Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas (6 page)

“Oh.” He was saying he wanted her, wasn’t he? And wasn’t that like throwing gasoline on the fire. She burned hot enough for both of them already.

The corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile utterly devoid of humor. “Yeah, oh. It seems all my emotions run close to the surface with you. I can’t afford that. I need my work to come first, and I need to know it’s as much a priority for you as it is for me. That’s why we’re here, not because of some strange hormonal reaction. Nothing will come before my work. Am I clear?”

His words shouted a challenge she found difficult to resist. Her body screamed for her to take the leap, to lean over and show Damien exactly what they could have together, but her brain pulled back on the reins, forcing her away from what would be an irrevocable decision. Damien wasn’t just her boss, a boss who’d just made it plain that he’d chosen his business over anything she might tempt him to do. He was also Klio’s father. He was showing principles, at least, but the wrong ones. Not because he wasn’t jumping on the chance to sleep with her, but because he was putting work foremost in his life.

She couldn’t do that. She enjoyed working, being productive. She’d loved performing. That had been her passion, a passion now superseded by a being far smaller but far more special than any bass she’d ever played. “Work can’t be everything, Damien.”

He trailed his fingers down her shoulder, seemingly without thought, coming to rest just above the rise of her breast. “It’s the main course. Everything else is the gravy.” His gaze dropped to his fingers, a hint of longing filling them. “If you want to work for me, the gravy will not be an option for the two of us.”

So, my job or your bed.

Awareness buzzed under her skin despite the thought, tightening her nipples, creaming her core. Every instinct shouted at her to arch her back, to push her breast into Damien’s palm, feel his touch on that most feminine, needy part of her. The hunger grew until she shook with the effort of denying it. Damien felt the tension in her body—he had to, because he didn’t move his hand. He allowed it to hover there, drawing out the moment, poised on the brink of something that would take them far beyond the employer-employee dynamic they were caught in. Harley thought she might scream if he waited one second longer. And then her door opened, and the tension broke with a crash.

“
Mi hermano!
You gonna sit out here all day?” A dark-haired man bent in the opening, a wide grin flashing across his face as he spotted her. “And who have we here? The beautiful Ms. Harley, I presume?”

She might not have met Once’s manager in person, but she’d spent enough time on the phone with him to know his voice. Placing her hand in his outstretched one, she allowed the man to rescue her from the mixed signals filling the car. “Hello, Marc.”

Without a word Damien exited the opposite side. Marc Ellis pulled Harley firmly from her seat, his grip infusing her shaky limbs with the strength necessary to walk without a wobble. By the time they joined Damien, she had as much of a handle on herself as she figured she would get anytime soon.

The good-looking Hispanic man stood half a foot taller than Harley’s five-six frame. He tugged her hand out from her side and took a long, lazy look at her. His gaze came to rest on her hair, which she’d thrown into a quick twist at the back. The style highlighted the quirky colors, but time hadn’t allowed for anything more professional in her rush to get downstairs. From the look in Marc’s eyes, the lack of professionalism wasn’t a problem.

“
Muy bonita
,” he said, causing heat to sweep across her cheeks. “You didn’t tell me she was beautiful, Damien.”

Marc’s teasing tone reminded her of an older brother pulling his sister’s pigtails. The image loosened the tight ball cramping her stomach, but her laugh cut off when she glanced at Damien and saw his narrowed eyes.

Marc apparently saw it too. “Uh-oh. Harley, what did you do to put such a big, bad frown on our boss’s face?”

“Me?” She pulled her hand out of Marc’s grasp in protest. “Nothing. From my experience, this is his permanent expression.”

Damien growled.

Marc’s laugh proved as infectious as his smile. He might be Damien’s employee, but he didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “Really? Well, then…”

“Can we get down to business?” Damien snapped.

“Lighten up, you ogre.” He turned his back on Damien. “See, I said that in English so he gets it clearly.” He reached out, grasping Harley’s arm this time, using a courtly gesture to usher her forward. “Don’t mind him, Harley. Flying makes him
de mal humor
.”

At Harley’s questioning look, Marc mouthed,
Grumpy.

“No kidding,” she murmured, refusing to look over her shoulder when Damien growled his displeasure a second time. A little bubble of glee rose in her chest at teasing him. She allowed herself a grin as they proceeded through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and down a darkened hall to the club.

And walked into a winter wonderland. Twinkling lights outlined the bare trees towering over the tables in the bar area and surrounding the dance floor at the opposite end of the massive room. Goth-style decorations similar to the ones she’d seen at Thrice added to the holiday feel, and Marc had commissioned an obviously talented artist to “paint” the walls of the space with abstract art in what looked like fake snow. The white murals gleamed on the shiny black surfaces of the club, and she knew when the lighting was turned low for the night, the images would fluoresce.

“Wow!” It was all she could think to say.

Marc chuckled. “Thanks for the compliment. Cleanup will probably be a bitch, but it’s worth it.”

It certainly was. Even Damien unbent enough to praise the designs and ask about the artist, allowing Harley to breathe a sigh of relief. She certainly hadn’t looked forward to spending the evening working around the tension that had built between them in the car.

She needn’t have worried. Damien stalked off to hunt down the bar supervisor, abandoning her to work with Marc. The two of them retreated to the manager’s office, where thick walls and a closed door made focus easier. As much as her mind wanted to wander back to Damien and the things he’d said to her, follow-through was a tough taskmaster, cracking a sharp whip on her backside. Settling in, she prepared herself for the first night of what promised to stretch into a very long week.

* * * *

Their meeting with the indie band Harley had booked, Weekend Washout, was set for Wednesday evening, right after the club opened. The morning had blurred with activity, keeping her mind off Damien and on work. A relationship between them was a bad idea all around, yet something deep inside couldn’t help but be hurt by his decision to put business before any pleasure they might have together.

Not that they’d been heading that way. They shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Still…

Damn, she was fickle. As much as she’d privately condemned Damien for his blatantly mixed signals yesterday, she tottered on her own fence, not sure which way she’d fall. Every time her eyes closed, she felt his touch, felt the power of the attraction that arced between them when they breathed the same air. She’d never experienced anything like it, and she was willing to bet Damien hadn’t either; the startled look in his eyes each time it happened convinced her of that. Yet his unequivocal denial rang in her ears.

Ignoring the pang in her chest at the memory, she left Marc’s office. From her vantage point she could see the bouncers busily vetting each customer at the door. Chad, the lead singer of Weekend Washout, stepped through just as she made it to the door.

“Chad, it’s good to see you!”

Chad brushed his long bangs away from his eyes as he glanced toward her. So typical rocker, from his asymmetrical hair to the studded belt at his hips to the lazy look in his dark gaze. Until that gaze met hers, and his eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Damn, girl, look at you! When did you grow up on us?”

She huffed a breath. “I grew up a long time ago. You’re the ones who forgot that fact.”

Chad laughed, reaching out to hug her before passing her to Drew, the band’s guitarist, who then passed her into a hug with their drummer, Vincent. A couple of years had gone by since they’d met face-to-face, but she hadn’t changed that much and neither had they. Both Drew and Vincent wore the rock musician’s uniform of T-shirts and torn jeans, but overall their appearance didn’t shout
Look at me!
like Chad’s did. They looked goo—

“Harley.”

Hank stood in the doorway, staring at her. He might’ve been a bass player, but his voice still held that husky, gravelly tone that made women instantly hot. Even her at one time. He was the only man she’d ever seriously considered giving herself to, but when they touched, there’d been no true spark, no mind-blowing
zing
—on her end at least. He was easy on the eyes, though. At six-two, he towered over her, his shaved head and bulky muscles making him appear even larger than he actually was. “Hank. You look better than ever.”

“You too,” Hank replied, stepping forward to wrap her in a bear hug. He squeezed tight, rocking slightly as if he needed the extra movement to nestle her close. “Damn good,” he whispered in her ear.

She closed her eyes and absorbed his presence. They’d spoken off and on the last couple of years, but she’d forgotten what it was like to be held by him. How comforting it was. Calming. Safe. A twinge of regret sparked in her chest. Despite Hank’s interest in her, a relationship between them would never have worked long-term, and definitely not long-distance. In the end, she’d made her decision, and considering the things that had happened in her life since, that decision was for the best.

“Harley.”

Damien’s voice splashed like a bucket of cold water straight down her spine. She eased back from Hank, clearing her throat of the sudden lump lodged there, and turned to face her boss. “Damien, let me introduce Weekend Washout.” She indicated each member, watching Damien shake hands down the line, exceedingly conscious of Hank’s big hand still wrapped around the curve of her waist. As Damien came to stand in front of them, she turned sideways, giving him access to Hank, who refused to take the hint. Allowing his hand to slide only to the middle of her back, Hank offered his other hand to Damien, whose eyes narrowed as he observed the closeness of their bodies.

Something about that look—a disapproval he had no business feeling—stiffened Harley’s spine. This was the same man who’d told her business would always take precedence, right? So why did he care if some other man put his hands on her?

Marc joined them, and the introductions were repeated.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Damien said, his glance taking in the rest of the band. “Why don’t we adjourn to the bar and make ourselves comfortable?”

He gestured for them to precede him. Harley advanced, the pressure of Hank’s hand prodding her to take the lead. With every step she was conscious of two things: Damien’s dark gaze on her back and the heat of Hank’s touch. Oddly enough, it was the man who wasn’t touching her that she felt most strongly.

“Have a seat, gentlemen.” She indicated a large table near the back wall of the bar.

Chad chuckled. “You don’t have to be formal with us, Little Miss. We go too far back for any of us to take you seriously.”

Irritation flared briefly. Chad was like that—loud, flashy, seeing everything as something to make fun of. But she was no longer the young, uncertain musician they’d known in years past. She’d grown into a woman with a lot of responsibility and a good head on her shoulders, and it was time the guys noticed that. “You might want to take me seriously if you want the exposure this gig could get you.”

Hank took the more direct approach. Sitting between Harley and Chad, he smacked the back of his fellow band member’s head.

“Hey!”

“Grow up.”

Harley did her best to stifle a grin. Hank never had been willing to take Chad’s shit.

Marc stepped up to the seat beside Harley’s. “Little Miss?”

Harley groaned. “Don’t,” she warned her friends. “Don’t you tell them about that.”

But none of the musicians at the table had any qualms about embarrassing her, except maybe Hank. This time Drew took a turn. “Sorta like Miss Priss. She’s the princess of the indie world, ya know. Not many girls make it in our profession.”

“Was,” Harley practically hissed at Weekend’s guitar player. “Was, and no matter what you called me, I could still rock you under the table.”

“I bet you could,
niña
,” Marc teased. His
little girl
caused a hot flush to rush through her cheeks. She glanced at him, her gaze sliding past to Damien, who pulled out the seat on Marc’s other side. He wore that look again, the one she couldn’t place. Derision, maybe? Anger? He obviously did not like the rapport she had with the band, for whatever reason.

Too bad. He might sign her paychecks, but she’d known these men years longer than she’d known him. She knew how to handle them. Most musicians just wanted to play music; the whole prima-donna thing occurred only rarely in the indie scene, thank God. Harley treated other musicians like she treated anyone else, and they usually responded well to it. And if they didn’t? Life was too important to put up with a bunch of crap, in her opinion.

“Can we get down to business now, thank you?” She sat just in time for Rico, one of the bartenders, to approach with a tray.

“Ah, bearing gifts?” Hank asked.

“Merry Christmas,” Rico told him as he passed out small, squat glasses of a white cocktail. “Welcome to Once. We thought you might like to sample our signature holiday drink, the infamous eggnog martini.”

“Hell yeah!” Chad shot back his drink with enthusiasm. “Mmm. It isn’t Christmastime without an eggnog martini.”

Marc beamed with something suspiciously like fatherly pride. “Thank you. I take it you all come here on occasion.”

“When we’re in town long enough,” Vincent surprised Harley by saying quietly. He preferred to stay in the background, which might be why he played drums. But as he and Mark discussed LA’s music scene, she wondered about the rumblings she’d heard that a new manager loomed in Weekend Washout’s future.