Chapter 2 CHA

CASS LYON.

The man himself emerges onto the runway in one of the VIP booths, dressed in immaculately pressed Florida-sand-colored pants and a crisp white button-down that sticks to his broad shoulders and chested torso.

Every inch of his body screams wealth and privilege. His hair has been recently cut, the dull burnished gold grown darkened to warm brown in the club's low light.

A clear, straight nose and square chin vie for attention with his tight, brusque lips.

He's got at least a decade on me, but looks like he could still join the Olympic swim team without even breaking a sweat.

My initial and only encounter is forever etched in my memory. I accosted him-this billion-dollar stranger-at the wedding reception of two musician friends we both socialize with. Fueled by outrage and a few too many glasses of champagne, I finally freely let loose the anger I had kept bottled up throughout the ceremony.

I don't usually hate people. But Cass Lyon has me questioning that precept.

"What the fuck is going on?" I demand.

Electric blue eyes-icy and impassive-pin me with as much warmth as the neon sign in the street.

"You signed a contract to play my club."

He walks down the stairs like he owns the joint, his feet slow and deliberate.

"It wasn't yours when I signed the contract." I would have recalled if Echo Entertainment-his domain-was discussed.

"Not my fault you can't keep up with the industry."

The bartenders leap to action. They hadn't acknowledged me previously, but now they're scrambling as if they were working in a Michelin restaurant.

Cass stops at the stage, his shirt open wide enough to reveal a tan throat and the flex of muscle beneath. His smile is dazzling-like light on ice. Cold and perfect.

I turn to Bladina, who shrugs one shoulder with a cringe.

"Listen...," she begins.

"Bladina." He quiets her with an uplifted palm, like her voice is an irritation.

Arrogant bastard.

I close my notebook and thrust it into my bag. "I'm not playing your club," I snap out. "Not tonight. Never."

My stilettos clang down the stairs and across the dance floor. I collide with the door, grip the handle-

It won't budge.

Fear explodes just as I feel him closing in behind me.

"I'm disappointed." His voice is low, his words inches from my ear so I catch the heat of his breath along the curve of my ear. "I've been waiting for this since our first meeting."

I spin around to face him, anger running through my veins.

Why did I mix up the man at the airport with Cass Lyon?

No other person has this level of danger. This pull of attraction with poison.

"A woman was attacked at my show in LA," I say between clenched teeth. "Your show. In your club. Your agent didn't care. No one in your office called back. When I finally got through to you, you didn't care either."

"Whatever. When you jumped me at a wedding?"

As if the venue makes any difference.

If you think that I have time to pamper each individual who enters one of my buildings myself," he responds coldly, "then you don't understand the scope of my business."

I incline my head upwards. "If you cannot protect the individuals who enter your businesses, then you do not deserve to own any."

His Adam's apple bobs up. For a moment-just one-I glimpse a flicker of shock in his eyes.

Even kings bleed.

I try to open the door a second time, looking at the lock this time. I turn it, yank the door open, and run by the baffled security guard outside.

Out in the parking lot, I breathe hard, grabbing my phone from my pocket to call Frank Dera. I need to get the hell out of here and back to the resort-try to think about what comes next.

The ringtone bleats once before the call is cut off.

Shit.

I scour the street with my vision. Lights spin and traffic bawls in the distance.

"You take a very low view of me," Cass shouts after me.

"I'm not surprised you are concerned."

He steps forward, his face locked in that habitual expression of impassionate royalty.

"I do hope your worthies read the terms for breach of contract to enable you to fulfill your contractual terms."

The wind hits my hair and I allow my bag to fall so that I can brush it out, my fingers trembling.

Thanks to you," he goes on, "one of my best-producing clubs bombed last night. You will pay me back. For the next month, I am your owner. If you even try to get out of here, I'll sue you for everything. Your computer." He takes my bag. "Your music. Every thread of clothing you have."

His words fall around me, each one heavier than the last.

I can barely breathe.

"No comeback?" he taunts.

I don't go down without a fight. I won't.

"If it takes threats of a lawsuit to get a woman undressed," I take my bag, "your game is pathetic."

His lips twist in incredulity.

Then a horn blows and a taxi comes to the curb.

My heart pounds as I leap in, his final words ringing out behind me.

Even as we pull away, my chest tightens. Because secretly, I know he may be right.

For the next thirty days.

My owner is Cass Lyon.

When the taxi drives up to the sandstone villa hugging the coast, hemmed in by green hedges, I'm momentarily stunned at how lovely it is.

It's more a boutique hotel than a villa.

A woman halts in mid-vacuum and stares at me.

"I'm supposed to be staying here tonight," I tell her, fingers on my ID.

She smiles, grasping my hand in a tight, friendly clasp. "Sí, señorita. I am Lydia. I will bring you to your room."

She leads me upstairs, down a hall of six doors, and through one to reveal pale yellow walls and double doors opening out onto a balcony with a view of the ocean.

"It's lovely," I say, breathing.

She smiles and shuts the door gently.

The salt and lemon scent washes over me, unloosing something pent-up in my chest. I head to the balcony, grasping the railing, smelling the boundless ocean.

I'm a stranger in a foreign land. I own nothing-no gear, no help, no power.

One sole hard reality:

I'm being forced to play for the man I hate.

I pull out my phone, scroll through to find the contract. His name is not there. No shock-hid behind corporate shields.

However, I send the paper to my lawyer. Ask if a loophole, an out exists.

This work was to be my rebirth.

Now, I am lost more than ever.

I glance at the time difference and dial the name Recee.

Her voice responds, out of breath. "Hey! Mid-morning nausea. What's up?"

"Still can't believe Kia gets to tour and you're puking every five minutes."

"He'll owe me for life."

She sounds as breezy and sunny as ever. And, as ever, her optimism brings me back down to earth.

"I was gonna ask if you'd recorded vocals for that song?"

"Almost there," she promises. "Now distract me before I vomit."

"I just got into Florida," I say, flopping onto the bed.

The air is redolent of fresh linen and freedom. Or it ought to be.

"Residency's not what I signed on for."

I don't tell her everything-no need to rock her boat. And not for any reason on earth to drag Kia into it, who is a friend of Cass Lyon's.

Recee and I do have a history at arts school. She knows what transpired between me and Cass.

She breathes thoughtfully. "If it's anything like Broadway, it'll be brutal but worth it."

I very much doubt it.

"Where's Mr. Rock Star?" I demand.

"Amsterdam this week. I'm going crazy without him."

I venture out to the balcony again, the cool air soothing my raw nerves.

"Florida's nice," I admit. "If you like sun, perfect strangers, and people pretending to be happy."

"Hard to think anything could ruin that. You're in line for something better, Lilith."

That's the gamble, isn't it? Hoped-for goodness. People showing up.

Listen, you should rest," I tell him. "Want a souvenir?"

"Just bring me a good story."

I hang up and gaze out to sea.

A good story.

I may already be living it.

But it's one that starts with heartbreak and ends with blood in the water.