Huh. That didn’t sound good. “What do you mean, timing issues?”
“As in, he can never arrive on time, anywhere, ever. It’s the rock star in him,” James said irritably. He pulled Natalie close and gave her a brief hug, accompanied by an air kiss in the area of her cheek. “Now stop your fretting. All those scowls will give you permanent wrinkles if you don’t watch it, and you’re too young for that. Go mingle. Grab another drink. Eat another appetizer, because Lord knows the majority of women here won’t eat a damn thing. Your man should be here soon.”
Go mingle? By herself? She couldn’t do that. Plus, what did James mean, it was the rock star in him? Who was this guy? If he was trying to match her up with some wannabe singer of a Vegas cover band, she was going to be pissed.
Not that James hung out with wannabes. Declan Carter knew some pretty famous people. She swore there was a cluster of Victoria’s Secret Angels sitting on a couch on the other side of the room, all of them so beautiful, it almost hurt to look at them for too long. And was that freaking Justin Bieber who just walked in the room? Oh good Lord, if James thought she was a Belieber she was going to lose her mind…
“Why you looking so down, love?” Warm fingers gripped her wrist and she turned, ready to tell whoever grabbed her to get his hands off of her, but the words died in her throat at first sight of who stood in front of her.
He was tall. Shaggy dark hair that fell around his angular face, his brown eyes studying her with an intensity that stole her ability to breathe. His lush mouth was curved into an amused smile and she blinked up at him, still unable to form words.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, his thumb sweeping across the pulse point inside her wrist. The touch was simple and totally innocent, yet she felt it as if he touched the very center of her.
“Uh…” Okay, she was officially an idiot. She knew who he was. And he was no Justin Bieber. “You’re Noah Wilde,” she blurted out, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Way to remain cool and unaffected.
His smile turned into a full-blown grin, his dark eyes twinkling, and she went hot and tingly inside. He radiated energy. Warmth. Sexiness. She wanted to get closer and really sample all that delicious heat.
“I see you have the upper hand,” he murmured deeply as he slowly, almost reluctantly let go of her wrist. His voice was like velvet with a hint of roughness.
She’d heard that voice growl at her over the radio—heck, even through her ear buds, because she owned a few Wilde & Wicked songs. They were on her I-need-an-aggressive-workout-because-I’m-pissed playlist.
“Huh?” Her gaze fell from his too-gorgeous face, taking the rest of him in. He was all lea
n muscle and colorful tattoos; his arms were covered in them, as well as his upper chest and even his neck. He wore a black leather vest and black jeans, and on anyone else the outfit would look ridiculous.
But he was Noah Wilde, lead singer of the famous rock band Wilde & Wicked. If anyone could carry off the leather vest look, it was him.
“You know who I am. But I don’t know who you are.” He reached out and touched the very tip of her nose with his index finger. “Got a name, sweetheart?”
Yes. She did. Such a shame she promptly forgot it.
One minute into arriving at his friend Declan’s party, Noah glanced around, saw the same old people he hung out with at every other party in Vegas he’d ever attended, and wanted to leave. Frustration settled over him, heavy and almost suffocating. He was so sick of the grind, of the same old shit. Women fawning over him, offering up blowjobs, hand jobs and the like, when they didn’t even really know him. Wanting a piece of him because he was someone famous. They all came on to him, especially the women he met in Vegas.
Something about this city turned everyone bolder. Wilder. And considering his last name was Wilde and he definitely had a reputation for being wild—the rumors were so over the top, but there was always a grain of truth buried in there somewhere—they figured that was exactly what he was looking for. A wildly outrageous time. He’d nurtured that reputation since Wilde & Wicked first came onto the scene.
No one cared to ask what he really wanted. And what he wanted, what he fucking craved, was normalcy.
One of those damn models who was always prancing around in lingerie spotted him, her naughty—and overly practiced—smile saying she was coming for him whether he wanted her to or not. He turned, ready to hightail his ass out of there, when he spotted her. The little blonde in the blue dress, her small tits looking ready to fall out of the top, her luscious mouth frowning, her expression forlorn.
Everything within him tightened as he watched her without her knowledge. She had a mixed drink clutched in her hand and she brought it up to her mouth, her lips wrapping around the skinny straw and sucking delicately.
Lust surged through his veins. He liked the way she looked with that straw in her mouth. Had a feeling she’d look even better with his dick in her mouth, which was crude, but hey, he was as crude as they came.
She was also very pretty, very natural-looking, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes, peaches-and-cream skin. The dark blue dress clung to her gentle curves, highlighting them, and she was tiny. He could probably throw her over his shoulder and haul her out of there, no problem.
The thought was tempting, but he restrained himself. To get away from the barracuda headed in his direction, he made his way over to the blonde, grabbed her by the wrist and asked, “Why you looking so down, love?”
She turned fully to face him, her eyes looking ready to pop out of her head as she gaped at him wordlessly.
“Cat got your tongue?” He smiled and stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb. Her skin was soft. And her bones were so delicate. She really was a tiny little thing.
“Uh…you’re Noah Wilde.”
Of course she recognized him. He was famous, there was no denying it. He’d been with Wilde & Wicked since he was eighteen. They blew up the summer after he got out of high school, when he first joined. His older brother Rick was an original band member—he was the bassist—and they fought more than they played lately.
Which kind of sucked. Ruined everyone’s mood, that was for damn sure. That was half the reason he made his escape to Vegas. He needed to get out of Los Angeles and away from his bandmates before everything went to total shit. They were set to go into the recording studio soon, but they were also on some serious shaky ground.
And he didn’t like it.