eyed her. Then he ducked his head, grimacing as he shielded his face with his forearm again. “Come on, hotter than hellfire out here.” She couldn’t argue there. He led her into the shade, down a long, cool hallway and around a corner. Alex extracted her hand from his arm with a polite, no-nonsense smile. She followed close on his heels and gave up counting the doors they walked by, already hopelessly lost. Her heels clicked on the chilled marble beneath her feet, her eyes widening with every priceless artifact and painting they passed. She’d been way off base, thinking this place a frat house. It wasn’t the Waldorf, but it was damned close. Then again, the friggin’ Louvre might have been more on point.
Styx’s voice trailed behind him conversationally as he swaggered, unaffected, past a gorgeous Renoir. “So, you’re the new lyricist, huh?”
“Possibly,” she allowed, distracted by the glory surrounding her. A priceless Monet floated by, and she stumbled, fighting the urge to stop and gawk.
“Hear you gave up the music biz for the exciting world of journalism.” He tossed the leading statement over his shoulder, and let silence hang.
Fully acquainted with the attitudes of critical musicians who believed she’d betrayed her talents, Alex’s gaze swerved away from the paintings, determined to offer cool composure.
“Yes,” she hedged, unwilling to take the bait.
Undeterred, Styx shot her an assessing look over his shoulder. “Cole filled us in on the arrangement. Boy, you sure made him sweat it out, waiting for your answer.” She mumbled a noncommittal, “Hmm.” 47
Styx halted in the middle of the hall, so abruptly in fact, that she bounced off his broad back. Turning to face her, he raised an eyebrow.
“You might be tiny, Slim, but I sure hope you’ve got more words in you than that, or we won’t even be able to cut a single.”
Alex blinked up at him in surprise, understanding at last that he’d only been teasing her. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help but like this man who called himself Styx. Like the river, not the wood. She offered him an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry if I was a little cool.” Heat suffused her cheeks as she motioned toward the back of the house—or what she thought was the back at least. “I haven’t had to deal with that scene for a long time. I guess it caught me off guard.” Accepting her apology with a dismissive wave of his hand, he grinned down at her. “Yeah, it can be a little much sometimes. No big deal, Slim.” Then, as they stood in the hallway smiling at each other, Styx did a quick, almost imperceptible double take. He stared hard at her face for a split second, then spun away. He was fast—and discreet—she’d allow him that, but she hadn’t missed the light of recognition in his golden stare.
Styx led Alex into a quiet room on the far side of the house. He stepped just inside the door, flipping on a light switch. She caught her breath as her awed gaze locked on the Steinway. She stood transfixed for several long moments. The hand carved, walnut case was exquisite. Her fingers tingled, longing to reach out and stroke.
Begging to pluck a few heavenly notes from that gorgeous instrument.
She stepped farther inside the room, her heels whisper silent now on the soft, thick carpet.
She reluctantly lifted her gaze from the piano and 48
scanned the rest of the room. Rich, dark paneling covered the walls. A massive, mahogany desk, buried beneath a haphazard muddle of papers, occupied the far end of the room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk. A tall, glass display case, filled with ancient weaponry, took up most of one corner.
A comfortable seating arrangement in subtle micro-suede occupied a majority of the middle of the room. The coffee table groaned beneath a messy pile of magazines and newspapers. A large fireplace loomed behind the Steinway, just to her left. A gigantic flat screen rivaling
Styx’s voice trailed behind him conversationally as he swaggered, unaffected, past a gorgeous Renoir. “So, you’re the new lyricist, huh?”
“Possibly,” she allowed, distracted by the glory surrounding her. A priceless Monet floated by, and she stumbled, fighting the urge to stop and gawk.
“Hear you gave up the music biz for the exciting world of journalism.” He tossed the leading statement over his shoulder, and let silence hang.
Fully acquainted with the attitudes of critical musicians who believed she’d betrayed her talents, Alex’s gaze swerved away from the paintings, determined to offer cool composure.
“Yes,” she hedged, unwilling to take the bait.
Undeterred, Styx shot her an assessing look over his shoulder. “Cole filled us in on the arrangement. Boy, you sure made him sweat it out, waiting for your answer.” She mumbled a noncommittal, “Hmm.” 47
Styx halted in the middle of the hall, so abruptly in fact, that she bounced off his broad back. Turning to face her, he raised an eyebrow.
“You might be tiny, Slim, but I sure hope you’ve got more words in you than that, or we won’t even be able to cut a single.”
Alex blinked up at him in surprise, understanding at last that he’d only been teasing her. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help but like this man who called himself Styx. Like the river, not the wood. She offered him an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry if I was a little cool.” Heat suffused her cheeks as she motioned toward the back of the house—or what she thought was the back at least. “I haven’t had to deal with that scene for a long time. I guess it caught me off guard.” Accepting her apology with a dismissive wave of his hand, he grinned down at her. “Yeah, it can be a little much sometimes. No big deal, Slim.” Then, as they stood in the hallway smiling at each other, Styx did a quick, almost imperceptible double take. He stared hard at her face for a split second, then spun away. He was fast—and discreet—she’d allow him that, but she hadn’t missed the light of recognition in his golden stare.
Styx led Alex into a quiet room on the far side of the house. He stepped just inside the door, flipping on a light switch. She caught her breath as her awed gaze locked on the Steinway. She stood transfixed for several long moments. The hand carved, walnut case was exquisite. Her fingers tingled, longing to reach out and stroke.
Begging to pluck a few heavenly notes from that gorgeous instrument.
She stepped farther inside the room, her heels whisper silent now on the soft, thick carpet.
She reluctantly lifted her gaze from the piano and 48
scanned the rest of the room. Rich, dark paneling covered the walls. A massive, mahogany desk, buried beneath a haphazard muddle of papers, occupied the far end of the room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk. A tall, glass display case, filled with ancient weaponry, took up most of one corner.
A comfortable seating arrangement in subtle micro-suede occupied a majority of the middle of the room. The coffee table groaned beneath a messy pile of magazines and newspapers. A large fireplace loomed behind the Steinway, just to her left. A gigantic flat screen rivaling
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