Backstage with Her Ex

In answer to Sasha’s thumbs-up sign and broad grin, Cassie gyrated across the floor, wiggling her skinny backside in an attempt to mimic Nate’s very sexy stage performance.

Sasha held her breath and tried to control the relieved laughter. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much—you don’t know how much this means to the choir—’

‘Hold on, Sasha, I’m not making any promises. I need to check my schedule. Text your address to this number and I’ll send a car for you tomorrow at seven p.m. You can come to my hotel and we’ll talk more.’

‘Not that it doesn’t sound fancy, and I’m very grateful, but I’ve been making my own way around London for years.’ She didn’t need any more reasons to be beholden to him. ‘Just tell me where you’re staying. I’ll get there.’

‘No.’ He clearly didn’t trust her with that kind of information. Not surprising really after she’d turned her back on him. At the time she’d called it self-preservation but, in hindsight, he’d probably seen it as betrayal. ‘My car will be there at seven. Be ready.’

‘But...’

‘Sasha, this works better for me. I don’t want anyone getting wind of this yet, okay? And the press have a way of finding things out.’

‘And being nice interferes with your bad-boy image?’

‘Really? You think I care what the press think? It’s way too late for that. I don’t want to get the kids’ hopes up and then not be able to follow through. And it’s my private cellphone, so don’t ever give this number to anyone.’

Normally she didn’t take kindly to being bossed around, but the guy had just given her an opening. The choir would be thrilled, their financial problems solved, if she could pull it off. And keep her jumping heart out of it. ‘Okay. Seven p.m. tomorrow, then.’

‘Oh, and one last thing, Sasha. This is just for Marshall, okay?’

* * *

‘Mr Munro will see you now.’ The bear appeared in the reception of the Grand Riverview Hotel, complete with earpiece and grimace. ‘This way.’

‘Nice to see a familiar face,’ Sasha breathed as she struggled to keep up along the elegant corridor.

Velvet-embossed wallpaper in golden hues served as a backdrop to nineteen-twenties-style furniture. Petite bronze statuettes of dancers flanked the walls. The price of one of those would pay for the whole choir to fly to Manchester, first class. She was so out of her league, and then some. But, fingers clutching her briefcase, she determined to meet Nathan face to face as a music professional.

‘We get a lot of familiar faces here, sweetheart, for a day or two.’ Giving her just enough time to process the ramifications of that statement, the bear opened the door.

You’re nothing special, his feigned smile said as he looked her up and down. Standing aside to let her in, he bowed lightly, muttering, ‘Don’t get too comfortable.’

Like that would happen. Especially with Mr Warm and Fuzzy here.

She blinked once, twice, not knowing what was more impressive: the expansive suite with panoramic views across London, or the fact that Nate was in it, looking extremely comfortable, standing by the bar. Looking extremely gorgeous too. Relaxed and confident. In control of everything: his staff, his surroundings, his emotions.

He’d grown in a way she hadn’t. At least she didn’t see herself like that—uber confident and all grown-up—even though she tried to be. He’d probably honed it from absorbing the adoration of thousands of fans, from years of live performances where self-belief was mandatory.

But regardless of the man he was now she knew his essence, where he’d come from, what he was truly like—the good, the bad and the downright ugly.

And yet, despite knowing what he was capable of, he was still strangely compelling to be with. Walking leisurely towards her, he smiled. Slim black jeans hung from slender hips, a black faded T-shirt hugged his toned frame.

She didn’t have to guess what was under that T because she’d seen it over the years in the music press, smoky black and white images of Nate in various stages of undress, on CD covers that bordered on X-rated. She knew all about the sun-kissed carved abs, the thin line of dark hair... Her mouth dried.

She jerked her head upwards. Big mistake.

The moment she met his caramel-coated gaze her courage faltered. Why did he have to be so beautiful?

Was it appropriate to walk over and kiss him on the cheek? Shake hands? But he saved her the worry by stepping into her space and placing a warm cheek against hers. His lips grazed her skin sending ripples of heat through her veins.

‘Sasha. Thanks for coming.’

‘Thank you...too.’ Excellent. Excellent start. Not.

And then the room seemed to press in as his familiar scent washed over her. This was the kind of place he was used to now. So far from the tiny council-flat bedroom he’d shared with Marshall, littered with guitars and sheet music, posters on the wall of his favourite damaged rock heroes. And a photograph of her by his bed.

Her throat filled. So many things she’d pushed to the back of her mind, or had simply forgotten. The honest sweetness of their first date. Their innocent journey to first love.

And now this. Such abject luxury, no wonder he’d offered to write her a cheque without missing a heartbeat. But could high living change a man? Could it tame him?

She’d read about his wild parties in Ibiza, the spats with paparazzi, riding his motorbike through a hotel reception. She guessed that really he was still the same man underneath the wealth.

Leading her to a couch that would never fit into the whole of her flat, even if she knocked the walls down, he held a glass of beer and offered her a flute of champagne. ‘Drink?’

‘Thanks. Nice place.’ She raised her eyebrows and gestured to the door. ‘Shame about the company you keep, though. Do you pay him to be rude?’

‘Dario?’ Nate’s smile spread slowly across his lips, reached his eyes, which softened with genuine warmth. ‘Only to my friends.’

She laughed. ‘God help your enemies, then. I dread to think what you do to them.’

His gaze hardened from toffee to troubled. The hand holding his glass fisted and she thought for a second it might smash.

Brilliant. Bring up the past, why don’t you?

He’d never explained why he’d launched the attack that had landed Craig in Intensive Care and she doubted he would now. And even more, it was still none of her business.

The silence that followed was mortifying. She watched as he regained control, softened the tight jawline, turned his back on her and walked to the window. ‘You’d better tell me what you need me to do.’

Renewing her purpose, she deposited her flute on the glass coffee table and fished her folders from her well-loved leather messenger bag. She met his authority with her own. ‘I have spreadsheets here with a projected timetable, financial forecast, health and safety plan-’

‘Huh? Health and safety? I thought it was just a school gig.’ It was more a grunt than a laugh, but as she glanced at his face she saw he’d relaxed a little. Ice broken. ‘Or are you planning to do something very dangerous to me?’

Planning, no? Thinking, possibly. Fantasising, definitely. Just being in the same air as him was dangerous enough.

As he sat next to her on the couch his leg brushed against hers. Pursing her lips together, she clamped down on the fizz of electricity shooting through her.

This was unreal. The room was alive with vibrations of their moods. So many things remained unsaid, unresolved; everything was amplified and tangible, mirrored in her erratic heartbeat and the sheen of sweat forming on her brow.

At his proximity she shifted slightly but was thwarted by the thick deep cushions that hemmed her in. His face was too close. He was too close. And just thinking that, breathing him in, sent whispers of something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. A low-down tingling, parts of her body aching for his touch.

Well, heck, she couldn’t be attracted to him, not in a real sense. From a distance, sure—who wouldn’t be turned on by the idea of him? By his sex-god rock-star image? But those kinds of feelings were wishful thinking and daydreams. Not hard reality. Not gut-churning, tachycardia-inducing, libido-stirring reality.

Crazy feelings whirled in her chest, chaotic. Vivid. Hot.

Very, very hot. ‘It’s...er...regulatory...you know.’

He grinned. ‘What is? Doing dangerous things to rock stars? I like the sound of that—what do you have in mind?’