Manipulated: a Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 3) Read online

  I was a gentleman.

  Until the moments when I wasn’t.

  The wet bathing suit material melted under my palm. It hugged her waist and clung to her her spectacular ass. Extremely ungentlemanly behavior was imminent if I didn’t collect myself. But when she twisted the material of my shirt and slipped under the little gape in my leathers that she’d created, it was on.

  I filled my hand with her cheek and her breath puffed out a little faster. She felt firm and giving at the same time. A woman’s body. Not the too-skinny types who littered LA. Ones that didn’t eat, but didn’t work out either.

  No, she was the kind that could curl around me in the night and never make me feel like I was banging a bag of bones.

  I dragged her against me. I couldn’t hide my reaction.

  I didn’t really want to.

  It had been a damn long time since I’d touched anyone who made me forget myself. Forget my surroundings. Even more importantly, forget that there could be a million cameras. For fuck’s sake, she was the camera.

  I wanted to taste her more than I cared about any self-preservation instinct.

  I touched the tip of my tongue to her lower lip. Watermelon gloss infused my taste buds, flooding my mouth in reaction. I swallowed hard.

  She didn’t move.

  Her fingers dug into my side, but still she didn’t initiate or reciprocate. I practically bore holes into her lower lip with the force of my stare. I brushed my lower lip against hers.

  Again, no reaction.

  I glanced up to meet her wide blue eyes. She was frozen.

  I molded my hand along her ass, bringing my other hand into the fray. I wanted to drag her along my shaft, and watch her go over “Are you with me, Bettie? Do you want me to find my gentleman card?”

  Her breath puffed against my mouth.

  “I can find it. It’s here somewhere. Perhaps under your towel on the flagstone.”

  Her breath stuttered out with a groan when I pulsed her lower half against my aching cock.

  “Tell me you want this or I’ll step back.” I flicked my tongue along the little divot of her upper lip. I wanted to cover her mouth—to swallow any hesitation—but something told me to wait her out.

  I rolled my hips against hers and her nails dug half moons into my skin. I’d wear her marks gladly if she’d just give me a sign.

  Tentatively, she met the tip of my tongue with her own. A light touch that was more butterfly flutter than active participation.

  It was all that I needed.

  I moved one hand up to the back of her neck. Her hair was surprisingly springy, then cornsilk soft at her nape. I’d always equated kissing with games. A little bit of tag, followed by a getting-to-know-you stage. Some women liked a teasing kiss, some wanted it carnal, and still others wanted it a messy clash of teeth and groans. I was proficient at all of them.

  I even made a sport out of a good kiss.

  Bettie decimated any former knowledge I’d cultivated.

  Hesitation was replaced with a slow glide of tongues and lips. She sighed into my mouth as if she was a long lost lover. No bumping noses and clicking teeth. We turned and twisted in a sweet symphony with a slow build. A quickening of breath kicked my pulse into pound as she lifted her arm to curl around my shoulder. The wet triangles of her bikini burned through the silks of my vest and shirt.

  Those short nails skimmed my neck then moved up to cup the back of my head. I didn’t really have a lot of control over what I did next. The go light had switched on and I lifted her off her toes.

  She moaned into my mouth as her knee hooked around the back of my thigh. I stumbled back toward the bench, then into the cove where we started. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t be passive.

  Not with her alive in my arms.

  My coat flapped around us as I tried to prop her up against the craggy wall. She turned us just before. My shoulders cracked against the cove.

  I grunted, but didn’t break the kiss.

  She jerked at my coat until it came off.

  Until she was simply long golden legs wrapped around my hips. Her knees pressed into to my sides, and her grip transferred to the rocks beside my head. Blue eyes blazed out of the dark.

  “Fuck,” I growled and went for her neck.

  She ground against my belt as I raced down her neck to her shoulders. I kissed and licked every inch I could reach. I gripped her hips, my hands fishing under the damp suit for flesh. I filled my hands with her, dragging my scruff across her chest to the freckle at the center of her breasts.

  Finally. Fucking finally. It seemed like I'd been waiting for her for a lifetime, though it had been barely an hour or two.

  Too goddamn long.

  She threw her head back, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

  How the fuck could I stop? I was afraid that I’d find my dick skewering her to the damn wall if I didn’t take a breath.

  It's not about you. Concentrate on what you can reach.

  Her mouthwatering breasts. I nosed away the triangle of deep red to find a tiny pink nipple. I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. I didn’t give myself a way out. For the first time in a damn long time, I was connecting on a base level.

  Not just figuring out the puzzle pieces and combination to please, but countering every move she made. She sighed, I wanted a groan. I didn’t let up until I heard her little mewl of satisfaction. Hell, I didn’t let up until I felt her groan and tug on my hair as I sucked her nipple deep into my mouth.

  I locked my gaze on her as I flicked my tongue against the tight tip.

  She grinded against my cock. Her grip above my head allowed her to control the intensity of each frantic roll of our hips.

  Fuck, I wanted inside of her.

  The hook in my back pocket dug into my back, but I didn’t care.

  Christ Jesus, I’d bleed out before I stopped this.

  “Who left this here?”

  Her eyes went huge as another voice carried with the first.

  “No, no…God, what am I doing?”

  She scrabbled out of my arms and I nearly dropped her on the damn patio. “Wait, Bettie.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she said with a panicked breath. She tugged her bikini top back into place and averted her eyes.

  “Did you sweep this area? Maybe it’s just a guest’s pile of clothes.”

  Bettie swiped a hand down her face and pushed back her hair. “They can’t find us like this. Oh my God, what was I thinking?” She twisted into a crouch and picked up my coat, shoving it into my belly. “Take this.”

  “Bettie.”

  “I said stop calling me that,” she said in a whispered shout.

  “Well, that’s all you freaking gave me.” Frustration made my words sharper than I intended, and hurt telegraphed across her beautiful face.

  “I have to go. God, I’m so stupid. I never learn.” She sprinted away from me. Way too fast for me to even enjoy her spectacular ass on display.

  She snatched her camera off the bench before I could get to her. A second later, she was running, her bare feet slapping across the stone that led to the stairs.

  The voices were gone, but she was in full on rabbit mode. What the hell?

  I rushed after her, feeling like a colossal ass. I wasn't used to chasing after anyone. It might make me seem like a massive egomaniac, but I never had to.

  Except when it came to Keys, and she hadn't run from me. She'd simply never even seen me that way.

  So much worse.

  I shoved the thought out of my head. I hadn't thought of Keys since I'd been with Bettie.

  Bettie had hijacked everything, and now she was about to vanish when I could still taste her. Still feel her in my arms, imprinted against my skin.

  “Wait a second," I commanded.

  “I have to go.” She scooped up her bags and clothes and climbed up the stairs to the main house. One of her heels tumbled to the ground.

&n
bsp; “Jesus, she’s a fucking bunny.” I laughed, but there was no amusement behind it. As a matter of fact, we’d been a moment away from fucking like bunnies. And I was hard as hell which inhibited my ability to run. By the time I got to the top of the stairs, she was gone.

  I sighed and wandered back down the stairs, scooping up her shoe before I dropped onto the stairs. “Well, fuck me.”

  5

  Callie

  “This is Donovan Lewis’s office. Can I speak to Calliope Templeton, please?”

  I paused my breakfast viewing of Wrong Turn and eased to the edge of my sofa. I didn’t know who Donovan Lewis was, but judging from the woman’s officious voice, he must be important.

  So what did he want with me?

  “This is she,” I said, hoping my voice held more steel than my currently Gumby-like spine. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. Mr. Lewis would like to arrange a meeting. Are you available this afternoon?”

  I glanced down at my torn leggings and oversized sweatshirt. My feet were bare, my hair was in a messy knot.

  In short, no, I was not available. I would need a lifetime or two to be presentable.

  Then again, who was this guy, and why was he wanting to arrange meetings with me?

  “I’m sorry. Who is Donovan Lewis?”

  The other woman tinkled out a life. Literally, it was like wind whispering through wind chimes. “My apologies, Ms. Templeton. Sometimes I erroneously assume the whole world knows Mr. Lewis. He’s the owner of Ripper Records, one of the preeminent—”

  “Hold the phone. Say what? Why would a record company be calling me?”

  Especially one who happened to have helped sponsored the Halloween event where I had—

  Nope. Not going there. I had spent the last two months alternating regretting and reliving that night, and I wasn’t going to let some odd call from Blackbeard’s record company deter me from trying to forget him.

  Referring to him as Blackbeard was much better than remembering his last name was Blackwell. Definitely better than the name Owen, a name I could practically hear myself calling out in the dead of night.

  Oh yeah, because I had. Numerous times. And I’d been praying none of them, though the phrase “Oh God” had been invoked often.

  Again, that laugh. So airy and free that it immediately set my teeth on edge. “Mr. Lewis has become acquainted with your work. I’m sure he’ll explain everything once you meet. I’m just calling to find out when is good for you to speak to him.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis is traveling out of the country tomorrow for two weeks.”

  “So I can speak to him when he returns?”

  Since I had no idea what it was about, it couldn’t be that urgent, right?

  Unless maybe word had gotten out that Owen and I had been…momentarily engaged in lewd behavior. Yes, that kept it nice and clinical. That way I wouldn’t recall how his mouth had felt on mine, or the pull of his lips around my nipple, or the fact that I probably could have come from just that particular action if he’d kept at it, oh, another twenty-two seconds or so.

  Maybe there were pictures.

  Maybe I was about to be a tabloid star.

  Hmm, maybe I could get a copy of the originals for my personal collection?

  No, no, irrelevant. I needed no further masturbatory material. What lived in my brain had already fueled my fantasies for over two months.

  “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. Mr. Lewis requests a sit-down with you this afternoon. Are you available?”

  “Does he have something on me?” I demanded. “If so, I won’t be swayed by scare tactics. Go ahead and print them all. And actually, can you courier a copy to a Mr. Steven Carew at Friar, Stanwick and Carew in La Jolla? I’ll pay.”

  “Ms. Templeton, I’m not sure what photos you’re referring to, unless you are somehow indicating your own work. Your photography,” the woman said slowly, as if I was a dimwitted toddler. “The pictures you took of the Halloween bash at the Houdini Estate for Music Life magazine, for example.”

  “Oh.” I blinked and scooted farther forward on the couch. “Ohhh. Wow. Really? He’s seen them? Or does he not like them? Look, I can’t help if he doesn’t appreciate that shot I got of Reed Mason balancing a beer can on his forehead, but I thought it showed a certain playfulness.”

  Donovan’s assistant cleared her throat. “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to Mr. Lewis. Is noon good for you?”

  I frowned, digging my choppy nails into my thigh. I hadn’t gotten a manicure in weeks. I had planned to get my portfolio in order this week so I could start applying hardcore for a couple of apprentice positions I’d seen listed online, but I was still in holiday sloth mode.

  Besides, he couldn’t need my portfolio. What would the head of a record company need to see my photos for? Surely they had a bevy of photogs at their fingertips. I’d been out of the game so long that most of my stuff was old and out of date.

  Except the shots from the party at the Houdini estate, along with the ones of Ava. We’d finally finished up a few days after Halloween. I’d taken a series of pictures of her that took her from the bedroom to the boardroom, and I was really proud of them. A photo of Ava in a pinstriped blazer with a lacy cami beneath had become her preferred promotional shot. In it, she had the stem of her glasses propped against her glossy red lip. The picture had accompanied the online version of her Music Life article and would be in the print copy too. More photos from that shoot were on Ava’s website.

  My sister was gorgeous, and I liked to hope I’d captured her essence along with her beauty. She was so much fun, with that little sparkle of mischief, and I’d worked hard to show off that side of her.

  But jeez, Donovan Lewis wasn’t going to be impressed I’d gotten a job shooting my own sister. Big whoop.

  Still, I’d have to wing it. I only had a short time until the meeting. Maybe he didn’t even care about my background. This could have to do with Owen, and I was wondering for nothing.

  “Should I bring my portfolio?” I blurted.

  “Yes. That would be excellent. So is noon acceptable?”

  It was because it had to be.

  Swallowing hard, I shot to my feet. “Sure. I’ll be there. Thank you for—thank you for calling.”

  The instant Donovan’s assistant had hung up, I called my sister and filled her in.

  Her earsplitting screech told me succinctly that she thought this was a good opportunity. “Oh my God. This is big. Huge. Are you tripping?”

  “Uh, I guess.”

  “You guess? Aren’t you over the moon? Donovan Lewis is a kingmaker. He’s the kind of guy who can open every door for you. If he takes a like to you, you’ll be set forever.”

  “Ugh. Is he that kind of mogul? I’m not into casting couches.”

  Ava laughed. “Good luck there. I’ve never heard of a single lover he’s had. I’m sure he must’ve had more than a few looking like that, but he’s locked down like a vault.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine then. I’m not interested in any of that.”

  “He’s all business, sis, so get your mind out of the gutter. You know, I bet I know what he wants.” She snapped her fingers and let out a cackle of glee. “The Hammered tenth anniversary coffee table book is getting all the buzz now. Keys told me they’d have an announcement about it this week, and she was hoping I’d put my name in the hat to take on the writing duties. Sounds like a fun gig, and I’ve heard whispers I was being considered, but I can’t just drop things and go with them on tour or whatever they have in mind.”

  My mind was spinning. “Coffee table book? On tour?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. I might be interested if the timing wasn’t so sucktastic. I’m supposed to start that Eastwood biopic soon, and I’ve got a million other projects I’m involved in. Like that piece I’m doing with Music Life on that new band, Warning Sign. Did you hear the goss on their lead guitarist? Dude’s
banging a senator’s girlfriend. There’s elevator footage—”

  “Wait.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. Way too much information all at once, but that was my sister. “You think they might be tagging me for this book?” Excitement bloomed inside me and was squashed as quickly as it had flared to life.

  Hammered’s tenth anniversary.

  Owen.

  He of the lips like firm, perfectly delicious plums, and hands that could’ve belonged to the finest sculptors.

  More accurately, the bassist with the band I’d had to look up more extensively after I’d made out with the guy. Were there still bases when it came to sex? If so, we’d probably been firmly on second even if my loins had been rounding home. They were just underused and overeager, my loins, and couldn’t be trusted.

  Neither could I, because I had no idea if I was excited at the idea of the opportunity possibly being presented to me or dismayed.

  Forget dismayed. I was fucking terrified.

  I’d scampered away from the dude when he’d had a killer hard-on and bedroom eyes. He’d figured we’d finish what we started, and I’d freaked out and split.

  Worst of all, I’d lost one of my favorite shoes. Okay, that wasn’t the worst part, but it had just capped off the night.

  “I don’t know. Seems possible. Why else would Lord Lewis be summoning you to his lair all urgent and shit? The band’s starting up the tour again so you probably would have to jet.”

  “He did seem awfully insistent it be today.” I brought my thumb to my mouth and glared at my ragged nail. Quickie manicure ahead. No stress cuticle destruction today. “He’s leaving the country tomorrow or something. Do you think they fired someone so now they’re desperate to find a person to fill in?”

  “That’s my sister, Eeyore in rockabilly clothing. Oh ye of little faith, is it so impossible to think Lord Lewis just wants you?”

  In spite of everything, I giggled. I hadn’t met this Lewis guy yet and I was already getting all manner of visuals thanks to Ava.

  “I’m out of practice, and you damn well know this wasn’t my specialty. What do I know about photographing rock stars? Now if they want me to make them a killer Monte Cristo, I can whip that up in a second.”