Four
Griff looked at himself in the reflective surface of the elevator and picked a piece of lint off his camel-colored jacket. In an effort to be taken seriously by the oh-so-stern Kinga, he’d worn dark blue jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater under the jacket.
He felt overdressed and a little stupid.
Good clothes wouldn’t make her trust him... Or trust that he was the performer she was looking for, Griff amended. Despite their fiery kiss last night, a business relationship was the only type of relationship he could have with her. She wasn’t, he knew, the type to have one-night stands or flings and he wasn’t looking for anything permanent or complicated.
He had, so they said, baggage. A high-stress job, a bad reputation, a family with challenges.
He and Kinga were also, as he reminded himself, working together and her cooperation would ensure whether his comeback was a resounding success or a career-crushing failure.
There were more important things than her mouth under his, his hands on her spectacular body...
But because Griff was always brutally honest with himself, when he kissed her, or touched her, or even laid eyes on her, he tended to forget that salient point.
As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t misbehave today. Today he would show her that he could be professional. They’d talk about the publicity around the ball and how to manage the buzz his return would inevitably create.
He would not think about her spicy taste, her smooth skin...
The elevator doors opened and his phone vibrated. Stepping out, Griff pulled the phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and looked at the screen. He smiled, genuinely pleased to hear from his older half-sister.
Jan was born when his mother was seventeen and, because she was thirteen years older than him and Sian, and was already at college when he and Sian started in the industry, the press didn’t know about her. She was his favorite secret, and she and her husband were among a handful of people who knew about Sian’s condition and the lengths he’d gone to to protect her from the world.
“I’m about to go into a meeting, sweetheart. Can I call you when I’m done?”
“I’ll make this quick,” Jan assured him. She went on to explain that she, her husband and kids wanted to take Sam and Sian away with them for a few days and that Eloise would join them after her long weekend.
Jan’s husband, Pete, an extremely wealthy, famous CEO, would hire a private jet to ensure their complete privacy.
“Where are you heading?” Griff asked, though he suspected he knew. Jan and Pete, with his blessing, had built a huge mansion on the opposite end of the island he’d purchased years ago, two nautical miles off Key Largo, completely overshadowing the modest bungalow he normally stayed in when he went down there.
It was their second home and they were spending more and more time in the Keys. Because they homeschooled their late-in-life kids, Griff suspected it would soon become their permanent abode. And that was fine by him.
“We might stay longer and Sam and Sian can stay as long as they like. You know how my girls adore having Sam around,” Jan added. Jan’s daughters, seven and five, considered Sam to be more of a baby brother than their cousin.
He trusted Jan and her levelheaded, down-to-earth husband to help Sian and Sam while Eloise was away. And Eloise would be happy to join them after her break. She loved the island.
And he could stay in Portland...
He told Jan to make the arrangements, told her that he’d pick up the tab for the private jet and said goodbye, feeling a little guilty for feeling relieved that he didn’t have to rush back to Kentucky. He’d been given some freedom, a little me-time, and he had no intention of wasting it.
It would give him a chance to, unhurriedly, work out the set list for the ball, to start practicing, to meet with the musicians he wanted for his band.
And to get to know Portland’s Prickliest Princess a little better...
He bolted out from behind a pillar in the parking lot, scaring the hell out of her.
Kinga, in the process of opening her car door, let out a small scream and slapped her hand against her chest, gathering every bit of courage she had to face Mick Pritchard.
“Mick,” she said, leaning back against her car, hoping he didn’t realize that her legs were shaking and that she was terrified.
You are not eighteen anymore, Kinga, and he wouldn’t dare punch you again.Not here, in the Ryder International garage, with cameras everywhere.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought we needed to chat.”
“I thought vicious emails and text messages were more your style,” Kinga snapped, her anger chasing away a little of her fear.