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“Yeah, sing. I’m good. Ask Tony, he’ll tell you. But I want to sing in this room, and I want you to bring people in here to listen. People like Jerry Goldman, and your agent, Stewart Baxter. I promise you won’t be disappointed, and they won’t be either.”
“Sure, that’s cool,” Matt replied casually.
For the second time Matt had surprised her.
She hadn’t expected him to agree to her demands so easily.
“Well, great. I’m glad we could, uh, come to an agreement,” she declared, trying to maintain the upper hand she thought she had.
“Heather,” Matt said, rising to his feet, “all you had to do was ask. I’m always happy to give someone a break, and it will add another fun element to the evening. If you’re terrible, it’s no skin off my nose. I’m not in the business of finding talent. But if you’re great, I’ll be a hero.”
She suddenly wondered if she’d just made a terrible mistake. He was being kind and reasonable when he should be furious.
“Just for the record,” he continued, “what you saw in my bedroom was a rehearsal.”
“A rehearsal?”
“Marilyn’s an actress. Well, she wants to be, and Marilyn isn’t her real name, but you probably already know that. Marilyn will be her stage name if she ever gets a break. She’s auditioning for a play and asked me to help her.”
“I—uh—I don’t know what to say,” she muttered, her face burning ever hotter.
“Heather, you broke into my house and spied on me. That’s a terrible thing to do, and illegal. You should be ashamed of yourself,” he scolded, towering over her. “I’m sure your father would agree, and I daresay Tony would be none too pleased.”
“Matt, please don’t tell him.”
“Who? Tony or your father?”
“Either of them, both of them. I promise I won’t do it again.”
“I still haven’t heard an apology.”
“I’m really sorry, Matt,” she said earnestly. “If you want me to, I’ll apologize to Stella as well.”
“Ah, I was right. You do know who she is. Be that as I may, you’d be wise to stay clear. She may not be as understanding as I am.”
“Steer clear,” Heather repeated. “Will do. So, uh, it’s still okay for me to sing?”
“I told you, it’s fine with me, but count yourself lucky I’m not on the phone calling the Malibu sheriff’s office. Stop your snooping! If I hear about you doing anything like this again—”
“You won’t, I swear,” she said frantically, “and I really am sorry.”
“About this performance of yours. Do you have any equipment or a band?”
“No, just me, and I don’t need a mike or anything.”
“Good, that makes it easy. You can do your thing after the lingerie show. I’ll round up some folks and bring them in.”
“Terrific! Thank you so, so much.”
“Actually, sing something for me right now. If you’re decent I might even call a couple of friends of mine in the music biz and ask them to drop by.”
“Really? That would be amazing...except I don’t have my guitar.”
“Heather, if you’re as talented as you claim you don’t need it. Think of me as your private Simon Cowell.”
“You’re right, I don’t need it,” she exclaimed, and perching on the arm of a nearby chair, she began to sing.
