hard-nosed, hard-hearted shark behavior that Elizabeth didn’t like. Besides his race-car driving, Demetri Lucas bought and sold companies the way other men played the slots. He didn’t care, didn’t participate, only signed on the bottom line, made a bucketload of cash and then moved on to either the next venture, or the next princess, whichever caught his roving eye first.
And apparently his roving eye had been caught many, many times.
She was cursing the man six ways to Sunday when her cell phone rang.
“Liz?” Her manager was the only person who called her Liz. Thank God for small favors, because Liz was a shortcut name; it didn’t have nearly the regal grandeur of Elizabeth. And at five foot four, Elizabeth wanted all the regal grandeur she could get.
“Tobey?” she said, kicking back on the bed. “What are you calling for? If you’re calling me about the album cover, I’m not going to listen. I told you tonight that I didn’t like that last mockup of the cover, and I meant it. I sing country, not heavy metal. Use something prettier than black. What’s wrong with yellow? Or pink? Or maybe one of those soft teals? I think—”
“Liz.”
Elizabeth stopped. “What?”
“I’m not calling about the cover. They’re going to change the background color.”
Elizabeth blew out a breath. “Well thank heavens for that. So why are we chatting when I’m supposed to be on vacation?”
“I got another call from the shampoo company Softsilk. They’re determined to get you. The woman said they have a new line coming out next year. Soft, sexy, womanly. Those were their words. They want you to do the spots.”
“Why did you call me with this? I sing. That’s it. I don’t want to do commercials or product placements, or be some shill for some shampoo that will probably make my hair fall out. I told you no the last five times you asked me. No, no, no. What I use on my head, what I put on my face, what jeans I wear, what car I drive is nobody’s business but mine, and I’ll be damned if Elizabeth Innis is going to help sell somebody else’s products. I’m not telling you something that you don’t already know, Tobey. Why are you calling, and this time, please tell me the truth.”
“Frank called. He heard you were in Kentucky and thought it’d be good for you to do a local concert the week after next. It’s for the University of Louisville, the Wednesday night before their homecoming game. Skew your demographics younger.”
Frank was the manger of Five Star Records, Elizabeth’s label, and when Frank told Tobey to jump, Tobey asked how high. Elizabeth didn’t mind, that was Tobey’s job, but Elizabeth wasn’t a business person. She was an artist. And everybody knew that artists were temperamental. Even though Elizabeth wasn’t temperamental, that didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend when it worked to her advantage.
“Tobey. I’m on vacation. My cousin is getting married day after tomorrow and I’m singing in the wedding. I need this break. I’ve been on tour for the last twelve months. Now, I love my band, but do you know how many hotels that is? Do you know how many frequent flier miles that is? More than I can count, Tobey, but I bet it’s not more than you can count. I bet you can tell me exactly how many frequent flier miles I’ve logged, can’t you? Let me make this clear so you can understand. I’m not doing any concerts here. I’m tired. Can’t you hear the tension in my voice? I don’t know why you can’t, ’cause this phone connection sounds pretty good to me.”
“Frank’s got something lined up, Liz.”
Elizabeth glared at the phone, which did absolutely no good, but it made it her feel better. “Let me repeat what I said, because I’m thinking this phone connection must not be as crisp as I thought. I’m not doing any concerts here. Not one. I’m tired. This is my family time, and nothing gets between me and my family time.”
“Frank already lined it up,” he answered, just as if he hadn’t heard a single word that she’d said.
Elizabeth snorted. “Well, tell him to unline it up. I’m on vacation. It’s three weeks, Tobey, not three years. Nothing trumps family for me. You know that.”
“The money’s good, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth humphed into the phone. “Do you think that matters? If it’s going to start mattering to me, then I need to fire you, because I’m not making as much money as you’re telling me I am. Do I need to fire you, Tobey? Don’t tell me yes, because you’re about as L.A. as I can handle. Everybody told me to get a Nashville agent, but I liked you, even if you were L.A, but maybe they were right, Tobey. Maybe I should get a Nashville agent.”
“Don’t make me go back to Frank and tell him no,” he begged.
“Go back to Frank and tell him no.”
“Oh, Elizabeth…” Which he only called her when he was really, really, really up a creek.
“Oh, Tobey…” she said, and she knew she was starting to get all soft, and she didn’t want to get all soft. She needed to be tough and hard-edged with a spine that wouldn’t break, no matter how much battering it took. Elizabeth drew in a deep, strength-injecting breath, happy to feel the steel return. “Now you listen—”
Suddenly she stopped, a lightbulb flashing in her head. “How much money are we talking about?” Elizabeth asked carefully.
Tobey named a figure that raised her brows, and her brows— which were perfectly arched—didn’t usually rise that far. That was all it took for her to change her mind. “Sign me up, Tobey. I’ll do it. Get the band down on the next plane out of Nashville. Actually, not the next plane, but maybe Monday after next. At least let’s give them the weekend off, then we can have two days’ worth of rehearsal.”
“Why did you change your mind so fast?” he asked suspiciously. Rightly so. A wise one, that Tobey. That was why she liked him.
“Might want to buy something,” she hedged, even though the plan was already formulating in her head.
“Couldn’t you give me a hint?” he asked.
“Whoa. Gotta go, Tobey. This phone is breaking up. Darn cells. Hate the things.” Elizabeth made crackling noises into the phone and then snapped it closed. A concert would be the perfect solution and hopefully the Prestons would think so, too.
“It looks rather deserted, don’t you think?” asked Oliver Wentworth, squinting in the direction of the empty pasture, and Demetri tried to see the stables through Oliver’s eyes.
Oh, yeah, the grounds of the Preston homestead were impressive. A thousand acres, perfect for the Thoroughbred horses that were being trained there. At one time, there had been over five hundred horses stabled on the premises. Today the numbers were dwindling. The practice track stood silent, only a few horses wandering in the pasture, grazing quietly.
Demetri took it all in, and shook his head sadly. He didn’t want to see Quest through Oliver’s eyes.
Next to him, Oliver leaned against the wooden fence and looked around, completely unimpressed. “So this is what a horse farm looks like?” he asked.
“Normally Quest is a little busier,” Demetri answered, feeling the need to defend the proud stables because of course, soon “Oliver” would be stabling horses here, as well,
