Sex, Gossip and Rock & Roll. Nicola Marsh

       Praise for Nicola Marsh

      ‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion,

      sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters

      immediately capture your attention, and

      from there the pages go flying by.’

      —RT Book Reviews on

      Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

      ‘Sterling characters, an exotic setting …

      and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.

      The realistically paced romance is also refreshing.’

      —RT Book Reviews on

      A Trip with the Tycoon

      ‘Romantic, engrossing and realistic,

      The Billionaire’s Baby shines with pathos, charm and heart, and readers looking for a story they can lose themselves in shall certainly not be disappointed.’ —pinkheartsocietyreviews.blogspot.com on The Billionaire’s Baby

      About the Author

      NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.

      Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.

       Also by Nicola Marsh

      Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex

      Three Times a Bridesmaid.

      A Trip with the Tycoon

      Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss

       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Sex, Gossip and Rock & Roll

      Nicola Marsh

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This one’s for the lovely Natalie Anderson,

      who was my rock throughout the writing of this book.

      Thanks, Nat, for the cyber chats, hugs

      and general championing.

      We’ll catch up for that coffee one day, promise!

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHARLI loathed babysitting.

      Not that she had anything against kids, per se, but having her boss’s grandson tag along on Storm Varth’s comeback tour sucked.

      Big-time.

      As if minding the wild rock star wasn’t bad enough, she had to worry about Luca Petrelli watching her every move.

      Not good.

      Stabbing at the elevator button, she glanced around the lobby of Melbourne’s Crown Towers, the familiar muted golds and warm browns exuding class and sophistication.

      She practically lived in this hotel with the number of international musos and rock stars that stayed here. And where Landry Records stars stayed, she’d be there, catering to their every whim.

      It was what she did best: pamper visiting rock royalty, arrange VIP services, guarantee every second of every itinerary ran like clockwork.

      She thrived on it; the buzz, the rush, the pressure of ensuring the plans she put into place ran smoothly.

      Nothing fazed her. Not any more.

      Stepping into the elevator, she glanced at her watch and grimaced. Luca Petrelli had better be ready and waiting when she knocked on his door, or else.

      She’d co-ordinated their departure and arrival time between here and Ballarat to the last second. Storm’s tour bus had just taken off and while the surly rock star had demanded he not be approached until morning, she wanted to ensure his arrival at the first stop of his tour of Victoria went off without a hitch.

      She had things to do and no one, not even some notorious slack-arse playboy, would slow her down.

      As the elevator doors soundlessly slid open, she smoothed down her favourite aubergine skirt, adjusted her jacket and stepped out, a quick glance at the numbers on the wall sending her right.

      She marched up the long corridor, her impatience growing with every step.

      She’d do anything for Hector Landry, CEO of Australia’s biggest recording label, but when her boss and mentor had sprung the surprise of Luca’s unwelcome presence on her a few hours ago, she’d almost balked.

      Okay, so she’d been a little harsh in labelling his presence babysitting some idle playboy. Apparently the infamous Luca Petrelli had dragged himself away from the French Riviera and the parties in Rio de Janeiro as a favour to Hector, who’d just fired his top financier and needed a quickie replacement on this tour.

      Enter one recalcitrant playboy who flaunted his charms from one end of the globe to another. The fact he used his public profile to raise money for charities only served to raise her suspicions.

      If the guy hadn’t been near his grandfather in the past ten years, what the hell was he doing here now?

      She stopped outside the suite and knocked, quickly relaxing her face into neutral. This was a job, just like any other she’d done for Hector and she had no right to second-guess her boss or the rationale behind his flaky grandson’s visit.

      However, as the door swung open and she caught her first glimpse of Luca Petrelli, she knew this was no ordinary job.

      ‘You look disappointed,’ he drawled, holding the door open with one hand, leaning against the jamb with the other, naked from the waist up.

      She didn’t dare glance down to assess the rest of the situation, though as a jumble of emotions tumbled through Charli disappointment wasn’t one of them.

      She’d seen pictures of Luca in magazines, taking time to politely glance at the odd snapshot Hector would point out to her. The pride in Hector’s voice had always grated. How could he be proud of a layabout grandson who never visited let alone acknowledged he existed?

      So while she’d glanced at those pictures she’d never really looked at them, had the impression of a tallish guy with too-long hair, too much stubble and too many bimbos.

      The reality was far different.

      He’d cut his hair, dark caramel curls spiking in all directions, he’d shaved and there wasn’t a busty Botoxed blonde in sight.

      ‘Disappointed?’ she managed to mutter when he cocked an eyebrow, her silence and none-too-subtle stares earning her a lazy grin. A lazy, sexy grin that made her whimper inside.

      Hell.

      ‘That I’m not a rock star.’

      ‘No chance of confusing you for a rock star.’

      Her gaze reluctantly dropped to his chest and she struggled not to gasp. Broad, bronze, beautifully sculpted, the guy was nothing like the emaciated, pale stars she routinely dealt with.

      The rock stars she managed were nocturnal creatures, at ease in the darkness of smoky clubs and dark stages, chain-smoking to ease nerves, or worse.

      No