Star-Crossed Scandal. Kimberley Troutte

It had a rich, pure tone, with a slight emotional crack in it—fragility mixed with strength. Leather and lace.

      “As the man said.” Nicolas grinned. “I am in your hands.”

      “I’ll do my best to handle your, uh...” A pretty pink blush traveled up her neck. She cleared her throat. “...needs.”

      He looked forward to seeing what her best was.

      She led him down the hallway, her stride matching his. “I like the concept of your show, Nicky—excuse me—Mr. Medeiros.”

      “Nicolas. I do, too. I support singer-songwriters and am looking for talent that is different, unique.”

      “Brilliant,” she sighed. “Helping young artists is exactly what I thought you’d do when you got old.” She covered her mouth. Her pretty eyes were wide. “I mean, you’re not old now, just, you know, mature. Handsome.”

      “Thanks.” She was a tongue-tied and adorable fan. He was used to woman falling over themselves around him, but he wanted Chloe to relax and treat him like a regular guy. He smiled. “People gave me a hand when I got started. I work hard to give back to the industry.”

      They passed a grand hall. Soft music played in the background. When they walked under one of the largest chandeliers he’d ever seen, the fractured light cast dancing stars across the tiled floors. Enchanting, yet hard to compare to the brilliance in Chloe’s blue eyes. She led the way up a winding stairway, her beaded sandals snapping with each step. He noticed her toenail polish. Purple. His favorite color. His gaze traveled from those beautiful feet up to her toned legs.

      Santa Mãe, she had a great figure. He wouldn’t mind spending time with this beauty, nothing serious, of course, just short-term, hot sex.

      “You’ve such a lyrical gift for storytelling. Those contestants are lucky to have an amazing songwriter like you to mentor them,” she said.

      He used to have the gift, but the muse had left him without any good stories to tell. Now he made money, not poetry. He was okay with that, and if he sometimes missed songwriting, he just reminded himself of how far he’d come. His success was worth the price of any small dissatisfactions. He would never go hungry again. But why tell her all that?

      Instead he said, “Thank you.”

      Did she know how he’d been discovered? Most of the tabloids had reported some version of the truth. None knew all the nightmarish details about why he’d spent every moment from age ten to this day supporting his mother and four sisters. Singing was the only thing he had been able to do to repay his bottomless debt. Every penny he’d made went to his family. Until he’d had more than any of them would ever need.

      And yet somehow it never felt like enough.

      Still his mãe loved it when he sang and he loved to make her smile. “Your songs are made of stardust, Nicky,” his mother had said as her tiny cracked fingers hand-washed clothes for other families. “A blessing from the saints!”

      An American music manager had seen him perform for tourists on Ipanema Beach and promised to make him a star. He’d been sixteen then, full of drive and blind trust. He’d allowed the manager to record him, and the first song hit all the charts. Nicky M was a sudden sensation. He flew to California on the back of that one song, trusting that riches were right around the corner. He’d planned to buy his family a home and get them out of the slums. Mãe wouldn’t have to work so hard and his sisters could focus on school.

      It was a poor-boy success story. The tabloids loved it.

      But they hadn’t printed the whole truth. How could they? Some secrets were too shameful to tell.

      The manager he’d trusted siphoned money from Nicolas’s bank accounts until there had been nothing left. Only months after leaving home, he’d been sixteen, scared and alone in a country where he barely spoke the language. There was no money to send home. He didn’t have enough funds for an airline ticket. His mother and young sisters had been forced to find extra jobs cleaning rich people’s homes to survive. They all went hungry.

      The experience had hardened him.

      It was the first of many painful disappointments. The industry battered him and taught him the most important lessons of his life: people lie, steal and use one another to get what they want.

      It had taken cunning, luck and persistence to move from a pop star to the music producer who called the shots.

      Nicolas trusted no one but himself. He worked his ass off to stay at the top. In those early years, lyrics had swelled up from deep within him, and music pulsed through his bloodstream. He had the natural ability to create eternal truths that people loved to listen to. He didn’t have to work at writing music. It just happened, like breathing. The press had called him “the greatest Latin songwriter of our time.”

      But songwriting had become music production, the business, and star-making. He’d exchanged lyrics for the constant buzz of his phone, the high of making millions on others’ stories.

      And then...the music stopped.

      The stardust had blown away, and the silence was like a death. He didn’t have time to grieve the loss. Instead he spent every waking moment looking for the next star. He’d found fame, money, women—a lifestyle most people could only imagine.

      There was no joy in it. But he told himself joy didn’t make millions.

      “Mr. Medeiros, we’re going to be together a lot this week...” He wanted to imagine the breathiness in her voice wasn’t solely from walking up the stairs. “I feel, um, I should tell you something.”

      He leaned closer. “Chloe has a secret?”

      Her blue eyes shimmered. “I had a tiny crush on you when I was a girl.”

      Every now and then his past came in handy, especially when a beautiful woman seemed to appreciate his talent. Or, at least, the talent he used to have. Maybe this sexy blonde with the long braid and “kiss me” lips still remembered who he used to be.

      They were on the landing on the top floor.

      He pressed his hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Only tiny? Not a man-size crush?”

      “Honestly, it was more than tiny.” She chuckled. He loved the richness of the sound. “I named my iguana after you. Little Nicky M.”

      He cocked his eyebrow. “Was he a handsome lizard?”

      “Very. A red iguana with pretty eyes. Almost as amazing as yours.”

      Perhaps she would be his beautiful distraction for a few days. He needed a break and sleeping with a sexy fan would help him feel like himself, not the high-powered producer, for a while.

      “We are going to get along fine, Chloe. Remind me to thank RW.” It was a stroke of genius to send Chloe his way. But if Harper thought a sexy woman would drive Nicolas wild enough to instantly sign a contract, the man was wrong.

      Nicolas could be as ruthless as RW when it came to the music business.

      “Oh, no. My father can’t know!”

      Father? “You are a Harper, too?”

      “Yes. I thought you knew. Didn’t I say so? Sorry. I got a little excited when we met.” She bit her lip. “Way too excited. Even now I’m having trouble—” she fanned herself “—getting my words out. Which is exactly why my father might not want me to work with you. If he knew about my huge...” Her gaze dipped toward Nicolas’s crotch and bounced back up to his eyes again. Her cheeks flushed. “Uh, infatuation. When I was younger.”

      He spoke, his words low. “It will be our secret, then.”

      “I’ll be completely professional with you—I promise.” She crossed her heart, which had the effect of drawing his gaze to her chest.

      “Que