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"Declan Beauchamp?!" she bursts out.
Then, seeing the guilty look on my face, her gaze widens. "OMG, you really are with Declan Beauchamp, the villain in the last Bond Film?"
"Not with him; just staying in his house."
"He asked you to come along to LA, then invited you to stay in his house. And this, after not seeing you for years. You’rewithhim."
I drag my fingers through my hair. "I’d rather not discuss him with you right now."
"I’d rather not discuss anything else but that with you, but—" She holds up a hand. "I respect your wishes. So, why is it you called?"
"I have this conundrum. Should I perform the songs as I love them, or as my manager thinks I should?"
"What does your gut say?"
"That I sing them the way I imagined them."
She raises a shoulder. "There you go."
I laugh. "He’ll never let me perform them that way."
"The internet," she declares.
"Eh? Not sure what you mean."
"You have a phone, don’t you? Record your song, upload it to the internet, and let your listeners vote with their ears."
"I can do that?"
"Solene, please. I know you’ve been cloistered by your family, but surely, you've had a phone all these years?"
I glance away.
"You didn’t have a phone?"
"The old-fashioned kind, attached to the wall, where everyone in the house can hear you? I had one of those."
I peer up from under my lashes to find she’s looking at me with sympathy. "Shit, and I thought my family was bad."
"They didn’t want me to end up like Olivia."
She draws in a breath. "I’m a PR professional babe, so you came to the right place. I'm gonna tell you exactly how to do it."
30
Declan
"You’re where?" Knight’s forehead wrinkles.
"I don't know. Somewhere over Mexico?" I yawn, then throw off the cover and sit up in the bed of my private jet.
On my way to the shoot, I used the plane, only to be inundated with memories of her. I left the plane with the taste of her on my lips, the scent of her crowding my senses, the feel of her clinging to the tips of my fingers, the warmth of her pussy surrounding my dick. That last? It hasn't left me in all the weeks I’ve been away. I've heard about a phantom limb aching after being cut off, but what do you call a phantom pussy that never lets go of its hold on your cock?
I drag my fingers through my hair. I'm losing it. I've been away from her for two weeks, and the shoot is far from over. But the first weekend I have off, I've decided to hop on the plane—risking being swamped by the memories of her that cling to this plane—and go to her. I have no idea how she's going to greet me. No clue if she'll hit me or welcome me with open arms. Probably not the second, but even if it's the first, it's okay. At least she'll be touching me.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. That’s how desperate I’ve become; flying thousands of miles to see a woman on the off chance she’ll deign to acknowledge my presence.
"The fuck you doing away from LA?" Knight’s voice pulls me out of my meanderings.
