Star-Crossed Scandal Page 2

  Of course he’d say that. The man was a Harper. RW Harper, Jeff’s father, had the reputation for being a scheming, sneaky bastard. But also a savvy one. This hotel empire would be the most luxurious one in the nation, maybe the world. That was why Nicolas was here. He was after a contract for a big beautiful property to showcase his show. Funny, in the past he would have been looking for a quiet, beautiful spot on the beach to sit and write music. He wouldn’t be on the phone or in meetings making deals, no, he would have been making music. Those days were over. He’d moved from making his own songs to making stars.

  “That’s about it. I’d better get back to the site. I’ll leave you in Chloe’s capable hands.” Jeff walked out the door, leaving Nicolas alone with the beauty.

  She stepped closer, moving with the poise and grace of a dancer. He was fully aware of her soft curves and was intrigued by the toned muscles in her arms and back. She had an athlete’s body.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” she said.

  Nicolas enjoyed the sound of her voice. It had a rich, pure tone, with a slight emotional crack in it—fragility mixed with strength. Leather and lace.

  “As the man said.” Nicolas grinned. “I am in your hands.”

  “I’ll do my best to handle your, uh...” A pretty pink blush traveled up her neck. She cleared her throat. “...needs.”

  He looked forward to seeing what her best was.

  She led him down the hallway, her stride matching his. “I like the concept of your show, Nicky—excuse me—Mr. Medeiros.”

  “Nicolas. I do, too. I support singer-songwriters and am looking for talent that is different, unique.”

  “Brilliant,” she sighed. “Helping young artists is exactly what I thought you’d do when you got old.” She covered her mouth. Her pretty eyes were wide. “I mean, you’re not old now, just, you know, mature. Handsome.”

  “Thanks.” She was a tongue-tied and adorable fan. He was used to woman falling over themselves around him, but he wanted Chloe to relax and treat him like a regular guy. He smiled. “People gave me a hand when I got started. I work hard to give back to the industry.”

  They passed a grand hall. Soft music played in the background. When they walked under one of the largest chandeliers he’d ever seen, the fractured light cast dancing stars across the tiled floors. Enchanting, yet hard to compare to the brilliance in Chloe’s blue eyes. She led the way up a winding stairway, her beaded sandals snapping with each step. He noticed her toenail polish. Purple. His favorite color. His gaze traveled from those beautiful feet up to her toned legs.

  Santa Mãe, she had a great figure. He wouldn’t mind spending time with this beauty, nothing serious, of course, just short-term, hot sex.

  “You’ve such a lyrical gift for storytelling. Those contestants are lucky to have an amazing songwriter like you to mentor them,” she said.

  He used to have the gift, but the muse had left him without any good stories to tell. Now he made money, not poetry. He was okay with that, and if he sometimes missed songwriting, he just reminded himself of how far he’d come. His success was worth the price of any small dissatisfactions. He would never go hungry again. But why tell her all that?

  Instead he said, “Thank you.”

  Did she know how he’d been discovered? Most of the tabloids had reported some version of the truth. None knew all the nightmarish details about why he’d spent every moment from age ten to this day supporting his mother and four sisters. Singing was the only thing he had been able to do to repay his bottomless debt. Every penny he’d made went to his family. Until he’d had more than any of them would ever need.

  And yet somehow it never felt like enough.

  Still his mãe loved it when he sang and he loved to make her smile. “Your songs are made of stardust, Nicky,” his mother had said as her tiny cracked fingers hand-washed clothes for other families. “A blessing from the saints!”

  An American music manager had seen him perform for tourists on Ipanema Beach and promised to make him a star. He’d been sixteen then, full of drive and blind trust. He’d allowed the manager to record him, and the first song hit all the charts. Nicky M was a sudden sensation. He flew to California on the back of that one song, trusting that riches were right around the corner. He’d planned to buy his family a home and get them out of the slums. Mãe wouldn’t have to work so hard and his sisters could focus on school.

  It was a poor-boy success story. The tabloids loved it.

  But they hadn’t printed the whole truth. How could they? Some secrets were too shameful to tell.

  The manager he’d trusted siphoned money from Nicolas’s bank accounts until there had been nothing left. Only months after leaving home, he’d been sixteen, scared and alone in a country where he barely spoke the language. There was no money to send home. He didn’t have enough funds for an airline ticket. His mother and young sisters had been forced to find extra jobs cleaning rich people’s homes to survive. They all went hungry.

  The experience had hardened him.

  It was the first of many painful disappointments. The industry battered him and taught him the most important lessons of his life: people lie, steal and use one another to get what they want.

  It had taken cunning, luck and persistence to move from a pop star to the music producer who called the shots.

  Nicolas trusted no one but himself. He worked his ass off to stay at the top. In those early years, lyrics had swelled up from deep within him, and music pulsed through his bloodstream. He had the natural ability to create eternal truths that people loved to listen to. He didn’t have to work at writing music. It just happened, like breathing. The press had called him “the greatest Latin songwriter of our time.”

  But songwriting had become music production, the business, and star-making. He’d exchanged lyrics for the constant buzz of his phone, the high of making millions on others’ stories.

  And then...the music stopped.

  The stardust had blown away, and the silence was like a death. He didn’t have time to grieve the loss. Instead he spent every waking moment looking for the next star. He’d found fame, money, women—a lifestyle most people could only imagine.

  There was no joy in it. But he told himself joy didn’t make millions.

  “Mr. Medeiros, we’re going to be together a lot this week...” He wanted to imagine the breathiness in her voice wasn’t solely from walking up the stairs. “I feel, um, I should tell you something.”

  He leaned closer. “Chloe has a secret?”

  Her blue eyes shimmered. “I had a tiny crush on you when I was a girl.”

  Every now and then his past came in handy, especially when a beautiful woman seemed to appreciate his talent. Or, at least, the talent he used to have. Maybe this sexy blonde with the long braid and “kiss me” lips still remembered who he used to be.

  They were on the landing on the top floor.

  He pressed his hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Only tiny? Not a man-size crush?”

  “Honestly, it was more than tiny.” She chuckled. He loved the richness of the sound. “I named my iguana after you. Little Nicky M.”

  He cocked his eyebrow. “Was he a handsome lizard?”

  “Very. A red iguana with pretty eyes. Almost as amazing as yours.”

  Perhaps she would be his beautiful distraction for a few days. He needed a break and sleeping with a sexy fan would help him feel like himself, not the high-powered producer, for a while.

  “We are going to get along fine, Chloe. Remind me to thank RW.” It was a stroke of genius to send Chloe his way. But if Harper thought a sexy woman would drive Nicolas wild enough to instantly sign a contract, the man was wrong.

  Nicolas could be as ruthless as RW when it came to the music business.

  “Oh, no. My father can’t know!”

  Father? “You are
a Harper, too?”

  “Yes. I thought you knew. Didn’t I say so? Sorry. I got a little excited when we met.” She bit her lip. “Way too excited. Even now I’m having trouble—” she fanned herself “—getting my words out. Which is exactly why my father might not want me to work with you. If he knew about my huge...” Her gaze dipped toward Nicolas’s crotch and bounced back up to his eyes again. Her cheeks flushed. “Uh, infatuation. When I was younger.”

  He spoke, his words low. “It will be our secret, then.”

  “I’ll be completely professional with you—I promise.” She crossed her heart, which had the effect of drawing his gaze to her chest.

  “Que pena. Are you sure there’s not any infatuation left?” Stepping closer, he looked into her eyes and pinched the air with his thumb and forefinger. “A flicker?”

  Her breath hitched. She tried to play it straight, but her full lips seemed to want to turn up of their own accord. He liked the dimples in her cheeks. They reminded him of sideways smiles, and he had the urge to caress one of them with the back of his hand.

  She blinked, clearly flustered. “A flicker, sure, but I want you to trust that I’ll be...”

  “Professional?” he finished for her.

  “Yes.” Her voice cracked. The way her gaze locked on to his told him she was into him, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  He noticed they’d stopped in front of a door. “Is this my room?”

  “Yes.” She took a key ring out of her pocket, unlocked a door and held it for him to step inside. “Mine is just down the hall. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

  When he passed her, he inhaled the coconut scent of her shampoo. Did she taste as good as she smelled?

  She licked her bottom lip as if she’d heard his thoughts.

  The suite had a large sitting room, wet bar, overstuffed leather couch, full-size desk and large patio.

  “There is something I need,” he said circling back to her.

  He could hear her swallow. “Name it.”

  Leaning against the door frame, he crossed his arms. “A date for dinner tonight. Will you be mine?”

  Her breath came out in a rush. “Me?”

  He was thoroughly intrigued by the blush traveling up her neck. What was she thinking? Whatever it was, he liked it. He usually avoided starstruck fans, but she was too tempting for his usual caution.

  “Yes, gata, you.”

  She blinked. “Did you call me a cat?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Gata is a term of endearment in Brazil. Gatinha, as well, which means kitty. Would you prefer I say sexy?”

  “Gata,” she tried the word on for size. “I like it.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Pure heat flashed between them.

  He wanted to kiss her. Tasting a stranger was nothing new for him. Women still threw themselves at him. Wild hookups came with the territory as a musician. As a producer, he still had his pick of women, though he was careful not to mix business with pleasure. He enjoyed sex. But as he’d gotten older, he started to think he was missing something—a real life with deep, loving relationships.

  But he wasn’t the picket fence, loving wife and two kids in the yard kind of a guy. He’d left Hollywood for Plunder Cove because of the show and because he had a rather public breakup with a supermodel. It was better for him to stick with short-and-sweet-while-it-lasted flings. A pretty blonde fan might be exactly what he needed right now.

  “Seven o’clock?” he pressed.

  Her lips parted but no words came out. Some emotion he couldn’t read passed over her face. Worry? Sadness?

  Droga. Was she going to decline?

  “Say yes, Chloe.”

  “Nicolas, there’s something I should tell you...” she began in a tone that did not bode well for him.

  His phone rang. “Merda,” he cursed. “Sorry. Give me a moment to take this.”

  To his disappointment, Chloe used the phone distraction as her chance to walk away from him. For some reason, that hurt.

  Just before his door closed, she said the word he desperately needed to hear.

  “Yes.”

  Two

  Contrary to what he’d led his daughter to believe, RW was not going to stay curled up in a dark room all day.

  His chest hurt and the pain behind his eyeballs was excruciating, but he wasn’t staying in bed. Not today. He waited until Chloe went down to greet their guest before sneaking out the back to take care of business.

  His daughter had a job to do and so did he.

  Even if his children didn’t know it.

  Shielding his eyes from the California sunshine, he strode across the patio and took a seat across from the first woman he’d ever loved—Claire Harper. It had been ten years since she’d walked out on him, taking their daughter with her. She’d arrived back in Plunder Cove for Jeffrey’s wedding two months ago, and for some damned reason she was still here. He’d invited her for a late lunch today to get to the bottom of what she wanted.

  “Claire, you do not age,” he said.

  She smiled at the compliment, but the fine lines around her eyes and lips hardly creased. Her forehead was smoother than he remembered. Ah, so that’s where some of the millions he’d sent her had gone.

  A flash of Angel, the woman he loved now, entered his mind. He preferred a real lady who came with wrinkles and flaws. A woman who could accept his flaws, as well.

  Dealing with Claire was the first step in bringing Angel back to him.

  “And you seem—” she studied him “—healthy.”

  He wasn’t. Not yet. Still, he was much better than he’d been when he had lived with Claire.

  “I’m impressed with this place. Our son did all this?” Claire motioned to the restaurant.

  Where they sat under the eaves, it was easy to see that the amazing wood-and-glass structure resembled a pirate ship. It was an architectural masterpiece that was sure to grace the pages of magazines for years to come.

  “That boy has come alive with this resort and restaurant project. I’m so proud of him.”

  A waiter arrived carrying one plate of pasta that he sat down in front of Claire.

  “I went ahead and ordered my lunch. Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Claire said.

  “I’m here, Claire. This is my home.”

  The waiter nervously stood by him. “Sorry to interrupt. Would you like anything, Mr. Harper?”

  “Just a glass of water. Thanks.”

  The waiter quickly walked away.

  “Water? Not bourbon and Wagyu steak?” Claire wound the fettuccine carbonara around her spoon and took a bite. As she chewed, her face tried to screw up into her old expression of disgust, but her forehead refused to budge. “The sauce is horrid.”

  “Impossible. Our chef is acknowledged as a top chef on both coasts.”

  Tentatively, she licked the sauce on her spoon. “It’s spoiled!” She scrubbed her cloth napkin over her tongue.

  A satisfied smile crept over his lips, for he knew what Michele had done. God, he loved his daughter-in-law. “I wouldn’t eat the rest of that.”

  Claire swigged her pinot to cleanse her palate only to find a tiny bandage at the bottom of the glass. The look of horror on her face made his entire year.

  RW threw his head back and roared with laughter. For the first time in...hell, he couldn’t remember when...tears of laughter streamed down his face.

  Indignantly, Claire stood. “It’s not funny. Do you see what’s in my glass? The health department will shut Jeffrey’s restaurant down for this sort of negligence. I’m going to have a talk with the chef.”

  “Sit down,” he ordered, wiping his eyes. “The chef is Jeffrey’s wife.”

  She sat slowly. “My daughter-in-law did this to me? Why?”

  RW shrugged.
“She heard about the time you locked Jeffrey in the shed, Claire. Expect a night getting close and personal with your toilet bowl.”

  “She wouldn’t poison me.” Claire pushed her plate away just in case. “The shed thing wasn’t my fault. The servants were supposed to let him out.”

  “That’s crap. It was your fault and mine, too. I was so wrapped up in my own personal hell that I couldn’t see what was happening in yours. Our kids deserved better parents than us, Claire. You deserved a better man. I’m sorry.”

  She cocked her head. “I’ve never heard you apologize before. Or laugh like you just did. You’ve changed.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I can see that. Don’t change too much.” Her gaze traveled over his tanned, muscular arms. “You’re a good-looking man. Strong, rich, sexy. You’re fine the way you are.”

  “You don’t know me anymore.”

  “What do you mean? I married you and had your three children. I know you.”

  “I’m not the man you married. You left that guy for dead a decade ago. With good reason. I’m not an angry, despicable sap anymore. I...I woke up.”

  “You woke up? What does that mean?”

  How could he explain it? He’d suffered from depression for most of his life. Deep down he’d known he needed help, but his parents had said that Harpers didn’t have those problems. Claire must’ve known he was ill too, but she pretended the despair that overtook him—sometimes so debilitating that he locked himself in a dark room for days—was normal behavior.

  She’d put up with the way he treated people. He’d been an ass, not because he wanted to be, but because he didn’t know how to interact, to connect, when he hurt so much. Hell, running a multibillion-dollar company was far easier than connecting on a deeper level with the people he loved.

  He’d closed off his feelings to survive. The only emotion that seeped out occasionally? Anger. Matt had been the only one who stood up to him, taking the rage that RW fought to control, shielding the rest of the family from RW’s outbursts. His son shouldn’t have had to live that way. None of them should’ve.