned near so she could hear him, and the warmth of his

breath buffeted her neck.

“They’re good,” she replied. “They have a quality that’s somehow both modern and…a

little ‘new wave’ retro.”

His nod, along with the look in his eyes, made her think he liked her answer.

“Let’s go get a drink,” he said.

As they wove their way through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of the band on a small stage off to the right.

“Don’t look at them yet,” he instructed, yelling over the music. He’d explained to her last  night that in the indie world, sound was everything. “We’re not going for Britney Spears  and Jessica Simpson, people that become pop stars largely because of how they look,”  he’d said. “If they have that kind of appeal, great. But we’re more concerned with what  they can do.” He’d gone on to tell her that he sometimes liked to hear someone for a while  before seeing them—he didn’t like to let their appearance influence him too soon. She’d  thought that sounded smart, and respectful of the music, so she followed him to the bar  without glancing toward the stage.

The more she listened—as they ordered two Long Island iced teas—the more she liked.

Blush’s sound struck her as hip, confident, fun, and very sexy.

In fact, certain words in the lyrics began to leap out at her. “Creamy.” “Soft.” “Dirty.”  “Night.” Words that might mean little on their own, but somehow the commanding female voice turned them sexual, and Brenna became aware of a dewiness between her thighs that hadn’t been there a few minutes before.

Of course, maybe it was also because the dark room was so crowded, which meant she and Damon were shoved together tight at the bar, their arms touching, their hips, too. He smelled good, a mixture of soap and musk and just a little perspiration.

And though she still heard the music, she somehow quit listening very closely, letting the next slower, sensual-sounding song lull her into a warm, quiet sort of titillation. The alcohol content of the drink quickly contributed to a feeling she could only describe as a…relaxed lust. She wasn’t sure if that even made sense, but she grew strangely at ease with her desires, letting them leak to the surface, no longer trying to push them down.

Still crushed close to her mentor as a large biker type squeezed past, she leaned closer to  Damon, absorbing the sheer pleasure when one of her breasts pressed against his arm. At the same time, she slid her free hand up onto his shoulder. To help her balance on her heels. But also sort of just to touch him. So warm, solid.

And as the biker passed, making a little more space, she didn’t move away, didn’t draw her hand back down. Damon felt too good. This was too nice.

He turned to look at her, his eyes only a few inches away and as captivating as ever. His gaze said he knew. What she felt. What she wanted.

That was when she backed away.

It was all suddenly a little too immediate, intimate.

And even as beautiful as he was, as heated as his expression, she couldn’t . For so many reasons. She had to work closely with him right now, had to learn a job. And she was stealing his job, more or less lying to him. And see-through blouse and new confidence aside, deep down she was still old Brenna and, sadly, maybe she just didn’t truly believe she was in Damon Andros’ league.

She blinked and averted her gaze, then took a long sip of her drink. “This is strong,” she said unthinkingly as liquid warmth moved down through her chest.

“Hard to get a Long Island that’s not,” he reminded her with a soft, teasing grin.

Of course it was—she knew that. Why on earth had she ordered something with four or five different kinds of alcohol in it? Because he had, and because it had been easy to just say, “The same.” But she was beginning to regret the choice if it made her this loopy this fast. Of course, she’d had wine at dinner, too.

“Let’s go see the band now,” he suggested, and as she followed—letting him lead the way  through the crazy-thick crowd—she found herself wanting to touch him again, wanting to  curl her hands over his shoulders, press herself against his sturdy back.

Then she thought, Dear God, since when do you get turned on by a guy’s back? Too much  “iced tea,” that was for sure—nervousness had made her sip too much too rapidly. She set the drink aside as they passed a table littered with empty glasses.