Because he always preferred sass to subservience, Griff smiled. He wanted to ruffle her very proper feathers, so he added some extra drawl to his next words.
“I don’t object to you calling me darlin’, but if we must be formal, then you can call me Griff,” he said, his voice sounding rusty.
What was happening here? Why was he reacting like this?
He’d met princesses and supermodels, A-list actresses and B-list bombshells—slept with a number of them—and none of them had managed to scramble his brains or twist his stomach and tongue into knots. Yet this woman, in charge of PR for her grandfather’s company, did.
And he couldn’t work out why.
“Would you like coffee or a soft drink?” Kinga said, sounding brisk and businesslike.
Griff glanced at his watch, saw it was after four forty-five and decided he needed a drink. He looked at the collection of whiskeys behind the bar. “Whiskey, single malt. Preferably something old.”
“This is a business meeting. Coffee, water or something soft?” Kinga asked through obviously gritted teeth. Damn, annoying her was fun. He liked the way she looked down her nose at him, how those extraordinary eyes flashed with disdain. For the first time in...well, forever, Griff understood the lure of the chase.
Keeping his eyes on her lovely face, he lifted his hand and, as expected, a waiter immediately glided across the room to where they sat. Griff ordered a dram of expensive Macallan Royal Marriage, neat, and asked Kinga whether she’d like to join him.
To his surprise, Kinga nodded, her eyes not leaving his. He instinctively understood that they were jostling for control and direction of this conversation and it was a battle he wanted to win.
So did she.
Despite their eye contact, Kinga’s expression remained impassive and Griff found himself intrigued by her ability to ignore their attraction. He’d recognized her bolt-from-the-blue response to him. But she’d pushed it down and away, acting like it never happened.
Interesting.
God, how long had it been since he had to work to impress a woman? Fifteen years? Twenty? Maybe never?
Kinga Ryder-White was the most intriguing—and possibly exasperating—woman he’d ever met.
They sat in silence, neither prepared to look away, until the waiter delivered their drinks, the liquid in the cut crystal glasses the same shade as her eyes. Kinga lifted the glass, took a sip and delicately placed her glass on the table between them.
“Ready to talk business?” she demanded, tapping her finger against her tablet. “Is your agent here with you?” Kinga added. “Your manager?”
“No,” Griff briskly replied. He had major trust issues and, after Finn’s betrayal, he was taking his time finding someone to represent him. The Ryder-White gig was an offer Griff could negotiate himself, especially since he hadn’t decided whether to make his comeback permanent yet.
“Why didn’t you sign with someone else after Finn Barclay died?” Kinga asked, taking another sip of her whiskey. He’d expected her to take a slug to make a point, but she seemed to be enjoying the expensive drink.
Griff saw the curiosity on her face and released a frustrated sigh. He hated talking about Finn. To this day, nobody else knew Finn had died in a car accident because he was racing to the ranch to confront Griff about his decision to terminate their long relationship. Finn’s treachery had taught him that the only person he could fully rely on was himself.
Eviscerated by how his association with Finn had ended, he doubted he could ever trust someone, anyone, again. It was why he’d stopped dating and why he was taking his time signing an agreement with another manager or agent.
“Well?” Kinga asked, tipping her head to the side, looking a little impatient at his lack of a reply.
Something made him want to tell her about Finn and Sian, about what had led him to this point. The impulse annoyed him. He never confided in anyone and God knew why he wanted to spill his soul to this uppity, in-your-face, sexy-as-sin female.
“None of your business,” Griff told her, and he heard the annoyance in his own voice. That was okay, he was sure she could take it.
“Well, agents are the firewall between the artist and the client.” Kinga handed him a smile that was part sweet, part sly. “It’s so much easier to be frank with an agent than with the artist.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.” He flashed a grin, enjoying the bite in her words, in her attitude.
Kinga acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. She linked her fingers together, her gaze direct when her eyes met his. “My grandfather, Callum, seems to think you would be perfect to perform at the Ryder International ball. He likes the idea of being the one to relaunch you.”
He considered telling Kinga the Ryder ball was just a venue, that he had other venues, other options to consider. He’d wasn’t desperate, for God’s sake. He didn’tneedto do the concert, to return to the stage.
One option would be to simply sell his songs to other artists, but singing, performing and entertaining had been his entire life, starting with his first role alongside his twin, Sian, in an extremely popular sitcom when they were seven. At eighteen, they both landed roles in the smash-hit musical,Peter and Me, and its popularity transformed them into international celebrities, with the soundtrack becoming the top-selling album for the next two years, going platinum four times.
Over the next decade, he’d run from project to project, enjoying having the world at his feet. Then his universe had fractured, and What Happened to Griff? became an oft-used headline as journalists tried to figure out why a hardworking, dedicated and easy-to-work-with artist had turned into a publicity-seeking monster.