Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4)
Read Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4) Online
Authors: Sally Clements
STEALING GOLD
by
Sally Clements
By Sally Clements
Kindle Edition,
Copyright © 2016 Sally
Clements
All rights reserved. No part
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Editing by Cindy Davis
The
wooden stage beneath Stacy Gold’s feet shuddered.
Tiny
arcs of light swept from side to side in the darkness, and the relentless
chant,
Stacy, Stacy, Stacy,
filled her with adrenaline, making the blood
fizz in her veins. There was nothing in the world like this, nothing like
connecting with her fans, giving them what they wanted.
How
would she live without it?
She
glanced behind her to her band waiting in the wings, and snatched up her
guitar. It was time to deliver the final encore.
“Stace.”
Her bodyguard, Apollo stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He leaned close
enough to be heard through the noise of the crowd, who were now stomping on the
ground in unison, creating human thunder. “Lester says when you come off stage,
just follow his lead. Ignore the camera, smile and run with it. He’ll explain
later.”
“Okay.”
She glanced behind her to her band, “Let’s give ’em what they want, boys.” Then
she ran back to the one place in the world where she felt truly alive. On
stage.
Beams
of light fanned out over the audience. A roar rose in the air. She strummed the
opening chord, and then the rest of the musicians joined in. She smiled wide,
and began to sing.
They
left the stage for the last time fifteen minutes later. Keyed on adrenaline,
she hugged the members of the band she’d spent the past eight months with,
wishing it didn’t have to be over.
They
were all session musicians, assembled for the tour; now the tour was over she’d
wouldn’t see them again for a long while.
What
had Apollo said about her manager, Lester?
Something
about ignoring a camera and smiling. The auditorium lights came on, and the
crowd started to disperse. She started down the long backstage corridor to the
dressing rooms.
Lester
was at the end of the corridor with a cameraman next to him, filming her. As
ordered, she ignored the camera and kept walking. When she was close, Lester
twisted off the top of a bottle, and held it out to her, the way he had
thousands of times before.
She
took it, and drank, remembering just in time to smile, rather than pull a face,
which was her instinctive reaction.
“Good,
good,” said a stranger behind the cameraman. He handed her a pineapple. “Hold
this and smile.”
Stacy
shot a look at Lester, who was nodding like one of those dog dolls in the back
of car windows. She did as he asked, and then handed it back.
Lester
had a brief conversation, then took her arm and walked her away from the
strangers into her dressing room.
“What
the hell was that?”
“Just
some…uh…local press.” Lester looked shifty. “You did great out there tonight!
Wonderful show!” He avoided her eyes, and his smile seemed strained.
“That
was an ad for a product. A particularly nasty product.” She examined the bottle
she still held, which contained a sugary, fizzy pineapple drink. “Are they
going to use that footage? I didn’t even get a chance to clean up. I’m sweaty
and my makeup must be running down my face…”
“You
look great.” Lester angled her away from the mirror. “Come on, get changed. We
have to get to the airport.”
The
high of being on stage faded, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
The
last few months had been crazy—flying from country to country with barely time
to catch her breath. She missed her home in Nashville. Wanted nothing more than
to crawl onto a plane and fly back.
But
there was still an appearance at the Teen Choice Awards to make. And an award
for Best Song to hand to some lucky artist. Then she’d be free.
Digging
deep to gather the last of her energy, she stepped behind a screen and took off
her dress. “Did you listen to those songs I sent you?” She’d finally achieved a
lifelong ambition—to write her own songs, between shows.
“Yes,
I like them.”
She
dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater, then rounded the screen.
“Songwriting
is a different direction for you,” Lester said. “A couple of the songs would be
perfect for Morgan Deville.”
Stacy
frowned. “Morgan?”
“Yeah.
Trisha, Carrie, and Faith would be good candidates too.”
She
wiped her face clean, making eye contact with Lester in the mirror. “I wrote
these songs for me. No-one else will record them.”
Lester
rose an eyebrow. “They’re not your sort of songs. I know your market. I know
your fans. They expect light, cute songs from you. As the princess of country,
you have to play to your strengths.”
“I’m
older now. My musical tastes have changed. I want to make more music like,
His
Heart.
” She’d written the song just after her Vegas wedding, and had persuaded
Star Records to add it to the album. “Last month you said you’d send my new
songs to Clint.”
Lester
held out her jacket. “I changed my mind. I don’t think Clint would be willing
to let you record an entire album of your own songs. We have to consider the
market.”
“Will
you at least ask him?” With hands on hips, she held Lester’s gaze. “Please? ”
Lester
picked up her bag and headed for the door. “Let’s talk about it later. We have
a plane to catch.”
*****
There
was a knock at the door. Adam Logan moved the giant bowl of popcorn from his
lap, and placed it on the coffee table. He muted the TV, strode across the
floor of his apartment, and peered through the peephole.
His
sister Amy stared back. With a sigh, he opened the door.
“Are
you watching?” Amy grinned.
“It’s
work.”
“Bullshit.”
“It
is. Mitta Jewel is nominated for an award. She’s the voice of our singing
squirrel, remember?”
Amy
gave him the look she’d perfected at six years old. The don’t-give-me-that-crap
look. She pushed past him and took his spot on the sofa. “And the fact your
ex-wife is presenting is immaterial, I guess.” She turned off mute, and reached
for the popcorn. “I haven’t missed much, have I?”
“It’s
only just started.” He settled next to her, and reclaimed the popcorn. “This is
the last time I’m going to watch her.” Amy was the only person he felt able to
talk to about this stuff.
She
raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I’m
serious.” He reached for the can of beer, and drained it. “You want a beer?”
“I’ll
get you a fresh one too.” Amy retrieved a couple of cans from the fridge.
He’d
resisted thinking about Stacy for months. Had even started dating again, if you
could call dinner and booty calls dating. But tonight he was in wallowing mood.
Because today was…
“Are
you okay?” Amy dropped next to him again, her eyes full of concern. “It’s just,
I know today is your anniversary.”
“It
shouldn’t matter.” He cracked the can, and took a swig. “She and I are water
under the bridge. Ancient history.”
Amy
tipped her beer to his. “The family is looking forward to having you home.” She
glanced around. “Shouldn’t you be packing?”
“I’m
not moving for a few days. My assistant is dealing with all that.” After four
years living stateside, he was ready to move on. He’d sold his tech company for
a fortune, and had ploughed all his resources into Boxfield Animation, a new
company he’d formed with his old friend Sean. Ireland was calling him home.
There was nothing—no-one—for him here any more.
“How
are things progressing with the film?” Amy mumbled through a mouthful of
popcorn.
“Good.”
He was excited about their new project. “Sean has signed a deal with Plaxair,
and Mitta has signed to be the voice of Bibi Squirrel. She’ll have to join us
in Ireland to do the voice work. As you know, my role is to render the CGI—I’ve
been getting some great results with my new physics engine—”
Amy
stopped him with a raise of her hand. “They’ve just announced Mitta.”
He
stared at the screen. Mitta Jewel was perfect for the role of Bibi Squirrel, a
sweet, innocent rodent who leaves the forest and travels to the big city to
make her fortune. The pre-teen audience were bound to love her.
Raunchy
music played.
Adam
frowned.
Mitta,
wearing a minuscule silver bikini, strode on stage, then faced away from the
audience and started twerking.
“Oh,
Jesus,” Adam groaned. “I don’t believe it.” Their investors were watching this
performance, and they wouldn’t like what they were seeing. With every roll of
her teenage hips, Mitta was destroying any chance of their animated film being
made.
“She
picked a fine time to throw a Miley.” Amy stared at him. “Did you have any idea
she was going to do this?”
“Of
course not. I don’t know what on earth she’s thinking. There’s no way in hell
she’s suitable for the role now.” Mitta bent over and wiggled her bottom in the
air. Adam’s mouth gaped. Sean must be having a fit. “We’ll have to find someone
else.”
The
song was ending. Mitta whipped off her bikini top and tossed it into the crowd.
“We’ll
definitely
have to find someone else.”
“There’s
nothing you can do about it now. Forget it. Now, on to more important things.” Amy
turned to him. “Stacy’s not up for an award this year?”
For
a moment, Adam considered pretending that he didn’t know whether his ex was a
contender for an award or not, but there seemed little point. His sister knew
he would have checked—he didn’t seem able to help himself where Stacy was
concerned. “No. She’s just reading one of the nominations.”
“Her
manager won’t be happy with that.”
Adam
gritted his teeth at the thought of Lester Jones. The guy was a snake. A
clever, charming snake who had wound himself around Stacy so cleverly and so
completely that she couldn’t take a step without him. “I don’t care how happy
or unhappy he is.” He shoveled in a mouthful of popcorn, and chewed. “No doubt
now her tour is finished he’ll have her in the studio again, working on a new
album.”
He
rubbed the knotted muscles on the back of his neck. Why did he keep doing this
to himself? She’d shown more clearly than anyone could how she didn’t want
anything else to do with him. After three months of marriage, she’d ghosted him
from of her life—moving out of their apartment, changing her cell phone number,
and serving him with divorce papers in a matter of days. When he’d tried to see
her, she’d had her bodyguard warn him off.
The
bodyguard who’d been a constant fixture in their lives, and had become a
friend. Apollo had taken him to one side and explained he had his orders—he had
to tell Adam not to try to contact her again. That their marriage was over.
He
should hate her.
“Best
song.” Amy poked his side, and wriggled on the sofa. “Oh! They announced her
name.”
Stacy
walked onto the stage. The long, silver dress hugged her curves. Her hair was
longer, and darker than the last time he’d seen her. The more natural tone
suited her. Pain twisted in his stomach.
I should hate her.
She
smiled into the camera. “Here are the nominations for best song.” She announced
the names of the category contenders. “Before I open the envelope”—she held it
aloft and hesitated for a beat—“I want to say something.”
The
crowd quieted.
“I
wrote a song a while back for someone special.”
“Is
she…” Amy’s head whipped around to his. Her eyes widened. “She’s wearing—”
The
platinum and diamond ring sparkled on her finger. Not on her wedding finger,
but on her right hand.
“Before
I open this envelope I just want to say, thank you, Adam.” Her perfect smile
slipped a notch. Then she breathed deep. “And now, the winner.” She ripped open
the envelope and delivered the news to an ecstatic crowd.
“What
the hell?” Amy whispered. “She wants you back.”
Adam
turned off the TV.
“She
wants you back,” Amy said in a stronger voice. “You love her. I knew she’d
realize how stupid she’d been. Where are they filming the awards, is it LA?”
Amy jumped from the sofa, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “We need to
find out where she’s staying—you could fly to LA and…”
“No.”
Adam drained his beer. “That’s not going to happen.”
“But…”
“But
nothing.” Anger made his tone harsher than intended. “It’s damned easy to stand
on a stage with my ring on her finger and thank me. But words mean nothing. I’m
not interested.”
For
months she’d ignored his every attempt to contact her. She’d broken his heart
clean in two, and there was no way she would do it again. His ex-wife could
stand before him, and beg him to take her back—a small, mean part of himself
wanted her to, just so he could tell her no to her face.
