Sing Your Pleasure
A.C. Arthur

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

ARTIST C. ARTHUR was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland, where she currently resides with her husband and three children. An active imagination and a love for reading encouraged her to begin writing in high school and she hasn’t stopped since.

Determined to bring a new edge to romance, she continues to develop intriguing plots, racy characters and fresh dialogue—thus keeping readers on their toes! Visit her Web site at www.acarthur.net.

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Books by A.C. Arthur

Kimani Romance

Love Me Like No Other

A Cinderella Affair

Guarding His Body

Second Chance, Baby

Defying Desire

Full House Seduction

Summer Heat

Sing Your Pleasure

To Julian Hawkins—

for having the strength to just be you.

Dear Reader,

I fell in love with the title of this book from the very start. So in writing this story I knew that Charlene and Akil’s love for music would set the stage for the love that would ultimately save them both. I listened to so many CDs while writing this: Trey Songz’s Ready and Alicia Keys’ The Element of Freedom were both at the top of the list. I think I wore out both CDs, lol.

But each disc seemed to capture the exact mood for this story—from Akil’s volatile sexuality to Charlene’s endurance and positivity. These were two people who really belonged together, whether or not they knew it or wanted to accept it. I am so glad I had the opportunity to share this story with you and hope you fall in love with Akil and Charlene, and, of course, the music.

Happy reading,

Chapter One

Moving from her closet to the bed where her suitcase was opened wide, Charlene Quinn sang the lyrics to “Finally” while folding and carefully packing clothes for her trip to Miami. The song was an oldie but goodie in her mind. The classic single by CeCe Peniston, released in 1991, hitting the number-one spot on music’s Billboard charts, was a great dance tune that didn’t quite give CeCe the credit her vocal abilities deserved.

Charlene couldn’t stop playing the song. She had been since receiving the phone call two days ago from her agent, Sofia Wellesley of Limelight Entertainment. And while CeCe was actually singing about finally finding Mr. Right and falling in love, Charlene’s rendition of the lyrics was something else entirely.

She definitely wasn’t looking for love. Granted, she wasn’t running from it either, like some people she knew, but it wasn’t high up on her list of priorities. For Charlene, working as a vocal coach at the local community college was both challenging and rewarding because everybody who thought they could sing couldn’t.

Her parents hadn’t seemed thrilled with her career choice. They wanted her to be more like her older sister. Candis Quinn’s illustrious career began with her debut as a Dainty Diaper Baby at the tender age of one. From that moment on, Candis had been in front of a camera, gracing the pages of magazines and then finally graduating to commercials in her high school years. Candis was three years Charlene’s senior, and it was expected that Charlene would follow in Candis’s footsteps.

It was usually around age three to four that most babies dropped the baby fat due to their increased mobility. Charlene’s stuck like old gum to a shoe sole. While there were some ads that especially requested plump child models, the ones that wanted the cute, perfect look clearly outnumbered them. So Candis was the child star of the family.

Her father, Randall Quinn, had been the executive producer of over twenty hit sitcoms in the last thirty years. That made him the adult star of the family. Her mother, Marjorie, was the perfect wife, mother and overall female in Charlene’s life. She supported her husband, went to all the photo shoots and commercial callbacks with Candis and tried her damnedest to make Charlene into something she just couldn’t possibly be.

Marjorie had finally had enough of Charlene’s diet failures when she turned sixteen. She took her daughter to a doctor, who quickly diagnosed Charlene with hypothyroidism, a condition described as a lack of functioning thyroid tissue and thyroid hormone. Early symptoms of this condition included fatigue, weight gain and water retention, all things that had plagued Charlene since she was a little girl. The strange thing was that this condition usually hit women during the first year after they’d given birth. Charlene’s was a unique case, the doctor had said.

His diagnosis hadn’t changed the stigma of growing up in Beverly Hills among models and actresses and a sister who was a goddess at five feet nine inches, boasting a teeny-tiny waist and sizable breasts. Even now, holding her own bit of height at five feet five and a half inches with a buttery complexion and slightly slanted brown eyes, Charlene felt a little uneasy about her looks. She was better than she had been but still the memory of being constantly ridiculed in school stuck with her. That’s where her best friend Rachel had entered the picture.

Only three weeks ago Rachel Wellesley, the younger sister of Charlene’s agent, Sofia, had been dealt a heavy blow. One of the things both she and Charlene feared had happened—Rachel had found herself in the limelight of the tabloids. Charlene met Rachel when they were both in the third grade attending the Beverly Vista School. It was there in the cafeteria, over a carton of warm chocolate milk and sticky, tasteless mac ’n’ cheese, that a true friendship had been forged.

Like Charlene, Rachel came from a famous family—the Wellesleys, known for their budding new agency Limelight Entertainment. That, coupled with living in Beverly Hills, California, put the two girls in a position they dreaded. Paparazzi and reporters were always abuzz either around their homes or the school yard. Everybody wanted a glance into their personal lives, or at the time, the personal lives of their famous families. It was sickening and both girls swore they’d keep a low profile in their adult lives, which for Charlene wasn’t going to be a problem since she didn’t fit the profile of your average Beverly Hills female.

But the night she’d dragged Rachel to the karaoke bar in an effort to cheer her best friend up, Charlene’s plans had changed.

“Why don’t you sing something?” Rachel had said after the man with the beer belly and nappy-looking beard had shuffled off the stage. He’d attempted to sing “Flying Without Wings” by Ruben Studdard, but his rendition had been more than bad. Horrendous probably said it best.

“Oh, no,” Charlene had answered quickly, taking a sip of her water with lemon slices. “You’re the one on hiatus, you get up there. It’ll do you good to get the whole situation with Ethan and the show off your mind.”

Rachel was already shaking her head. “Now you know I can’t hold a tune any better than I can hold hot coals in my hand. And the last thing I want to do is give the press any more ammunition against me.”

Feeling the wave of sadness emanating from her friend made Charlene frown. She hated seeing the normally vibrant and cheerful Rachel this way. Reaching a hand across the table, she covered Rachel’s. “It’ll die down. You know those vultures find new targets every fifteen minutes. Besides, Ethan’s love life is really old news.”

Shrugging, Rachel tried for a smile. Unfortunately, the act was dismal and the smile never reached her eyes. “C’mon, Rach, I’m trying to cheer you up here. If you keep looking like that I’m going to get a complex. Being stuck with me can’t really be that bad.”

“You know what would really cheer me up?”

Rachel asked, this time her smile seeming a bit more enthusiastic.

Feeling the twinges of dread, Charlene responded, “What?”

“If you’d get up there and sing.”

Her lips had been about to form the answer “no.” Of all people in the world, Rachel knew how much Charlene loved to sing. She also knew all the insecurities Charlene kept from everybody else.

It was no secret that Charlene’s passion was singing. She’d been singing any and every song she heard since she was four years old. It had been the only thing she was good at that Candis couldn’t do. The best part about it was that Charlene could really sing. But once she had graduated from high school and went on to study music at The Herb Alpert School of Music at CalArts, furthering her musical knowledge, Charlene’s focus had turned to training other people with musical talent.

But tonight wasn’t about her, it was about the friend who’d been there for her through all her trials and tribulations. After all, that’s what friends were for.

“If I do this, you’d better smile for the rest of the night. No more sulking, no more regretting, nothing. Deal?”

Rachel, knowing she’d won this not-so-small battle, smiled happily, turning her hand over to grip Charlene’s. “I promise. C’mon, let’s look through the catalog to see what songs they have.”

Before Charlene could say another word, they were facing the computerized jukebox, pressing buttons that allowed the display of songs to change quickly. After about four screen changes, Rachel pointed to a song and proclaimed, “That one.”

Reading the selection, Charlene couldn’t help but smile. It had been one of her favorite songs in high school.

So without further hesitation she’d selected the song and headed up to the stage while Rachel hurried back to her seat. It was Friday night, a little after ten, and the bar was just starting to pick up more customers. Karaoke night was huge here and the hot wings and beer weren’t bad either. So as she adjusted the microphone to fit her height—the man with the huge belly had been taller by a few inches—she experienced a slight case of the butterflies after noticing the amount of people sitting at tables waiting for her performance.

Crowds bothered Charlene only to the extent that she didn’t like people staring at her. As for performing, once she began singing she was often so lost in the music and the lyrics that all else ceased to exist. So her fingers trembled slightly when she lifted her enclosed fist to cover her mouth, clearing her throat.

Applause had already begun from a few of the customers sitting right up front.

“Sing, baby! Sing!” A partially inebriated man with a cigarette stuck to his lower lip yelled. How did he keep that thing on his lip? she wondered absently. Then she nodded to the older lady operating the karaoke machine.

She didn’t need the words that appeared on the prompter, she knew the song by heart. The already dim room grew just a tad darker until there was only a spotlight on her. She couldn’t see the faces of the people in the audience but could make out the outline of their heads. The first chords of music started and she felt that familiar stirring inside.

It began in the pit of her stomach, swirling around until warmth filled her entire body. That’s what happened when she sang, her entire soul was filled.

Then right on cue, with her eyes staring out into the darkness, she began to sing the lyrics to Mariah Carey’s “Hero.”

“There’s a hero, if you look inside your heart. You don’t have to be afraid of what you are.” This had been her theme song all throughout high school. Of course it had been out for a while by that time, but it didn’t matter. She loved the lyrics, loved what they meant and how empowered they made her feel.

Loved them so much that they were all she could focus on while singing and she didn’t see the tall, slender man watching her from a table in the far corner of the room.

Ten minutes and a roomful of applause later, Charlene had stepped down from the stage, only to be stopped just as she approached the table where Rachel was still clapping gleefully.

“Jason Burton from Playascape Records. And you are?”

For a second she’d only stared at him, not even acknowledging the business card he held out to her with one hand or his charming smile. Had he said he was from a record company?

Then Rachel was by her side. “She’s Charlene Quinn and I’m Rachel Wellesley from Limelight Entertainment Agency. How can we help you, Mr. Burton?”

The conversation had gone on from that moment but Charlene was so flabbergasted at the actual thought of this man thinking she’d sounded good enough to record that she barely remembered it all.

The next day Charlene and Sofia were in downtown Los Angeles riding the elevator to the executive offices of Sahari Davenport, CEO of Empire Music, the music conglomerate that distributed Playascape Records. Charlene had officially been signed as a Limelight client and with Sofia’s smooth expertise had left that office two hours later with her first record deal.

And now, as if she hadn’t been on a fast enough roller coaster of emotions, she was heading out to Miami to work with superproducer Akil Hutton, the man who was going to make all her secret dreams come true.

Something was wrong.

It just couldn’t be, Akil Hutton thought for the millionth time since he’d received the package from Jason early yesterday morning.

“She’s gonna be the next Whitney Houston, Ace. I’m tellin’ you, wait till you meet her.”

Jason had called him Ace since their early days interning at Empire. Over the last ten years he and Jason had worked their butts off to build this company into the hip-hop and R&B powerhouse it was today. They’d both started out as interns for Empire Music, knowing that one day they wanted a piece of that pie for themselves. Since Jason was a people person with a distinct ear for what was hot and what was not, he’d been a shoo-in for the A&R spot, “Artists and Repertoire” was like his middle name.

And since Akil had been more of a beats-and-lyrics man himself, he’d taken his seat in the studio, working alongside the engineers and the artists to get the perfect sound for each recording.

Nineteen number-one hits, seven platinum CDs, three gold, five Grammy Awards ranging from R&B Single to Producer of the Year and millions of dollars later, Akil and Jason were still hanging tight. Akil could say that Jason was the closest thing to a friend he had in this world.

And that was a sorry shame.

But back to this latest dilemma.

In one hand Akil held a picture, an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven glossy print of a pretty woman, with butter-toned skin and root-beer brown eyes. Her smile was fun, touching the soft dimples in each cheek and the edges of her eyes. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face in some sort of updo that didn’t really flatter her other features. But that was the least of his worries.

Although her face had captured him, sent a little tinge to his chest, the rest of her made him pause. She wasn’t a rail-thin woman—after being in the business for years he knew this was the look, slim and trim, almost emaciated—on the contrary; she was full-figured with more curves than the law should possibly allow. Her clothes, however, left a lot to be desired. She wore slacks, nice enough, in a navy blue color and a button-down blouse, high heels and light makeup. An outfit that didn’t scream “sexy” and barely whispered “diva.”

It yelled “average, nondescript, forgettable” from the business standpoint. On the personal, well, he didn’t even want to think about that.

All those words were deadly in his line of work.

Then he closed his eyes, shut out the visual and simply listened to the voice bellowing from the speakers in his home studio just outside of Miami.

The throaty, rich sound of a mezzo-soprano voice filtered throughout the room. He’d listened to this demo CD more than a dozen times in twenty-four hours, had become addicted to the smooth, melodious notes. There was no doubt she had a voice, a good strong one at that, just right for singing R&B ballads and dance tunes. Ten minutes into the first listen he’d known Jason had picked a winning voice.

As for the rest, the whole package, which was what he was responsible for, that was going to be a problem.

She just didn’t fit the bill. This Charlene Quinn did not look like a “diva.” Hell, she didn’t even look like a nightclub singer. She looked like what she was, a voice instructor at the local college. Now he did have a little more information on her, she was the daughter of a television-and-movie producer and best friends with one of the owners of Limelight Entertainment Agency. That told him two things. One, she was rich and privileged and probably thought the world was supposed to treat her exactly that way. And two, she had high connections. Limelight was a contender in the business, representing a lot of the heavy hitters in the movie as well as music industries. Still, Akil focused on the talent; connections and money meant nothing to him if his artist had no talent to work with.

On the demo she’d recorded three tracks. The first was an old Tina Turner hit, “Shake a Tail Feather,” that had him bopping his head and feeling the emotional energy that up until now, only Tina had been able to infuse into her songs. The next was the song Jason heard her sing in the karaoke bar, “Hero” by Mariah Carey. Again, a tune that is probably not advised to be tried by another vocalist, but Charlene had done it amazingly well. Her vocal range was outstanding as she hit the higher notes just as easily as she rocked the lower ones.

The last tune was an unknown, the beat was slow, jazzlike, and the lyrics were sultry. More suited to the Billie Holiday and Lena Horne types. Charlene had begun with a slow steady intro that immediately caught his attention. “The first time we made love,” were the lyrics and from the way she belted them out you’d think she was experiencing her first time all over again. From the verse to the chorus to the bridge, which could have been instrumentally arranged better, to the killer climax of the ballad, Akil had been transfixed, pulled into the very heart of the song and the soul of the singer.

The contradiction between her look and her sound was astounding.

Akil was a music producer and as such he was responsible for all stages of the audio development, working with the artist, studio musicians, engineers and related staff. That’s what his generic duties were. But Akil hadn’t risen to the spot of being one of the most sought-after producers of the decade by being generic. When he took on a new artist, he took on every aspect, from the audio to the performance to the overall image that was presented to the public. His goal was to give the listeners what they wanted, to produce the best music, to give the best images. That’s what made him unique in this business, it’s what made him better than most of the rest. He was known as a perfectionist, a slave driver, some had said. But in the end it was all for the best; ninety-five percent of his songs debuted in the top five on Billboard. Eleven of the twelve entertainers he’d been responsible for introducing to the world were top charters and now multimillionaires sought after for performances on the Grammys, the BET Awards, the MTV Awards and so on. The twelfth didn’t fall into that category only because Nichelle Dante had decided after her first R&B album that she wanted to sing gospel instead. Akil had hooked her up with a great producer at Footprints Gospel Records and she was now topping the charts there.

He had an impressive record, a great reputation and money in the bank to back it up. That all started with a confidence and heartfelt belief in his artist.

Looking down into the smiling face on the picture once more, he shook his head, not sure he felt that way about Charlene Quinn.

Chapter Two

Some men went for breasts, others big booties. Akil was a thigh man, through and through. So it was no wonder that when Charlene Quinn walked into his studio, where he was seated at the mixing console, and he’d turned around in the swivel chair and was face-to-thigh with her, his pulse quickened.

He’d seen her before, her photo and in person the day they’d met at the offices of Empire Music. So he wasn’t totally shocked at how pretty she actually was up close. Still, the effect of those voluptuous thighs wrapped so succulently in soft denim slacks made the rise to his feet a little slower than he’d anticipated.

A smile a mile long—no kidding, she had a beautiful, wide smile that made her eyes twinkle slightly, if one was looking at such things. Anyway, she smiled when he extended his hand and he felt the frown before he knew better to stop it.

“Ms. Quinn, I’m glad you made it safely,” he said. Shaking hands was customary in business. Feeling tugs of something indescribable when his flesh touched hers was not. So he pulled away quickly and acted as if the mixing console needed more of his attention than she did.

“Ah, yes, I did get here safely. The private jet you sent helped a lot.”

Her voice was deeper than he remembered, throatier, kind of like when she sang. And whatever fragrance she was wearing was playing with his senses. Luckily Akil was a big boy, he knew how to handle his urges. He also knew that urges in the direction of one of his artists was a no-no. Besides, this was Charlene Quinn, the woman who was supposed to be Playascape’s next diva. He would have his hands full with this transformation without adding the sticky strings of sex to the mix.

“So, I’ve got a few songs from a great writer I’ve worked with before. I’d like you to read over them tonight, get a feel for the flow, then we’ll get started first thing tomorrow morning.”

He was sitting again, not really looking at her but knowing she was there.

“I thought we were having dinner tonight,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I mean, Jason said I’d meet the team tonight at dinner. Doesn’t that include you?”

Akil nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there. But I don’t want you getting it confused with a night on the town in Miami. We’re here to work. I brought you out here because I can focus better in my own space. And for this CD we have a lot to focus on.”

She didn’t like the way he’d said that.

As a matter of fact, Charlene hadn’t liked a thing about Mr. Akil Hutton since the first time she’d met him. Could anybody be as rude and arrogant as him? Probably, but she hadn’t met them yet—which was saying a lot considering her background in L.A. She was finding it hard to swallow these traits from Akil.

She should have expected it, though, she’d told herself repeatedly. He was one of the most sought-after producers on the scene today. She’d been shocked when Jason told her that’s who she’d be working with. Truth be told, this entire situation was still a shock to her.

While she’d always loved to sing, Charlene had never really considered a career in music. Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly true. Else why would she have had a demo CD all ready when Jason asked for one? The recording had taken place more than a year ago when one of her students had written a song and asked her to sing it. When she did he’d offered to record the demo for her. But Charlene had taken those CDs and stuffed them in her dresser drawer, realizing that she’d never have the guts to send them to anyone. As much as she portrayed a strong black woman, with confidence and intelligence, Charlene knew her limitations, her weaknesses, and the main one was her appearance.

She’d never been skinny like Candis, or even petite and curvy like Rachel. That wasn’t who God had meant for her to be, she accepted that. Still, some days she actually did plead with the man upstairs to just reduce her waistline by about five inches, shave off some of her thighs so she could fit in a size fourteen without busting the inner seams. As it stood, today, taking her daily supplements of Levoxyl to help increase the levels of thyroid hormones her body produced, she wore a size sixteen comfortably. And barring any flare-ups she held steady at that size.

So she hadn’t pursued a singing career, hadn’t wanted people staring and gawking at her, possibly talking about her. Teaching was an ideal job because she got the chance to do what she loved and still keep a low profile. However, Rachel and Sofia had convinced her that this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up, and a small part of her knew they were right. With all her reservations, Charlene knew the smart decision was to at least give it a try. Not every singer received this chance: she’d be awfully ungrateful if she turned it down.

And now here she was, in Miami, standing in the home studio of the famous Akil Hutton wanting nothing more than to either walk out on his rude behind or sink into the floor where he couldn’t notice her—both options held equal appeal at the moment.

Instead, she steeled herself, took a deep breath and pressed on. “We didn’t get a chance to talk a lot about the project in L.A. I’m wondering what type of CD you have in mind.”

Akil didn’t even look up at her as he flicked his hand in her direction and said impatiently, “We’ll get to that later. Just take the songs with you, have Nannette show you to your room and get changed for dinner.”

She’d been dismissed, she was absolutely certain of that fact, and yet she still stood there. Just looking at him.

He wasn’t bad on the eyes, that was also a fact. Smooth tree bark–toned skin, close-cut dark hair and clean-shaven face. He wore slacks and a long-sleeved shirt that melded around taut bicep muscles and, from what she could see, a trim stomach. His hands, she noticed as he continued to work the controls on the board, were medium-size, with long fingers, like a piano player’s. He wore a gold watch but other than that no jewelry, which was outside the norm since most producers were just as jeweled-down as their artists these days.

“Is there something else?” he asked, yanking her out of her “he’s damned good-looking” reverie.

“No,” she said in a clipped tone. “There’s nothing else. See you at dinner.”

And with that she did finally turn, thanking her feet for getting the message, and stalked out of the room.

If this was any indication of how their time working together was going to be, Charlene feared this CD would never see the light of day.

The house was gorgeous, there was absolutely no doubt about that. On the ride in the limo from the airport Charlene had already assumed it would be. They’d only driven on the highway for about forty-five minutes before turning off on a road that seemed to be paved right through a forest. The stately mansion was all white with black bases around each window and a brick-colored shingled roof. It sat nestled between a scenic backdrop of even more trees. It was big and palatial, definitely a home for the enigmatic Akil Hutton.

Nervousness had swamped her as she’d stepped out of the car. The chauffeur, who’d told her at the airport his name was Cliff, had moved quickly to the trunk, unloading the two suitcases she’d brought along with her.

Now, two hours later, in the room Nannette—the pretty Latina housekeeper—had directed her to, she was standing at the window wondering what on earth she was doing. This room faced the back of the house so she had a view of the tennis courts and the corner of the pool where river rocks were piled into a small fountain.

She wasn’t overwhelmed by the space. Her family home in L.A. was just about the size of this one and the homes of some of the people her family had associated with were even bigger. So it wasn’t her surroundings that made her nervous. She attributed that to the man who could make or break her newfound singing career with the snap of a finger.

The low chime of her cell phone disturbed her thoughts and she moved from the window, where she’d probably been standing too long anyway, to get her purse.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Char, thanks for calling to let me know you got to Miami safely.”

Sitting on the bed, Charlene used one hand to smooth down the smoke-gray skirt she planned on wearing to dinner while holding the phone in the other. “Hi, Candis. Sorry, I was sort of caught up the minute I got here.”

“Really?” her older sister, with the sense of humor that skipped Charlene upon her birth, chuckled. “Caught up in what? In the arms of that fine ass Akil Hutton? I still can’t believe he’s going to produce your CD. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

Charlene didn’t even need to close her eyes to see his face again. With a little moan she said, “Girl, please. Akil Hutton isn’t concerned about anything but work. Which is just fine with me because I’d just as soon get this over with.”

“Get it over with? You don’t sound like you’re too happy about this opportunity. Which is plain crazy since you’ve been singing since Mama had you.”

“I know, but I was happy teaching.”

“No. You’re happy singing.”

Charlene really couldn’t argue with that statement.

“But I was okay just doing it in the classroom. I don’t know about performing in front of people, Candis. What will they think of me? What if they don’t like my music?”

“And what if the world were struck by a nuclear bomb tomorrow? What if after I flew all the way to Paris for a photo shoot I woke up the next day with a zit the size of Texas on my forehead? What if? What if?” She sighed. “Char, you can’t live your life wondering ‘what if.’ You’ve got a God-given gift, it’s only right that you use it and share it with the world.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Just stop worrying for a minute and go with the flow. Obviously the record execs thought enough of you to sign you to a contract and hook you up with Akil. They don’t do that for just anybody.”

Charlene nodded: Candis was right. The thing was, it wasn’t only about talent. There were lots of talented singers out there; take the ones seen on that reality show American Idol. Many of the most talented singers on that show were kicked out before the final rounds. And one of the most consistent things the judges on that show—most of whom were record industry professionals in their own right—said was that it wasn’t just about the voice, it was about the total package. A package Charlene wasn’t so sure she had.

“I know they don’t. And I’m not ungrateful for the opportunity. I’m just not a hundred percent sure about it all.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not the one who has to be sure. The record execs think you’re good and want to put your CD out, Akil has to think you’re worth his time. So you just open your mouth and sing.”

Leave it to Candis to be candid and honest with her, almost to the point of hurting her feelings. But if there was one thing Charlene knew it was that her sister had her back. When the girls in the neighborhood—the skinny, pretty ones who came to the house to hang out with Candis—made fun of the chubby younger sister with fat, too-thick braids, Candis had rounded them all up and kicked them out. She was fiercely protective of Charlene, even though Charlene had spent most of her teenage years both envying and hating her older sister.

“You’re right,” she said finally, smiling because she knew on the other end of the phone Candis was probably doing the same. “I’ll just do what I know how to do and pray that what’s meant will be.”

“What’s meant is already happening,” Candis said. “Now you get to work. I’ve got me a hot date tonight that I need to go and get ready for.”

Her words reminded Charlene that Candis was on the other side of the world in Paris. “I’m sorry you’re up so late checking on me. I know how you enjoy your sleep.”

Candis chuckled. “You’ve got that right. But I had to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. Go ahead and get your beauty rest.”

“If you didn’t think to call me I know you haven’t called Mama or Daddy. Give them a call when you get a minute just so they won’t worry.”

“I’m not you. They won’t bother to worry.”

“That’s not true. You’re their daughter just the same.”

Not wanting to go into this years-old battle, Charlene cut it short. “Okay, I’ll call them when I get back from dinner. You go back to sleep.”

“All right. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you, too, big sis.”

Clicking off the phone, Charlene knew she did love her big sister. For all that seemed different between them they were connected by a sisterly bond. As for her parents, well, that was another story entirely. But, as promised, she would call them later. After all, she was the responsible and mature sister, the one always expected to do the right thing.

She only prayed the right thing was going to dinner with Akil and the rest of the team when what she really wanted to do was teach the superproducer a thing or two about basic hospitality.

Chapter Three

Shula’s Steak House wasn’t exactly what Charlene had envisioned for a dinner to meet the team that would work on her CD. Something a little fancier had been her thought. But this was just as well. The dark wood floors and contemporary dining room she’d been escorted to made her feel a lot more comfortable than a dimly lit place with candles and lots of clinking crystal would have.

Not that Shula’s was slacking any, no, not at all. Located in the Miami Lakes district it had topped the list on the Miami Herald’s Best of South Florida, easily defeating the trendy Prime 112 and Manny’s Steakhouse. All places Charlene had been to in her trips to Florida and a ranking she happened to agree with.

Another surprise to her was that Akil had driven his own car to the restaurant, arriving just a few minutes after her with a tall, slim lady by his side. His bodyguards, two tall, beefy men she’d seen at the house when she was leaving, walked in looking all around the room right behind him. While her reaction to the fact that there was a gorgeous woman with Akil shouldn’t have been mentionable, the momentary envy toward the woman for her small waist and long legs gave her a jolt. This wasn’t new, she reminded herself. The supermodel look was more than popular where she came from and even more so in the music industry. And this woman fit the bill.

She had to be close to six feet with Akil only surpassing her height by about three or four inches. The dress she wore—or more aptly the swatch of material that covered her small, pert breasts and hugged every other inch of her from her shoulders to the upper part of her thighs, was fire-engine red and whispered sex with every step she took. Her skin was fair and coupled with her long dark hair gave her an exotic look.

Self-consciously Charlene brushed her hand over much heavier breasts and down past her thicker waist and meatier thighs. Taking slow, deep breaths, she tried not to acknowledge how much of a cliché this woman really was. She was exactly the type you’d expect to see on the arms of an NBA or NFL player, a rapper or, yes, even a superproducer like Akil.

She was so absorbed in the couple walking toward the table in the private dining room she hadn’t even heard the door behind her open and close or the people who had obviously entered approach.

“Hi, Charlene. It’s great seeing you again.”

She turned at the touch of his hand on her shoulder and stared up happily into the smiling face of Jason Burton, the A&R rep who had first heard her sing in the karaoke bar.

“Hi, Jason. I’m glad to see you,” she said with more enthusiasm than she probably should have. But it was true, she was glad to see him. Glad and hopeful that he’d be a buffer between her and Akil and his arm candy.

“Ace, my man. You made it,” Jason said, standing and gripping Akil’s hand in a shake.

He hadn’t changed much from when she’d seen him earlier this afternoon. Well, his clothes were different. He now wore black pleated slacks and a matching jacket. The gray silk shirt that molded against his muscled chest and abs almost matched the color of her skirt. He looked cool and comfortable, yet still powerful and important. Something about the air around him, the ambience of control, made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

After the handshake Akil reached for his date, pushing her closer to the chair where Charlene sat as if to tell her to sit there so he didn’t have to. On the inside Charlene bristled but on the outside she found the strength to smile. “Good evening, Akil.”

“Charlene,” he said curtly, with a simple nod. “This is Serene Kravitz, head of Artist Development. Serene, meet Playascape’s newest R&B artist, Charlene Quinn.”

Reaching her hand up and shaking the other woman’s wasn’t as hard as Charlene thought it would be. Once she got over the fact that the other woman seemed to be drinking in the sight of her much like a lion would its next meal.

“Nice to meet you,” Charlene said with a polite smile.

“Likewise,” was Serene’s response before she dropped Charlene’s hand and walked around to the back of her, then to the front again. “Okay, I see what you mean, Akil. We do have our work cut out for us.”

What was she talking about? The calm that Charlene had fought to obtain was quickly slipping.

“Yeah,” Akil said, clearing his throat. “Let’s take our seats, then we can get started.”

Serene sat to one side of Charlene while Jason sat on the other. Akil sat directly across from her. They were in a private dining room so there was no one around them besides the waiters who had come out to fill their water glasses and set up buckets of ice with bottles of champagne sticking out of them.

“Where’s Five and Seth?” Jason asked.

Akil shook his head, picked up a napkin and sat it in his lap. “I told them we’d see them in the morning. We don’t want to overwhelm her tonight.”

“But I wanted Seth to see her and maybe get an idea of her range tonight.” Jason looked as perplexed as Charlene felt.

“Her voice is all right. I don’t think we have to work much in that area.”

Akil looked at her then, his dark eyes piercing as they found hers and held. Charlene wanted to squirm under his scrutiny, felt like slipping right out of that chair and running from that room. What was it about his glare, the intense edge to his looks, that stirred her?

“It’s the other that we need to work on right away.”

His words were like icicles scraping over her skin. “The other?” she asked before she could think of whether or not it was wise.

“Image and presentation, dear,” Serene said, extending a long, diamond-clad hand to pat Charlene’s. “That’s what I do. My job is to plan your career, spearhead promotion and publicity. I create the best image for Playascape’s artists and present them to the world long before the CD even hits the shelves, unlike other record labels that have downsized Artist Development to Product Development, which promotes artists heavily in the beginning of their career then stops abruptly. At Playascape we’re more interested in the long-term planning.”

So she wasn’t his woman. Charlene could breathe a sigh of relief on that one. This little aspect of the business that she’d explained was new to Charlene. While she knew the ins and outs of singing and a little about recording, the workings of the back end of the music industry wasn’t her forte. So Serene was like a publicist and stylist all rolled into one? Charlene had a feeling she wasn’t going to like her.

“We’re doing that now?” Jason asked.

“I think that’s the priority,” Akil responded tightly.

“The priority’s always been the music.”

“You know we work with the complete package at Playascape. And we don’t take any shortcuts.”

Suddenly she could see exactly what Akil meant. The “big picture” was her. Her appearance, to be specific. He didn’t seem worried about her voice because he’d already heard that, no doubt. What he was worried about was her look. Did she look like the singing stars hogging the charts these days? To that the answer was a resounding no.

Glancing down at her gray pencil skirt and white blouse, cinched at the waist with a thick black patent leather belt, she didn’t see Beyoncé’s tightly honed curves and blatant sex appeal. Lifting a hand to her thick hair lying on her shoulders in heavy curls didn’t bring to mind the short, sexy cuts of Rihanna or Keri Hilson. She just wasn’t in the same class as those acts. But she could sing. That was not a question.

“I see what he’s saying, Jason. We have to make sure every aspect of this CD is top-notch. Not just the vocals but everything that comes before and after the listener hears the music. Is that right, Akil?”

His gut clenched the moment he heard his name on her lips. She was looking right at him, one smoothly arched brow lifting over her hazel eyes.

He’d been trying to keep his composure. And to do that he found he needed to look at her directly as infrequently as possible. From her picture he’d thought she was pretty. Earlier today in the studio he’d felt a powerful thrust of lust at being so close to her voluptuous frame. Now, tonight, when he was supposed to be on his A game as her producer, he found it almost impossible to avoid the subtle hints of sexuality pouring from her.

Did she know what she was doing to him? Did she have any idea how the moment she’d touched her hand to her chest, smoothed down her clothes to her thighs, he’d wanted to clear the room of everybody but the two of them? When her fingers had grazed her hair he’d sighed inwardly, wondering how the soft strands would feel between his fingers. And her scent, it wafted through the air covering even the mouthwatering aroma of perfectly seasoned and cooked steaks throughout the restaurant.

No, he answered himself as he found the courage to look into her eyes once more. She didn’t know. Had no idea how she was turning him on. He’d know if she did because there’d be some semblance of triumph that she was getting to him. Akil had seen it a million times with groupies and other industry females. Charlene didn’t have that, the look of a hunter, he’d called it. And that angered him just a little more because that meant she didn’t easily fit into any mold.

“That’s correct. Listeners today are much more interested in the personal lives and the looks of an artist than they’ve ever been before. Twenty years ago the R&B reins were held by such heavy hitters as Whitney Houston and Anita Baker, where voices carried you to another plateau. Today’s listeners are much more materialistic. Everybody wants the bling, the high life, but most can only get it living vicariously through entertainers,” Akil affirmed.

“That’s why Beyoncé’s bootylicious persona sells records,” Charlene added.

“And once we get you into shape, yours will, too,” Serene said with a smile. “I think I’ll have Carlo come down for a look-see, Akil. You know he can work wonders with anybody. She may have to go to the spa for a week or so. I’d like to introduce her to the public at the Vibe Awards in two months.”

“No!” Akil said so loudly Charlene jumped.

“Man, what’s up with you tonight?” Jason asked. “First you say appearance is priority now you’re axing Serene’s plan.”

He shook his head, unable to keep his thoughts straight. But he knew what Serene was saying, knew what she was thinking as far as Charlene went, and had to put a stop to it. Sure, he’d thought the same thing initially, but that was before Charlene had arrived in Miami. Before she’d stood close enough for him to smell her or looked so enticing he could imagine tasting her.

“That’s not what I have in mind,” he said finally, motioning for the waiter to come over and open the bottle of champagne. “I want her polished and ready to go at Vibe.” He took a sip of his bubbly and managed to look at Charlene again. He’d thought about her all afternoon but wasn’t entirely sure of this new direction until this very moment. “But I don’t want her dieting down to a size two. I think the best way to present her is to be different. To take R&B back to its roots.”

To his surprise, Charlene lifted her glass to the waiter, watched as the chilled liquid filled to the top then licked her lips before taking a sip. “You mean you’re going to let me sing like Tina Turner and Gladys Knight did and not worry about the highly commercialized packages gracing the airwaves today?”

Akil nodded, inwardly applauding her intelligence. He had a feeling that there was much more to Charlene Quinn then he’d originally thought.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Chapter Four

Music soothed his soul. Always had and Akil suspected always would.

Sitting back in the chair, pushing the springs as far as they would go, he folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He was in his Miami home, past the personal rooms to the back where his studio was located. In the background a slow beat played. The piano solo was coming up in a few minutes, after the tight strain of violin notes. It was a riveting beat, an emotional ballad that he’d composed but had yet to find the words to accompany.

Be better than me, Akil. Promise me you’ll be better.

The familiar words echoed in his mind. That’s where they lived now, twelve years later. They were a whisper on swollen and ashen lips, a plea from the one person he’d loved the most at the time.

He’d made the promise. And he’d kept it. He was better than her. His life, because of hers, had gone down a similar path with an entirely different mind-set, one that brought him fame and fortune, everything he’d ever wished for.

But also one that had cost him much.

It was times like these, times when it was quiet except for the music of his heart, that he thought of his past, of the life he had left behind.

Of the one person he’d wanted so desperately to help but who was completely unreachable to him.

“Akil.”

At the sound of his name he was jolted out of the past.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Charlene was saying, already backing out of the room.

“No,” he said, halting her instantly with the single word. “It’s okay. Stay.”

She’d changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt that brushed just above her knees. On her feet she wore slippers and on her face a look of confusion that scraped over his already tense nerves. How did she do that? How did she look so naive and so innocent one minute, then open her mouth to talk and sound older and much wiser than he could ever be the next?

“I went to the kitchen for some water and heard the music.”

“I’m sorry. I should have closed the outer doors to block out the sound. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She was shaking her head, the long hair she’d pulled up into a ponytail swaying behind her.

“You didn’t wake me. I can never sleep the first night I’m away from home.” She was shrugging the words off as if she were embarrassed by them. “This is nice. Did you write it?” she asked about the music.

He nodded.

“What’s it called?”

“Nothing right now. The music was in my head one day so I composed it. But I haven’t come up with the words or theme for it yet.”

It was her turn to nod as if she understood exactly what he was saying. “It’s kind of sad,” she commented.

Pushing the button, he looped the song, let the slow, heated beginning start.

“Kind of.”

They remained quiet, letting the music move around them.

“But kind of inspiring, encouraging.”

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. “She’s growing. Learning.”

“She?”

“I always call songs ‘she.’ Females have a lot more emotion, empathy, compassion, triumph, in their souls than men.”

She smiled. “You think so, huh? I guess I can relate to that.”

“Being a female, I figured you could.”

After a few more beats she said, “He’s giving her something.”

“Something that moves her to another level.”

“It moves them both. See right here,” she said, lifting a finger in the air just as the piano solo picked up the beat and drowned out the keyboard and percussions. “Right here is where it changes from just her song to their song. To their journey.”

For a moment he was quiet, letting her words and the music sink in. “You’re right,” he said finally, almost incredulously. “You have a good ear.”

“I studied instrumental composition in college.”

He sat back, let his eyes gaze at her once more. Each time he looked at her he could swear he saw something else. This time she looked vulnerable, yet capable. Weak only in that she was new to this scenery, but strong in that she was determined to make the best of her situation. He admired that.

And in that instant he feared her.

“You should get some rest. We’re starting early tomorrow and will probably work all day. Did you look at the songs I gave you?” Turning his attention back to the board, he cut off the music and began shutting down the rest of the power.

She hesitated and Akil almost turned to see if she was still there. But then she answered him in a voice just a tad smaller, a hint less enthusiastic than it had been a moment before.

“I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s session. You don’t have to worry, Akil. I teach my students how to sing and probably know just as much about vocals, if not more, than you do. So I won’t let you down.”

Before he had a chance to say that wasn’t what he meant, that he’d just wanted to make sure she was prepared, she was gone.

Cursing, Akil slammed his palms down on the mixing console, standing and pushing the chair away from him so hard it slammed into the wall a few feet away. “Dammit!” he cursed, then flicked the light off and left the studio himself.

Why did it always seem like he said the wrong thing to her?

Felix “Five Minute” Hernendez was one of the best sound technicians in the business. He’d also been known for the number-one hit he’d written for Lady X two years ago in about five minutes, hence his nickname.

Seth Dante was the sound engineer. Charlene knew because Jason had told her all about Seth and Five last night during dinner. Right about the time Serene had been giving Akil scathing looks because of the direction he wanted to take with her image. It was comforting to know now that Akil had plans to work her career around the real her.

There was a guitar player whom she hadn’t been introduced to yet but could see was already set up and touching the strings on his guitar in the soundproof isolation booth. She’d figured the music had already been digitally recorded by using a gobo panel to keep the sound from bleeding into the other microphones as she sang. But, of course, Akil knew what he was doing. She was sure he had as much control of each instrument channel at the mixing board as he planned to have of her and her voice.

This is it, Charlene told herself, standing in the doorway of the studio. She must have spent the better part of four or five hours reading over the songs Akil had given her, practically memorizing the musical arrangements, the high notes, the lows, the climax of each song. And she was ready, she knew she was ready.

With her bottled water in hand, she moved into the studio full of people, taking a deep breath before saying, “Good morning.”

All eyes immediately turned to her and a small nip of fear touched her. Stamping it down, she smiled even brighter and walked right between the huddled group of men.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jason said in his always playful voice. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. “Somebody call the police. It has got to be a crime for someone to be as beautiful as you are this early in the morning.”

Charlene chuckled. “One, eleven o’clock is not that early. And two, that was one weak-ass line.”

Jason laughed right along with her. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. C’mon, let’s get started.”

A tall guy with spiked raven-black hair and a touch of gold in front of his mouth reached out a bony arm toward her. He was dressed in jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and she couldn’t help but smile. “If I’d known we were showing our teams I would have worn my Raiders shirt,” she said.

His smile spread and she was thankful to see there was really only one gold tooth in his mouth and not a row full like some of the acts in the industry these days. Still, he looked young enough to be one of her students.

“You got jokes,” he said. “You’re on the East Coast now. You can’t come in here with that West Coast nonsense.”

“Whatever,” she said, letting him clasp her hand.

“I’m Five,” he introduced himself.

Charlene liked him instantly and knew they were going to work well together.

“And I’m Seth. And that’s T-Rock on the bass. He’s going to be in the booth with you because his sound is crisper in there.”

A shorter man with caramel-toned skin and green eyes stepped up to her then, pointing to the tall Caucasian guitarist she’d already noted in the isolation booth. She was about to take his offered hand when Akil interrupted.

“If you’re all finished gaping over her like you’ve never seen a female before, we can get started.”

His voice was like a blast of arctic air, chilling the room instantly and snapping her spine straight.

“Let’s start with ‘Never Before Like This.’” He continued to bark orders and she watched as Five took his place, moving into the control room with Akil.

Seth went to stand near the DAW, the digital audio workstation, which usually took the place of mixing consoles, recorders, synthesizers, samplers and sound-effects devices. She noted Akil still had a mixing console that he liked to control on his own. Seth was probably the backup he needed to complete the full sound. Meanwhile, Jason walked her over to the booth and attempted to help her with the headphones.

“She knows how to do it, Jase,” Akil snapped. “Come on, we’ve got a lot to get done.”

He was in his desired spot in the control room with what she could see was his game face on. He was all about business today. Whereas last night when she’d seen him in that very same position he’d looked, for just that short amount of time, human.

“I’ve got it, Jason. Thanks.” Picking up the headphones, she moved to the stand, dropped her music down onto it and took her place in front of the mic.

She liked this song a lot. Its tempo began slowly but then picked up with the verse. It was good old-fashioned R&B, just what she loved to sing. So if Mr. Superproducer was all about business this morning then she could be, too. She was going to sing this song and every other song he put in front of her like her very life depended on it. Because Akil Hutton was not going to beat her. Not here, not today.

“Never like this before. No, never like this. I never loved like this. Never kissed like this. Never felt like this before.”

This was the fifth time she’d sung this song, the fifth time he’d listened to her take the verse written on that song sheet apart only to put it back together in her own special way again.

Her voice rocketed through the air, tore through the speakers and rubbed along the contours of his heart. It was strong, practiced, professional. She hit every note and then hit it again even better the next time around. His palms had begun to sweat, his pulse quickening with the music.

They’d been at it for hours, stopped for about forty-five minutes for lunch, and went at it some more. She never faltered. He’d worked with a lot of artists in his time, had seen a lot of commercial acts. Females who could sing well enough in their church choir or in a talent contest and looked hotter than a house full of strippers. But they weren’t serious. He’d known it then, but he’d worked his magic, got enough recorded to make their CD one of the hottest out there. All the while knowing, deep down inside, they weren’t real singers. They didn’t have real talent. Sure, they were commercial and they were still selling lots of records, selling out concerts and making him and Playascape a boatload of money.

But at the end of the day, at night when he lay down to sleep, he felt like a sellout.

He wasn’t producing music anymore, he was making money. But now, listening to Charlene Quinn, he felt that old surge inside, that old feeling when he listened to such greats as Aretha and Ella, Gladys and Dionne. He felt like Charlene could be the one.

“Let’s do it again and tape it this time. Get it right and you’re done for the night. We can remix after you’re gone.”

He knew his tone was clipped, cold, distant. But that’s what it had to be. The way he needed it to stay. Or he’d lose more than just the chance to work with this new talent—he’d lose himself.

Chapter Five

“Okay, tell me what’s going on?” Jason asked Akil the moment they were alone in the sound booth. Seth and Five were working on remixing the track they’d just finished with Charlene in the live room and Serene had gone home for the day. Serene made some remark about getting Carlo here as soon as possible and Akil had made sure to correct her, just as he had last night.

“No dieting. I want what she’s already got spruced up, build her image from there. Got it?”

No, Serene didn’t get it and neither did he, that’s why Jason was questioning his partner and longtime friend now.

“What? We’re making this CD. What do you think is going on?”

“I think you’ve got something else on your mind than this music, something that might interfere with us getting this CD done.”

“C’mon, Jason. You know me better than that. Nothing interferes with my music.”

Jason folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Tell me what you have in mind for her.”

Akil didn’t answer as quickly as he normally would have. Another fact that concerned Jason.

“Like I said last night, I think we should go old-school with her. Back to the roots of R&B and steer clear of the commercial BS.”

Jason nodded. “The commercial BS is what’s made us rich over the last ten years.”

“I don’t deny that.”

“It’s built our reputation, made this label a number-one contender with anything Sony, Arista, Columbia or the rest of them have. We’re the hottest thing in the game right now. Why would you want to mess with that?”

Akil sighed, sat back in his chair and glared at Jason. “Because I’m tired of it. I’m tired of putting out average CDs and calling it music. Tired of the gimmicky groups and half-assed singers we reform and glamorize then slap a label on them and put them on the shelves. I want to make real music, to listen to the real sound of R&B again. Can you relate to that?”

Jason had to pause a moment at the words and the amount of money they stood to lose if this didn’t work. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack after years of fast-food burgers.” He ran a hand over his face. “I think Charlene’s got real talent, Jase. I think she has longevity to make it in this business. But I also think that Playascape needs something fresh, something different. I don’t want us to be typecast, putting out the same product year after year. I want us to grow.”

Jason nodded. “I see what you’re saying. And I hear you about Charlene, she’s not like the others we’ve worked with. But you know Empire’s got a lot of money invested in this. I don’t know that going against the grain right at this moment is financially feasible for us.”

“It is,” Akil said adamantly. “Empire’s been distributing us for years. They know we’re perfectionists and that we bring the money to the table when it counts. They trust us. The question is, do you trust me?”

It was a moment of truth, one of those times when friendship had to be the glue to hold things together. Jason had doubts but they were minimal compared to all the times Akil had come through. Just like he’d trusted his gut when he first heard Charlene sing and rushed to get her signed, he trusted that Akil’s vision was going to work. That they were going to make Charlene a success, a different kind of success.

“Yeah, man. You know I trust you,” Jason said finally, reaching out to shake Akil’s hand.

Akil stood, shaking Jason’s hand then pulling him in for a hug. “It’s going to be big. The biggest thing we’ve ever done, Jase. Watch and see.”

He picked up the phone again. Alone in his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, Akil knew he should be asleep, gearing up for tomorrow’s session. But he couldn’t rest.

Charlene’s powerful voice had brought back memories. Some painful and some happy—some that just need to be addressed once and for all.

Dialing the number, he sat back on his bed, leaning forward so that his elbows rested against his knees. Looking down to the floor as he held the phone to his ear waiting for the call to connect, he wiggled his toes in the ultra-soft dark blue carpet. It lined the entire length of his master suite until it opened up to the deck, which was tiled with black marble speckled with a blue similar to the carpet. His walls were painted a subtle gray, his furniture, sparse, sleek and expensive. The entertainment center that spanned the entire left wall was state-of-the-art with Dolby sound and a sixty-inch mounted plasma. Music was his life and so it surrounded him wherever he went. Even in his bathroom there was a sound system, designed to match the black-and-blue color scheme in there, as well.

He’d arrived, he thought as the overseas connection had finally been made and the line rang in his ear. He’d arrived at rich and famous, just as he’d always planned. And he liked it here, or so he thought.

His childhood hadn’t been easy and neither had hers. But he’d made them both a promise, to get them out and to make them both happy. He succeeded in one area and drastically failed in the other.

She hated him, had told him as much more times than he could count. Yet, he still loved her, still held a place for her in his heart.

Charlene reminded him of that place. She reminded him of Lauren.

“Centro di riabilitazione del Seminary di buona mattina,” a female voice answered speaking quick Italian that Akil struggled to understand.

“Ah, buona mattina,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up straight as if the person on the other end of the phone could see him. “Lauren Jackson, please?”

He hated that name, hated the way it rolled off his tongue with complete bitterness and contempt.

“Chi è questo?”

“Akil Hutton.”

The line went quiet and he waited, heart pounding against his chest, palms sweating. He hadn’t spoken to her in more than three years. Not necessarily all his fault. He’d written to her a couple of times but had only recently found a number where she could be reached.

“Ms. Jackson non è disponibile. Non denomini ancora,” she said and hung up without another word.

From traveling all over the world on business Akil had picked up a basic understanding of most languages like Italian, French, hell, he even knew a little German because one of his artists was a big hit in Germany. From the woman’s clipped words he gathered two things: (1) that Lauren was definitely a patient at the Seminary Rehabilitation Hospital and (2) that she did not want to speak to him. The words not available and the stern do not call again sort of tipped him off.

Lauren was in Milan and she was in a rehab center. That meant she was safe and she was getting the help she so desperately needed. That should have been enough for him.

And he shouldn’t still be plagued with guilt. Yet he was and there was nothing he could do about it.

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