Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
I really wish my body didn’t have this reaction to his closeness, because I’d much rather hate the man than be turned on by him. But he’s massive masculine power; he radiates quiet confidence and control.
And menace.
Yes, there’s an undercurrent of violence to him that sends shivers running down my spine.
I clamp my lips together because I can’t think of anything to say that won’t get my kneecaps broken. And I’m pretty sure that happens here. The Bellissimo is owned and run by the Tacone crime family. Besides, and more importantly, I don’t want him to hear the state of my voice. It’s almost gone. I’ve been sick for weeks now, and I honestly don’t know if I can make it through this last stint in Vegas.
Hugh bustles to my side and grabs my elbow in that controlling way of his. “Come on, let’s get you to that stage so you can rehearse. I want no flub-ups tonight.”
I put my head down and follow, not because I agree that I need the rehearsal time, but because I need to get away from Brando’s searing regard.
As fast as possible.
Hugh’s grip tightens on my elbow as we move through the casino. “Do you want to get us all killed?” he hisses in my ear, his breath stinking of sour coffee.
“I thought you already took care of that,” I rasp in my most dry, bored tone—the one that sets him off on a rampage. Then I tune out the lecture as Bellissimo guests call out my name and start snapping photos. I grin and flash them the peace sign as we walk through casino on a long parade from the front door to the concert hall where my tour bus is parked in the way back. Of course we could’ve just pulled around there to begin with, but this is Hugh’s strategy of making sure everyone knows there’s someone famous in the building—hyping the show. My band members and roadies have the luxury of slipping in the back in peace.
I honestly don’t mind, though. I love my fans. They’re the reason I write music. The reason I sing.
A group of rowdy frat boys jostle too close, getting into my space to snag selfies with me. Anton barks for them to back up, shielding my body with his, but suddenly casino security swarm around us, forming a protective bubble.
“I don’t know, she only has one bodyguard,” one of them speaks into a comms unit, then, “You got it, Tony. We’ll stay with her at all times.”
Tony.
I twist around to see my huge keeper. He’s walking casually behind us, his lips moving as he gives orders to his staff. Our gazes meet and lock, his dark, promising.
My heart picks up speed.
I want to march back and say all the things I bit back when we met outside, but it’s like the Earth is rumbling beneath my feet. The tectonic plates shifting and moving, rearranging.
I may have thought I could handle Vegas. Handle my obligations at the Bellissimo. Get in, get out; hold my breakdown until it’s over. But now that I’ve met Tony Brando, I know I’m in way over my head.
It’s hard to imagine I’ll survive this gig with my soul intact.
Tony
Merda. Pepper Heart is nothing like what I expected. I figured her for a party girl—a spoiled young rock star who’d pissed her money away like water. Either that, or a child in need of growing up, maybe whose parents or manager had grossly mismanaged her career and finances. And the latter may still be true, but Pepper is neither a child, nor a vapid starlet.
She’s every bit a woman.
A beautiful woman with slender, muscular legs like a ballerina. Youthful, braless—fuck yes, braless—tits that shift under her sweet little babydoll dress like they’re begging to be licked. She has a fluffy, platinum bob over a pink under layer and heavy black eyeliner around those eyes. Those eyes were what stripped me of my judgment about her. Big, deep, the color of warm caramel: they are full of pain.
And if I see that asshole manager of hers grab her by the elbow like that again, I’m going to yank his tie so tight his eyes pop out.
I swear to la madonna.
I order my guys to keep an eye on her at all times, because I don’t like the fact that she only has one bodyguard, and fans who want to get up close to that ripe little body of hers.
I trail behind her entourage at a distance, telling myself I’m just making sure they’re fulfilling their obligations to me. To Nico. And Junior.
Pepper Heart owes a shit ton of money to the Tacones, and it’s my job to make sure she pays it off. I’d say she’s lucky she has the talent and following for me to squeeze, but it’s not luck. Junior Tacone knew what he was doing when he let her borrow 900K to produce and release her last album and worldwide tour—which sold sluggishly. He knew we could put her to work at the Bellissimo. Forever, if we need to.