Sex, Gossip and Rock & Roll

Whatever he’d expected from Pop’s PA, Charli Chambers wasn’t it.

Sure, he’d been away awhile—give or take ten years—but Pop had always had sedate, subservient employees, women who wore bland grey trouser suits and conservative blouses. Stereotypical drones who wouldn’t say boo to Australia’s top musical entrepreneur.

Charli Chambers was far from stereotypical.

Her knee-length purple skirt hugged a butt made to be grabbed by a guy’s hand, her fitted jacket outlined a hand-span waist and the deep V of her crisp white shirt highlighted a very nice cleavage indeed.

As for those long stockingless legs … shapely calves, trim ankles, manicured silver nails peeping from open-toe designer sandals. Yep, he was a leg man and proud of it.

But it wasn’t her designer outfit or sexy shoes that surprised him as much as her lousy attitude. If her dismissive tone wasn’t bad enough, she’d looked at him as if he’d stolen every one of her favourite CDs.

She didn’t trust him.

He knew the look well: it was the same one he’d learned to hide from an early age, when he quickly learned you couldn’t trust anyone, even so-called family.

The thing was, Charli shouldn’t be looking at him with mistrust; it should be the other way around. He’d Googled Pop’s protégé and what he’d found raised hackles of distrust.

He’d expected to find the odd mention of her in an occasional newspaper article linked to Pop. What he’d discovered was a plethora of pictures: Charli hanging off Pop’s arm at some charity shindig, Charli dining with Pop at countless fund-raising balls, Charli accompanying Pop on his overseas jaunts.

Where Pop went, she shadowed and it immediately set his alarm bells ringing. He knew what it was like, having people fawn over him just because he had money, and if Charli thought she could take advantage of Pop.

His grin faded and he absent-mindedly rubbed his stomach at the sudden gripe. He might not be close to Pop but he owed him and if there was one thing he’d learned it was to pay his dues, and if that included protecting Pop from money-grabbers in designer PA clothing, so be it.

Pushing off the bathroom sink, he flung open the door.

He’d given Pop a fortnight. Two weeks to manage Landry Records’ finances of some over-the-hill rock star’s tour before he headed back to London.

Before he did, he had every intention of sussing out Miss Snooty Britches.

Charli glanced at the gold Tag Heuer Hector had given her on her twenty-first for the fifth time in as many minutes, cursed under her breath and glared at the bathroom door, ready to kick it down.

She’d thought it might take a pampered playboy longer than the average guy to get ready but he’d been in there for ten freaking minutes! What was he doing? Plucking individual nose hairs?

Having Luca Petrelli tag along on this tour had been bad enough. Then he’d opened the door wearing that damn towel and her misgivings had shot into the stratosphere.

The guy was cocky, brash and annoying.

Don’t forget hot, an annoying little voice in her head whispered, and she gritted her teeth.

As if she needed reminding. The image of that broad, tanned chest was imprinted on her brain like the passwords to all Hector’s accounts.

And that was what had her mad as hell. His disregard for punctuality stung but the fact her skin prickled with heat every time she closed her eyes and saw his naked torso burned into her retinas? Now that seriously peed her off.

Clenching her fists, she marched towards the bathroom, raised a hand to thump on the door at the exact second it opened and she stumbled headlong into the chest she’d been fantasising about less than five seconds ago.

‘Falling for me already?’

Luca’s deep voice murmured in her ear but that wasn’t what had her knees wobbling. Uh-uh, his hands grasping her wrists, pressing her palms against his chest, a chest radiating enough heat to warm the entire suite, took care of that.

‘I’m flattered, but shouldn’t we go through the motions first? A date? Dinner?’

‘You wish.’

She pushed against his chest and he released her. She should’ve been glad but as she reluctantly dragged her gaze upwards to meet his, saw the spark of heat there, his regret matched hers.

The corners of his lips quirked into a decadent smile that must’ve slain females the world over—and had, if the glossies were to be believed.

‘You have no idea what I wish for, Goldi.’

‘It’s Charli,’ she snapped, angry at herself for being this close to him, for enjoying his banter, for her damn knees still wobbling courtesy of that smile. ‘Where’d you get Goldi from?’

His patronising pat on the cheek had her fist clenching to slug him.

‘It’s an abbreviation.’

Confused, she glared at him. ‘Short for what?’

‘Gold-digger.’

Stupefied, her jaw dropped as he slung a Vuitton overnight bag over his shoulder and strutted out of the door.

Charli caught up with Luca at the lift, grabbing his bag so he had no option but to stop.

‘What did you just call me?’

He’d lost the smile, the spark in his eyes replaced by suspicion.

‘You heard me.’

Taking a deep breath, she mentally counted to five, a technique Hector had taught her when he’d first rescued her from the streets. Back then, she’d fly into a rage at the slightest provocation and, while she’d come a long way, having hotshot Luca Petrelli stare at her as if she’d pilfered his Rolex grated.

‘You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not here out of choice. I’m just doing my job.’

Confusion creased his brow for a moment before he laughed.

‘You think I think you’re after my money?’

Now it was her turn to be confused. ‘Isn’t that what you meant?’

‘Nice try to deflect, Goldi, shame it didn’t work.’

‘Stop calling me that!’

‘If the Louboutin fits.’

He dropped his gaze to her shoes, and she didn’t know what unsettled her more. The fact he recognised the artistic brilliance of her favourite shoe designer or the way his gaze slowly travelled upwards the entire length of her leg, lingering along the way.

‘If I’m not after your money, who …?’ She trailed off, a nasty thought sliding insidiously into her brain.