Griff placed his ankle on his other knee and linked his hands on his flat stomach. He was sure he knew the answer to his next question but decided to ask it anyway. “So you don’t think I am suitable? Why not?”
“You don’t fit the image for my ball, and you’re not who I want to perform in front of many of our friends, family, guests, clients and colleagues, both local and international. They have certain expectations of the entertainment.
“You have a shocking reputation and haven’t performed for a while.” Well, he’d asked for an explanation and he’d got it.
Kinga didn’t drop her eyes and Griff respected her take-no-prisoners attitude. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. O’Hare. I think hiring you would be a mistake and I intend to change my grandfather’s mind.”
Callum seemed pretty set on him, so Griff shrugged, knowing his casual gesture would frustrate her. Griff couldn’t fault her for not wanting to take a chance on him. If he was in her position, he’d also have reservations about hiring a musician who’d trashed hotel rooms, closed down clubs, left with a different girl every night, racked up speeding fines in his superpowerful Ducati, dabbled in drugs and had three different children by three different women—all falsely reported but widely believed.
Most of his bad boy behavior was bullshit, a carefully constructed manipulation of the media. It was a simple equation: if he acted out, the media’s attention focused on him and they ignored Sian, allowing his sister to fade from view.
He couldn’t blame anyone for the bad press. After all, being bad was what he’d set out to do. And because he did everything well, he’d exceeded his own expectations.
Surprisingly, being wild and reckless took an enormous amount of time and energy. And he was sick of being portrayed as an asshole. It wasn’t who he was, and he was ready for something new. Maybe performing at the ball would start to sway public opinion. To claw back some respect.
“You’re not going to challenge me on that?” Kinga demanded, obviously impatient with him for taking so long to respond.
Griff wanted to tell her that it was an act, a well-choreographed show, but this was a secret he’d take to his grave. Only his family and his two best friends, Stan and Ava Maxwell, knew he’d spent the past few years diverting press attention away from his twin. If his actions were divulged, the press would try and discover what she was trying to hide. And them writing about Sian and her problems would be disastrous.
The press had all but forgotten Sian—thank God—and it was finally the right time to stage a comeback.
“No.”
“You’re a talented artist, Mr. O’Hare, and you have the voice of an angel.”
Damned with faint praise. “Thank you.”
“Those weren’t my words. I read that quote somewhere,” Kinga told him on a dismissive shrug. “Music isn’t my thing. I can’t hold a tune or keep a beat.”
A million neurons in his brain died at the thought. “Everybody can hold the beat and sing a little,” he protested.
“I’m music-impaired,” Kinga assured him, waving a hand. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. What I do know is PR, and hiring you would not be a good move for Ryder International. Unfortunately for me, my grandfather disagrees and thinks you are the bee’s knees.”
Her dismissive attitude shouldn’t hurt—he’d heard worse over the years—but it still managed to prick his steel-hard hide. Damn her. Because he refused to let her see that her words had hit their target, he did what he normally did and resorted to flippancy.
“I often think about God and what he must’ve been thinking when He created bees,” Griff mused, purely to wind her up. With her boss-girl demeanor, she radiated confidence and control and he was desperate to rattle her. “I can just imagine Him saying...give them the ability to make a substance that never spoils, a little sting and cute antennae. Oh, and give them kick-ass knees.”
He thought he caught a hint of irritated humor but it flashed too quickly for him to be sure. She stared at him before shaking her head. “Are you done?”
“Probably not.”
Kinga rolled those gorgeous eyes. “As I was saying, my grandfather thinks that being talked about—whether in a good or a bad light—is always better than not being talked about at all.” She wrinkled her nose as if she were unable to believe anyone could be hoodwinked in such a way.
“I don’t follow that school of thought. An association between Ryder and you is not in our best interests.”
Another verbal blow. By the end of this conversation, he was going to look like a well-used punch bag.
“How did I come to your grandfather’s notice?” Griff asked the question that had puzzled him from the moment he’d received Callum’s first email raising the possibility of him performing at their ball.
Griff had no idea how Ryder-White obtained his private email address or how the man knew he was contemplating a comeback. He’d only shared that news with select people within the industry, and Callum Ryder-White had to have awesome connections, and deep pockets, to access that type of information. Griff wasn’t sure whether to be pissed or pleased.
Performing at the intimate event—a ball for two thousand people was still a small gig—would be a good way to slide back into performing, to dip his toe into that always turbulent body of water. Along with returning to performing, he was also, finally, writing songs again, and was considering releasing a new album. But all these decisions had consequences, including increased press attention.
His return to work would also mean leaving Sian and her son for months at a time. He didn’t know if that was a viable option.
“My grandfather adores Vinnie D’Angelo. The famous opera singer?”
Yeah, he knew who Vinnie was, had met him a couple of times, and genuinely liked the old guy. That was why he’d done a cover of “Nessun Dorma,” Vinnie’s favorite song, from the opera Turandot, for his eightieth birthday. That and because the piece was, instrumentally and vocally, a challenge...