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What Ian had in spades was attitude, shown now with the curl of his lip.
“Isn’t that how this usually goes? I come in, show you what I can do, then we talk terms.”
Donovan had to chuckle. “You think you know how it goes, hmm? Exactly how many recording contracts have you been offered?”
“One.” Now a stubborn jut of
his chin, and a shift of his eyes that told Donovan even that one was in question.
“That number won’t change after this conversation.”
Ian fisted his hand at his side. “Then what the fuck am I even doing here? You had me come all the way from bloody London—”
“Oh, I had you come, did I? You didn’t call me full of bravado, certain I’d take you on because of a bloodline you claim to share. Pretending Simon had advised you to call me. Do you think I’m that stupid or that out of touch not to know what goes on with my own people?”
“Claim to share?” Ian strutted forward and slammed his palms on Donovan’s desk, nearly toppling the lone photo in a gilt-edged frame. Irritation climbed up the back of Donovan’s neck, locking the muscles there. “Fucking look at me. You can’t see it all over my face?”
“I see that you would be wise to mind how you touch what isn’t yours.”
When Ian went to right the cockeyed photo, Donovan plucked the frame out of his hand. It had only been on the desk for a short time. A rare moment of nostalgia. Foolish. Seeing her in front of him meant nothing when he carried her exact image in his heart.
Every day of his life.
Carefully, he opened his top drawer and placed the photograph inside facedown. He shut the drawer and lifted his gaze to Ian’s. Temper vibrated in the younger man’s leanly muscular frame, practically sparking off the fingertips he still held clenched.
“Sit down,” Donovan said again, adding steel to the command.
The time for requests ended when Kagan put his hands on what didn’t belong to him.
Ian sneered, but he sat. And waited.
“We will find out if you’re truly who you say you are.”
“Oh, really? We will? Who’s that? You and your hired blond pit bull? Is Crandall the one helping you to assemble that dossier on me?” Ian spread his arms wide. “You got something to ask me? Go right ahead. I’m sitting right here, mate.”
Donovan sat in his chair. Normally, he would’ve come around the desk and leaned against it for a preliminary conversation like this, but Kagan didn’t get that treatment. He merited the desk between them. “I’m not your mate. You also don’t rate a dossier, so don’t flatter yourself.”
Ian sulked with all the style of a rockstar. Donovan might not like it, but he could see that Kagan had all the requirements for a lead singer who would make the women go wild.
Just like the other Kagan.
“Tell me about your band.”
The topic shift made Ian’s eyes narrow. “What band?”
“Exactly. You’re a lone wolf. And I hate to tell you, you don’t have the chops to command arenas on your own yet. Perhaps you never will, if you don’t dial back the bravado and learn what you need to.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s that?”
“There’s more to performing than charming ladies out of their underwear, for starters.”
“Do tell.”
Donovan ignored the way Ian propped his chin on his fist as if he was waiting for a story. Kagan enjoyed provoking people, and only a fool would give him his druthers.
Donovan wasn’t a fool.
“Simon didn’t ask you to call me. In fact, he immediately requested assistance in finding out if you were who you said you were. You fought. Bruised and scraped each other up. Still, you may be no more than another con artist who wants a payday.”
