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“Um…”
I’m ready to back that up by pulling away too, but it feels so damn good to be holding his hand. No. To have him holding my hand. His fingers are long, graceful and strong. Their tips are just the right kind of rough, bringing images of their guitar-playing magic to my mind. The sensations are even better when he draws me close enough for his other hand to settle at the bottom of my spine.
“Mr. Z—”
“Darian, remember?”
Though I’m going to hate myself for it, I pull back. “Food isn’t necessary. I’ve already eaten.”
Oh, yes. Hating myself. Even more so as my stomach makes like a range of cougars, surely summoning some of them from the sprawling hillsides around the mansion. Darian’s smirk is a quick fix, though. Not easy for my stomach to growl when the rest of my vital organs are cartwheeling.
“It’s just a few light bites.”
His assurance isn’t necessary considering the command of his new tug. It also isn’t the truth, as I discover with a bugged gaze after we pass a large kitchen, a bigger living room, and a quaint wet bar. With every step of the journey, I notice that the home is as confusing as its owner. While the floorplan is expansive and modern, the decor drips with classic European romance—and the deceptive shadows to match. They’re even more pronounced in what I assume is his music room, with its rows of guitars along one wall and a shiny baby grand in the opposite corner. Unlike the rest of the mansion, there are no windows in here.
But plenty of food.
Holy shit.
I don’t bother keeping that part to myself while plopping onto the long couch in front of the low-lying coffee table. Quickly, I add, “You call this some light bites?”
He chuckles while pouring some dark red wine into matching glasses. “I’m half Spanish and half Italian, so yes, this is taking it easy. Some aged cheese? Or an empanada? Maybe some patatas bravas?”
I’m ready to decline again, but he’s not ready to accept that answer. I purse my lips and attempt a light laugh.
“If I have you load me up with a little of everything, can we finally talk some real business?” Because the potatoes look too good to pass up, and two birds with one stone sometimes does work.
“Depends,” he replies, piling a plate with a little of everything before I can protest. “Are you simply going to give me a commercial for working with Blanca again?”
I smile and mean it. Now he’s veered right where I planned. “I thought we’d discuss the Darian Z brand first.”
His brows push at each other. “The…brand?”
“My point exactly. And yours too, if you think about it.”
His scowl tightens. “I’m unsure that I fol—”
“Of course you don’t. Because you can’t. Because you have no brand.” I’m ready with my laptop, popping it open to the file list that took the whole day for Sylvie and I to prepare. “To be honest, I was stunned too. But as big as your name is, you’re still just a streaming internet star. Unless I missed something, that’s the only way people have accessed your material with permission. That includes the thousands of fans who’ve made videos with your songs—”
His mild nod stops me. “Incredible, aren’t they?”
“Uh…yeah,” I stammer. “But incredible for them most of all.”
He works the chiseled edge of his jaw with a finger. Oh damn, those decadent digits. “I still don’t follow.”
I gulp my wine. It’s a better option than palming my forehead. “In plain English? How are you benefiting from all this, Darian? The whole world is talking about you and your beautiful music, but none of it’s legally licensed anywhere. Neither is any image associated with it, including your face.”
As I’ve begun my mini manifesto, he’s taken a chance to sip his wine—which he now almost spits back. “What does my face have to do with any of it?”
“Besides the fact that a lot of people are paying other people to splash it across their chests on T-shirts?” I add in a quick mumble, “Probably on their crotches too. Crap; I didn’t think to look up Darian Z panties.”
The man officially proves that Incredulous Darian should also be a T-shirt thing, as he cocks his head with a breathtaking version of the expression. All that thick forelock hair, tumbling against his brilliant golds, has me almost forgetting to pull out my phone and make a note to research the underwear thing.
“You’re really not joking,” he finally utters.
“Not about any of this.” I tuck my phone back into my purse. Miracle of miracles, I do it without sliding my gaze from him.
He blinks once. Twice. “Panties.”
