turn. A small part of her still wondered if that was why he’d banished her from Plunder Cove years ago, sending her to live with her mother after the divorce—because she wasn’t good enough to be a Harper.
In the past, her parents had crushed her spirit. They’d broken her family, sent her away and taken away the music she’d loved. But she’d found her own path through yoga, and she was doing everything she could to heal herself. She’d even returned home not too long ago and reestablished a relationship with her older brothers. She was determined to prove she was worthy of her family’s famous name.
She wouldn’t fail at this.
How hard could it be to keep her hands and lips to herself and get a man to sign a few pieces of paper?
Even if he was the sexiest man on the planet.
* * *
Nicolas stopped listening to Jeff Harper’s spiel about the building plans the moment he noticed the gostosa eyeing him.
The gorgeous activities director had a stunning figure. A brown skirt molded to her hips like dark chocolate on a strawberry. Her red crepe blouse dipped low in the back and was not quite see-through but made him want to strain his vision. The long blond braid intrigued him, but it was her aquamarine eyes that really got to him. When they locked on to his, he saw golden feathers within the blue irises. Amazing and deeply magnetic.
Strange. He wasn’t usually so poetic. Not anymore. “The resort will be ready in time for your show.” Jeff’s voice drew Nicolas’s gaze away from Chloe. “We guarantee it.”
Of course he’d say that. The man was a Harper. RW Harper, Jeff’s father, had the reputation for being a scheming, sneaky bastard. But also a savvy one. This hotel empire would be the most luxurious one in the nation, maybe the world. That was why Nicolas was here. He was after a contract for a big beautiful property to showcase his show. Funny, in the past he would have been looking for a quiet, beautiful spot on the beach to sit and write music. He wouldn’t be on the phone or in meetings making deals, no, he would have been making music. Those days were over. He’d moved from making his own songs to making stars.
“That’s about it. I’d better get back to the site. I’ll leave you in Chloe’s capable hands.” Jeff walked out the door, leaving Nicolas alone with the beauty.
She stepped closer, moving with the poise and grace of a dancer. He was fully aware of her soft curves and was intrigued by the toned muscles in her arms and back. She had an athlete’s body.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she said.
Nicolas enjoyed the sound of her voice. 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
