In For Keeps / Under His Touch - Taryn Belle Mills & Boon Dare

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it came to his career, offers went one way—they came to him. But it was making him crazy that a producer had recently dangled a carrot and then never followed through. “Listen, you ever hear from Larry Weatherby again? He seemed pretty hot for me to write for a few of his artists a couple months ago.”

      “Nah. Reality probably kicked in—someone as big as you, he had to know it was a long shot. Besides, you’ve got the tour to focus on now.”

      Dev suppressed a sigh. He’d started his career by writing songs for other artists until Bix had taken him under his wing and brought him into the spotlight, insisting that Dev was way too talented and easy on the eyes to keep hidden. Bix’s promises of fame and fortune had all delivered, but sometimes Dev wondered if he would have been better off staying where he’d been. Even a platinum album at the age of twenty hadn’t settled the beast of anxiety he tangled with onstage each night. The voracious crowds he’d dreamed of as a kid had turned out to be the stuff of nightmares. It wasn’t always like that, of course. When he managed to control his nerves, the adrenaline high from a great show could leave him buzzed for hours afterward, better than any drug. But more often than not, touring meant sleepless nights of worry, a hammering heartbeat and cold shakes as bad as any junkie’s.

      “Listen, Stone, I know what’s on your mind, okay?” Bix continued, as if he were right inside Dev’s head. “And I want you to take all that worry and put it into Uncle Bix’s back pocket. We’ll handle it—you and me. Don’t we always?”

      “Sure,” Dev said flatly. It was true—Bix was the only person in the entire world who knew the price Dev paid to get up on that stage night after night, and he made sure he had everything he needed to get through it.

      “I’ll see you in London. And, hey—nice job on the Rolling Stone piece. If that doesn’t put you down in history as rock god of the century, I don’t know what will. People are eating up the new album. They love it. They love you, and don’t you goddamn forget it.”

      “Thanks, man,” Dev said, and hung up. He knew Bix’s assurances should make him feel better. In a world being taken over by rap, EDM and sugary pop, Under My Skin, his tenth rock album, was selling almost as well as his first. His career was a resounding success, the one thing in his life that he’d always been able to depend on. And he knew he had to take the good with the bad; it was time for him to go out there and be a superstar again.

      Back at his table, Alex and Nicola were deep in conversation and his beer was still waiting for him. Dev traced a finger through the condensation. Enjoy it while you can, he thought. In a few days he’d have to stop drinking altogether if he was going to get through his tour alive. He brought the bottle to his lips.

      Six weeks of anxiety-filled days and nights. A woman he couldn’t get out of his head. And now no assistant.

      Dev drank long and deep.

      Victoria O’Hare, Real Estate Agent.

      Sitting in her golf cart outside Pablo’s, Kiki Becker stared down at the woman’s face on her phone. Blue eyes under wispy brows, a ski-jump nose and reddish bobbed hair. Did Kiki bear a resemblance to her, or was she just trying to see something that wasn’t there? Not knowing the answer to that question had been driving her crazy since she’d come across the photo a few days ago. A search of the website hadn’t revealed anything further about her other than her recent home sales, and there was nothing else on the entire internet about any Victoria O’Hare who looked like this woman. Her picture mocked Kiki, daring her to reach out—which was completely out of the question.

      Kiki clicked her phone off and shoved it into her handbag. The emptiness swelled in her chest, spread to her belly, threatened to spill tears. But she would not succumb to it. She swung her legs out of her golf cart and walked toward the entrance to Pablo’s. It had taken all of her strength to drag herself to work, but at least today she had a plan. Three weeks of feeling down in the dumps, tossing and turning through the night and mainlining junk food had been more than enough for her. It was time to accept that there would be no encore to her encounter with Dev Stone and move on with her life. And she would do it the best way she knew how: by getting laid tonight.

      Entering the noisy bar, Kiki did a quick scan for potential victims. Several heads turned her way that she supposed would do the trick. Eventually, she’d choose one on the criteria of being unattached, relatively sober and preferably on their way off the island in the next twenty-four hours. It was how she’d operated since she’d moved to Moretta after her divorce two years ago. Just because Dev Stone had brought her earth-shattering pleasure for one unforgettable evening didn’t mean she couldn’t return to her old ways.

      Dev—damn him. Kiki pushed his face out of her mind as she lifted the door to the bar, praying he wasn’t here. She’d managed to avoid him almost completely since their night together had blown up in their faces, and she planned on keeping it that way. If she couldn’t have him for herself, the last thing she needed was a direct comparison to any other guy in this place.

      Tossing her handbag under the bar, Kiki stole a quick glance at her reflection in the mirrored back wall. She’d spent the past three weeks in shorts and baggy T-shirts, forgoing her daily makeup routine and throwing her long hair into careless ponytails. With her plan in place this morning she’d made a bit of an effort, but the dark smudges under her eyes still revealed her truth. She looked like shit. Her skin was pale, and she’d put on a few pounds. It was the one thing she hated about her roommate, Nicola—while she lost her appetite under stress, Kiki reached for the late-night cookies as if she could tame the ugly monster that raged inside her with refined sugar. Crouching behind the bar, she slicked on some lip gloss, adjusted the straps of her sundress and stood up.

      “Strawberry.”

      Jesus. Dev was standing right in front of her.

      Kiki’s groin went mushy as the memory of their entangled bodies came crashing over her. His kiss, demanding and soft at the same time. His eyes on hers as he’d latched his mouth on to her clit. His beautiful body and perfect cock, his urgent breath as he’d driven into her again and again, ripping sweet cries of ecstasy from her throat. The way he’d touched her like it meant something. As they’d lain on the sofa recovering, she’d seen it in his face—the same question she wanted to ask him: When can we do this again? The answer had been twenty minutes later, but even that hadn’t been enough for her. In a few short hours Dev turned her into an insatiable sex monster. She’d wanted to break all of her no-strings rules for him, and looking back, she was almost grateful for the near scandal that had derailed them the next morning. That whole experience had sucked her libido dry, which had probably saved her fucking life. Because Dev Stone was dangerous, addictive and a straight arrow to only one thing: heartbreak.

      “Hey, rock star,” Kiki tossed out, reaching for a bar cloth to occupy her hands. But it was no use—she could feel her fingers trembling as they swept past his. Her cheeks were warm. She was certain her nipples were straining against her dress.

      “You’ve been busy,” he said as he leaned into the counter. Those aqua eyes. That square jaw. That dark lock of hair that always flopped over his brow. She could smell his spicy aftershave, the same one that had been on her skin the next morning. Damn it.

      “Busy avoiding you,” Kiki said, scrubbing hard at an invisible spot. “It’s a full-time job.”

      “Then I’ll talk to your boss and get you fired.”

      “Very funny,” she said when a snappy reply failed her. His eyes were all over her, devouring her—why? Dev was a rock star god who had his choice of any woman on earth. From where she stood, Kiki could throw a champagne glass at at least three gorgeous household-name females. And she was a divorced executive-assistant-turned-bartender from Atlanta, guaranteed to fall short of any man’s expectations.

      “I was hoping you’d be in today,” he said.

      “Oh, yeah?” she replied over the

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