CRASH & BURN (Rule Breaker) (9 page)

The band members filed past. “Thanks, Mr. Lansing,” Carl said.

“Hey guys, and ladies.” Jon stepped back from Alana. “From now on, it’s Lansing or Jon to my face. We’re all on the same team. My staff has you prepped and you should be ready, so let’s do this. Then next week, you’ll take the stage at the Ryman as the opening act. Afterwards, we’ll push for Orion to be the headlining act.”

The female guitarist came toward him. “We appreciate the house and all you’ve done. Thanks for extricating us from Tyler’s web.”

He knew he needed to score some points and pave the road forward with the band; regardless of the mess this woman had gotten Alana into. Luckily it had been resolved. “No problem. Just don’t sign anything unless an attorney is present. That’s the cardinal rule in this business. No matter who gives you the paperwork. Understood?”

“Oh, so much. Never again. Thanks, Lansing.”

He walked toward the end of the table, loosening his tie, and feeling like the whole room had gotten hotter and smaller.

Clarissa approached with a glass of wine, her eyes downcast. “Jon, I don’t know what to say.”

He felt his brow tighten. “What’s happened now?”

“I mean, Alana’s stylist appointment. But she looks sensational…” Clarissa met his stare and asked hesitantly, “don’t you agree?”

“Yes…she’s eye-catching at the very least,” he managed, regarding Alana as she laughed with Billy and Hank, and the knot in his stomach grew larger as he fought the urge to tell the band members to take a seat.

Clenching his fists, he allowed one short, cursory glance to sweep from Alana’s head down to her achingly lovely feet. She wore a short beaded dress, and her bared, golden shoulder he’d almost tasted lifted in a shrug accompanying something she said. Their eyes met, and Alana smiled over at him. The most innocent of grins, but he knew better. Hidden within her was a devil-child, and one that he longed to set free. He arched a brow and smiled back, only to see her turn away and push a loose—much shorter—curl behind her ear. He would have saluted her transformation from rocker to that of femme fatale, but the hundred or so pairs of eyes focused on his client forced him to maintain an impassive expression.

His gaze drifted over her mind-blowing body, remembering vividly the way she felt beneath him, and he contemplated her long, slender legs. She must have a thing for boots. This evening she wore short ones laced with intricate ribbons that wrapped up and around her shapely calves. Jesus, his mind filled with brazen imaginings of Alana’s thighs open to him.

Cursing himself, he knew he’d better get a handle on his ability to think straight and pressed his lips together. She fought him and he pushed back, and in the end he wanted her like no woman before. Therein lay the difference. She was the first client who stood up to him, and had capably wrapped his staff around her pinky.

Around her he felt human, which was a first. Felt anything and everything, really, when before his life had been orderly, structured, and numb.

The way she cocked her head and made her hair swing captivated him. He’d believed her caramel-colored hair was the most beautiful crown, so stunning wrapped around his hands last night, but he’d been wrong. She’d gotten her hair cut in layers, wild and untamed, starting at her jaw, and just brushing the tops of her shoulders. And he couldn’t wait to twist her locks around his fingers as he pushed balls-deep into her while she moaned his name.

His lips twitched in amusement at the thought of her sassy mouth filled with his cock and her tongue tracing the ridge of his crown. He hungered to cup her head in his palms and plunge down her throat, making her whimper. “Christ,” he harshly groaned, well-aware he was at the point of coming undone.

“Mr. Lansing,” the head reporter for the
Times
said. “Are we set to begin?”

“Sure thing. You’re up first.” Jon said, and then flipped on the first microphone at the table. His staff ushered the band members to their seats, and he decided it would be best to stand as far away from Alana as humanly possible. He shoved his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone in order to keep tabs on the questions and the order of journalists stepping up to the press mic on the podium and lectern.

Forty-five minutes later, and still a boat-load of journalists had their hands raised. Jon took the microphone, “Two more questions. Neil from the
View
, and Rhonda from the
Jersey Press
.”

Clarissa motioned it was over, and he inhaled deeply, then released his breath and relaxed. Had this really only been an hour long? It felt like an eternity. His nerves were stretched to the point of breaking in his craving to get Alana alone.

He spoke to Clarissa, “You’ll see to the band. You’ve got Pauline and her team. Take them out to celebrate or something. Go have some fun. Call your boyfriend or someone.”

“We broke up. But no worries. We can do a Tin Angel meet-up and who knows. You coming?”

“No. I need to go over the contract with Alana. She’ll need to be brought up to speed on the issues that remain on the table. Tomorrow at eight sharp I want the band to reconvene at our office. Make that seven, with Stella on my posterior.”

He waded through the throng of people, coming up next to Alana. “Ten minutes, and then this shuts down. Best to leave them hungry.”

“I fully agree. How about five and keep them starving?” she said, smiling at him as though she had some private joke going through that stunning head of hers. The look in her eyes told him something was up.

Rubbing his hand over his jaw, he nodded. “Is that how you leave everyone in your wake?”

She feigned another round of innocence. “Not everyone. Or have you forgotten?”

“Not a thing. What do you need to collect?” he asked roughly upon seeing her nipples were pebbled into tight peaks. She must be chilly…of course she was, dressed in a gown the size of a napkin
.

“I travel light.” She patted a purse she had draped over her shoulder. “I’m ready whenever you are…just say the word.”

People moved past them, and he heard his name said along with laughter and the flashing lights of cameras—none of it mattered.

“
Word,
” he grunted, his chest having constricted, and all he could think about was walking up to the front desk and demanding a suite. A room. Oh hell, the nearest broom closet.

A driving urge to touch her had grown into a hurricane-force gale whipping his thoughts into a maddening storm of naked images, each more graphic than the last, and all of them featuring her open to him.

Her heels tapped against the floor, the sound playing havoc with his concentration. The hotel crawled with people, sending his level of frustration into orbit. The red exit sign loomed ahead. He struggled to keep from hoisting her body over his shoulder as he’d done earlier and sprinting through the door. He could almost taste her mouth. A few more yards and he’d push her against the garage wall and reacquaint himself with her tongue.

Reaching for the door handle, he yanked it open and stood back, waiting for her to walk ahead of him. No longer did he have to wait, and he released a growl of pent-up vexation, taking hold of her arm. A jolt rocketed up his spine on touching her silky skin.

“Alana,” he growled, charging into the garage. Finally, he had her alone. Now to sample her fresh-aleck mouth one-on-one. Without interruption.

On the other side of the door, a group of reporters were gathered and greeted them. He stiffened and had trouble releasing his hold on Alana. It was an act of iron will to smile and appear jovial as he would have done with his other clients once the first press conference had gone well.

“Alana,” the reporters’ voices echoed off the cement walls and floor and ceiling.

“Hey,” she said shyly. Smiling coyly. Unlike him, Alana seemed to relax and relished the banter with the reporters. They all laughed as he stood by, his heartbeat clamoring inside his ribcage.

In the history of Lansing Records, the press had been on their best behavior tonight. Where he’d expected at least one or two questions about the Tyler screw-up, none came. The reporters veered off base, preferring to ask questions with the apparent intent to make Alana smile and laugh.

Tonight he’d seen more flashing lights than at a carnival. Just like the concert where he’d witnessed her name being called over and over, the press conference was no different. The stellar part was when she and Christy sang their famous a capella intro, and the reporters held up cellphones to capture their song. Unbelievable, in the best of ways.

“All right, ladies. Gentlemen.” He held up his palms. “We’ve another appointment to make and we’ll be late on your account.” Purposefully, he walked farther from Alana than necessary toward his car.

“Where’s Dwayne?” she asked.

“He’s busy. Why?”

“No reason. I didn’t see your car.”

“We’re over here.” He walked over to the Veyron and opened the passenger door.

“Wow! Talk about badass.” Running her fingers over the door panel, she smiled up at him. “Seriously? This is a cool car.”

He laughed. “Do you want to drive?”

“Can I? Really?” Alana grabbed his arm in excitement, and for the first time he got a glimpse of another side of her that she’d not revealed. Or not in his presence. This side of her was completely magnetic and, whatever he might be made of, he responded fully. Entirely drawn to her.

“Take these,” he said, placing the keys in her outstretched palm. For a second their hands connected, and a thousand watts of sexual energy passed between them. Jon quickly stepped back, seeing out of the periphery of his gaze that the reporters were all turned toward them. “You do have a driver’s license, don’t you?”

She rolled her Caribbean-aqua-colored eyes. “And just when we were doing so well. Get in and tell me which way to turn once I get this beast out onto the street.”

* * *

“What do you mean, I’m going to live here?” she asked after putting the car into
Park
.

“There’s no argument. It’s a done deal.” He had assurances from Dwayne that the cottage had been scrubbed down. Painted as he’d directed. New furniture delivered. And been fully stocked. “Just come with me, and then you can shoot off the fireworks you’re about to launch. I have been known to come up with a good idea or two in this town.”

An eight-foot stone wall surrounded his home, interrupted only by an electric gate. He toyed with the idea of having someone available to man the entrance, alerting him if there were unwanted visitors. That would be dealt with tomorrow. For now, it would be enough that Alana would travel from his house via a privately-driven car with darkened windows and, if need be, they could do a switch at one of the indoor garages. No matter what Baxter had predicted, he wouldn’t allow himself to be caught off-guard.

“Stay put. Let me get your door. Getting out can be tricky, especially in heels.”

“Oh, you know from personal experience?”

“I’ve a closet full. And yeah, they’re hell on hems. Is every damn request I make going to be debated? Maybe if I said it came from Hank or the other one…Billy, you’d laugh and agree.”

“Not exactly,” she whispered and it was all he could do to open his car door.

As he walked around the car, his gut told him to shut his trap. The car door opened, and her long legs stretched outward, muting him without further ado.

He reached down and pulled her upward, inches from him, and muttered, “God help me.”

“Why do you make it seem like such a problem when I come near you? Do you know what that does to a girl’s self-esteem?”

Chapter Seven

Walking into the hotel tonight, she’d wanted to see Jon’s reaction. The kind when he’d first kissed her…or rather viewed her naked, and heat flared from his eyes. Instead, she’d gotten another one of his infamous glaring once-overs. Did the man ever spontaneously smile or laugh outside his private bedroom? Well, apparently not where she was concerned. He’d actually smiled and laughed more with Christy than with her, not that she was jealous…only it made her ache for him pierce deeper.

Outside his home, they stood under the clear starry skies and the balmy breeze moving through the huge oak trees in his yard. Alana gazed up into Jon’s eyes as they faced each other on the driveway outside his house, the breath freezing in her chest, and her longing for him intensified to the point of driving pain.

“You know you’re gorgeous and have me by the balls, what more do you want?” he asked flippantly.

“Screw you, Jonathan Lansing,” she whispered, fighting the stinging in her eyes, and moving forward, fully intending on walking past him. Isn’t this how it had begun the last time—their insane round of hate-fucking.

The scent of his citrus cologne filled her and it took her complete concentration to avoid pushing her hips against his. She knew what she’d find there. Him aroused, and ready to give her the insane release they both desired. And then what? Tomorrow, back to business.

He stepped in front of her yet did not touch her, his hard body a wall. She tried to step to his left and he moved again. “Dammit. I want to. And if you don’t tell me to back off, I will. Alana, you’ve gotten into my blood.”

“What, like a disease? That’s not good enough.” She feigned a rapid step to the right, and then bobbed to go left, only he was too quick.

“Checkmate. What will it be? Let me have you tonight. God, I need to get inside you. Now.”

“Why? You could jack off and there’d be no headaches tomorrow.”

“I want headaches. Pains in the neck. Whatever you’ve got. Give it to me, baby.” He walked forward, his hands by his sides, slowly, surely until she had her back against the car. Jon lifted his hands and placed them on either side of her head along the car’s roof, boxing her in. She tried to duck under his arm.

“Let me go.” She flailed against his large hands now squeezing her waist.

“You don’t mean that. We’re both well aware of where we stand.”

“So now you’re some sort of seer.” Her chest heaved. “Stop telling me what to think and do.”