Read Online Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas by Ella Sheridan - Free Book Online
Authors: Ella Sheridan
Tags: Holidays; Contemporay
Ads: Link
a local reporter come here Friday for a taped interview that will air Friday evening in their weekend entertainment spotlight.” She consulted her list again. “Saturday morning is sound check, with the concert at four. You have your sets selected, right?”
“You know it, baby,” the lead singer said with a sly grin.
“Yes, I do.” She made a quick note, then, “The club will be open to the public between your concert and Sound’s, but we have a room in the back where you guys can chill. The fan meet will be there too, about an hour and a half before Sound goes onstage. The contest includes ten winning tickets, and each winner is allowed one guest.”
“Twenty fans. That’s not too bad,” Chad said.
“Not like that mob outside Milwaukee that one night, remember?” Drew, the guitarist, grimaced.
The quiet one—Vincent, Damien thought his name was—nodded at the memory. Chad snorted, the sound an odd mix of remembered dismay and glee. “I’ve still got the scars from that.”
“I’ve done some research on the Web, but can you give us more details on the charity for the interviews tomorrow?” Hank asked, obviously trying to steer them back to business.
Damien watched Harley talk with the men around the table. Though they’d known each other a long time, she handled herself well. In fact, he didn’t think either Marc or Lenore, his general manager at Twice, could’ve done better. Harley possessed a confidence and friendliness that drew people in. It allowed her to hold her own when big personalities surrounded her, especially in this male-dominated business. Even when conflict arose, she remained calm and collected, except when she felt the need to bash heads together, which she didn’t hesitate to do. As Damien watched her give Chad what-for, he found himself sympathizing. He’d been on the receiving end of her sharp tongue too, after all, and it wasn’t exactly a fun place to be.
Hank asked a question about the sound system, and Harley answered. As she gestured, the phone in her hand went flying. Hank grabbed it out of the air, laughing, and passed it back, his hand lingering on Harley’s in a way that made Damien bite down on his candy until it crunched between his teeth. Why was every man she came in contact with always touching her? Even Marc. She drew men like honey, and each time he witnessed a new set of hands on her, he was left with a lump of impotent irritation— not jealousy; he didn’t get jealous—in his gut and a jaw that ached like a son of a bitch. The feeling was starting to seriously suck.
Crowds had filtered in, and the DJ was cranking the music by the time Harley deemed “her” band sufficiently filled in on their upcoming duties. Damien wrapped things up and stood, as did the others. Hank crowded close to Harley, saying something about practice, but Damien tried to shut out any more conversation. He couldn’t miss Harley’s “I don’t think so,” however. It was spoken on a rising note as Hank dragged her, laughing, toward the dance floor.
The rest of the band egged them on until Harley acquiesced. The pout pulling at her lower lip was almost cute too. Damien warned himself not to watch, not to brand the image of her lithe, sexy body moving to the music into his brain, but his feet didn’t listen, carrying him without his consent toward the edge of the dance floor even as he popped another creamy candy into his mouth.
“Come on, Little Miss,” Hank said, twirling her around before he gripped the shallow dip of her waist in his hands. “Show me that sexy shake.”
Harley threw the man a sultry look, pushed him away with a hand on his chest, and stepped off. When she glanced back at Hank over her shoulder, Damien caught a full glimpse of the mischief lighting her eyes. Her hips cocked to one side, then the other, then a slow roll that would do a belly dancer proud. A sudden image of how Harley would look moving like that under him, even over him, flashed
“You know it, baby,” the lead singer said with a sly grin.
“Yes, I do.” She made a quick note, then, “The club will be open to the public between your concert and Sound’s, but we have a room in the back where you guys can chill. The fan meet will be there too, about an hour and a half before Sound goes onstage. The contest includes ten winning tickets, and each winner is allowed one guest.”
“Twenty fans. That’s not too bad,” Chad said.
“Not like that mob outside Milwaukee that one night, remember?” Drew, the guitarist, grimaced.
The quiet one—Vincent, Damien thought his name was—nodded at the memory. Chad snorted, the sound an odd mix of remembered dismay and glee. “I’ve still got the scars from that.”
“I’ve done some research on the Web, but can you give us more details on the charity for the interviews tomorrow?” Hank asked, obviously trying to steer them back to business.
Damien watched Harley talk with the men around the table. Though they’d known each other a long time, she handled herself well. In fact, he didn’t think either Marc or Lenore, his general manager at Twice, could’ve done better. Harley possessed a confidence and friendliness that drew people in. It allowed her to hold her own when big personalities surrounded her, especially in this male-dominated business. Even when conflict arose, she remained calm and collected, except when she felt the need to bash heads together, which she didn’t hesitate to do. As Damien watched her give Chad what-for, he found himself sympathizing. He’d been on the receiving end of her sharp tongue too, after all, and it wasn’t exactly a fun place to be.
Hank asked a question about the sound system, and Harley answered. As she gestured, the phone in her hand went flying. Hank grabbed it out of the air, laughing, and passed it back, his hand lingering on Harley’s in a way that made Damien bite down on his candy until it crunched between his teeth. Why was every man she came in contact with always touching her? Even Marc. She drew men like honey, and each time he witnessed a new set of hands on her, he was left with a lump of impotent irritation— not jealousy; he didn’t get jealous—in his gut and a jaw that ached like a son of a bitch. The feeling was starting to seriously suck.
Crowds had filtered in, and the DJ was cranking the music by the time Harley deemed “her” band sufficiently filled in on their upcoming duties. Damien wrapped things up and stood, as did the others. Hank crowded close to Harley, saying something about practice, but Damien tried to shut out any more conversation. He couldn’t miss Harley’s “I don’t think so,” however. It was spoken on a rising note as Hank dragged her, laughing, toward the dance floor.
The rest of the band egged them on until Harley acquiesced. The pout pulling at her lower lip was almost cute too. Damien warned himself not to watch, not to brand the image of her lithe, sexy body moving to the music into his brain, but his feet didn’t listen, carrying him without his consent toward the edge of the dance floor even as he popped another creamy candy into his mouth.
“Come on, Little Miss,” Hank said, twirling her around before he gripped the shallow dip of her waist in his hands. “Show me that sexy shake.”
Harley threw the man a sultry look, pushed him away with a hand on his chest, and stepped off. When she glanced back at Hank over her shoulder, Damien caught a full glimpse of the mischief lighting her eyes. Her hips cocked to one side, then the other, then a slow roll that would do a belly dancer proud. A sudden image of how Harley would look moving like that under him, even over him, flashed
Similar Books
