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“Couple of times a month. Sometimes they send women up to try to get a ‘kiss-and-tell’. It’s a bit sad really. Anyway, who cares? Let’s go back to bed and figure out how to break the news to Matthew that you’re my girl now.”
She stepped away. “Joseph, I’m so sorry – I can’t.”
He caressed her shoulder. “It’s not too late for you to get out of that relationship while you can. And out of the grips of News Scape too.”
She pulled the shirt around herself and shook her head. “No, Joseph. This is my dream – being a journalist. I can’t risk getting mixed up with you. Last night was amazing – you’re amazing. And if things were different… in another lifetime… but they’re not. It was a mistake. I can’t see you again. I’m sorry.”
The journalist banged on the door loudly. “Joseph, I can hear you talking to someone in there.”
Joseph suppressed the urge to punch his lights out. “Ellie, I’m not asking you to elope with me. But come on, we should date – get to know each other. You need to leave Matthew and Blair Robertson.” He smirked and put on a Darth Vader voice. “Come over to the dark side.” He put out his hand, still grinning. “You know you want to.”
She bit her lip. “Oh god, it’s hard to resist you…”
He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms – while she kept hers firmly folded across her chest. “You don’t need to resist me. I want you; you want me. What’s the problem, babe?”
She eased herself away again. “Please, Joseph. I’ve got to go. I’m engaged. I’ve just started a new job. You’re a rock-god! It’ll never work. Help me get out of here without being seen. If you care about me at all, then help me. Please.”
He linked his fingers through hers and gazed deeply into those gorgeous blue eyes. There was no way he was letting her walk out on him permanently – not without experiencing that perfect body again – but he could see she was upset. The constant banging on the door was stressing her out. And it was pissing him off too.
“Alright, I’ll get you safely out of here. But this isn’t over, Ellie, I’m telling you now. I know you want me… Just wait here a minute.”
Joseph strode over to the front door and ripped it open. He stepped out into the hallway, forcing the journalist to stagger backwards before he could look inside and see Eleanor.
“You want a story?” Joseph growled. “You want something for your stupid newspaper?”
Dennis spluttered out a shocked reply. Celebrities didn’t usually behave like this – sticking up for themselves and getting mad; they usually cowered and begged for mercy.
“Here’s a fucking story for you,” Joseph said.
Dennis frowned and started to speak, but Joseph planted his bare feet on the thick carpet and punched the journalist hard, throwing him backwards across the corridor so he hit his head on the opposite wall. His concussed body slid down the expensive wallpaper like a blob of porridge, and he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Joseph rubbed his knuckles and turned back to the door. To his delight, Eleanor was standing there, still dressed in his shirt and looking utterly radiant.
She gazed at the unconscious reporter. “I know him. He works for USA Chat.”
Joseph drew her into his arms and kissed her hard. “I know, sweetheart. I was just helping you knock out the competition.”
She laughed cynically. “Thanks. Well, I’d better get dressed before he comes round. And you’d better get ready to explain to Matthew why the front page of tomorrow’s USA Chat will be reporting charges of assault against you. Again.”
Chapter Nine
Joseph felt supercool, sitting in the plush swivel chair with his headphones a-slant over one ear – listening to the playback of what he’d just recorded. This eight-foot long mixing desk was the biggest he’d ever seen – and it had far more knobs, buttons, and channels than
any engineer could ever use. It was the absolute top of the range in audio equipment, and it was luxury compared to the portable desk he’d produced the band’s demo on last year in his college dorm room.
The control room at the recording studio was bright and airy, with wooden panelling and laminate flooring throughout. And there was – of course – the huge soundproof window separating it from the ‘live’ room – where his two bandmates were rehearsing the next track to be laid down.
He smiled contentedly. Despite the intrusions into his personal life, Joseph loved making music for a living. He was a bit of a geek when it came to the production side of things – he wasn’t satisfied with just writing songs and performing; he craved input into the whole experience. He’d enjoyed producing the band’s first album last year, which they’d used to gain popularity online, before selling-out and signing to the record company. But unfortunately, the record company wasn’t keen for Joseph to get his hands dirty. And they certainly didn’t like him to express an opinion. But he was going to anyway.
“You’ve added far too much reverb on my vocals there,” he said, swivelling to face the producer. “It sounds like I’m singing in the shower.”
“It’s what sells right now,” the producer grumbled. He was a sixty-year-old, plump man who’d worked with hundreds of musicians and managed to propel most of them straight to the top of the hit parade. His commercial values didn’t exactly gel with Joseph’s artistic vision.
“It might be what sells now,” Joseph said. “But what about making music that stands the test of time? What about passion?”
The producer gave a patronising chuckle. “You really are clueless, huh?”
Joseph fixed him with a glare. He opened his mouth to argue, but Matthew – who was sitting quietly down the other end, typing on his laptop – intervened. “Joseph, this man knows what he’s talking about. How many number-one records have you produced, Terry?”
