Page 115 of Sweet Temptation

About my former booking agent’s name?

“Yancy booked this event for me,” I informed him, “and he flew up here, from L.A., to see me. As you’re aware. So, excuse me while I get seen.”

Then I turned away and caught up with Yancy, doing my best to tune out Ronan’s bad attitude.

Yancy took my hand again and drew me into the raised VIP area, which was in a back corner alongside one of the bars. Ronan followed in silence, like a giant, grouchy shadow. I could sense people checking him out, wondering what his deal was. He wasn’t drinking, smiling… having a good time.

But that was his choice. I never forbid him from doing any of those things while he was on duty with me.

Quite the opposite.

Yancy led us to the back wall, where two cute girls were seated at either end of a couch, like placeholders holding his spot. Along the way, he leaned in to introduce me to a few people, and I caught glimpses of Ronan behind me. Even when I didn’t see him, I felt him.

A few times, I caught him giving Yancy a stare down. And when I looked at Yancy, I could see what Ronan saw, more or less.

Yancy was very… flamboyant. He had crazy, curly hair and wore a purple velvet blazer with black velvet pants and cowboy boots. He exuded almost as much sparkle as I did onstage, which was saying something. But the man had a smile that made women melt across a room, and he knew how to treat a girl like the queen of the ball.

Right now, I had the full force of his attention.

Ronan didn’t seem to like that much.

Yancy shooed the girls on the couch out of the way so the two of us could sit down, and we got talking. Ronan stood by the end of the couch—on Yancy’s side. Or rather, he loomed. And I knew he’d positioned himself there, rather than at my back, so I couldn’t ignore him.

He was playing games with me, wasn’t he?

He wouldn’t touch me on purpose, wouldn’t flirt with me, wouldn’t hook up with me… but he wanted me to know he was there. Ready and willing to scare off every other male who came sniffing around.

Yancy noticed. One thing he and I had always had in common: we both wanted everyone to have a good time at our parties. And Ronan’s foul mood was obvious.

“I’ll get us drinks,” he offered. “Will your man have one?”

I was pretty sure he meant “your man” as in your giant, hovering security man, not your lover, but I liked the sound of it either way.

“He won’t,” I said. “He’s incredibly sober at all times.”

Yancy laughed and sent one of his friends to get us drinks. We caught up a bit, tossed around small talk about the show tonight. Then a cocktail waitress arrived; she set a bunch of Crantinis—one of my favorite drinks—on the table for us as Yancy leaned into me.

“So. Have you figured out my motive yet?”

“What motive would that be?”

“Well, the usual. Besides getting you back to my hotel with me tonight, of course—” His words were cut short as a shower of liquid poured down his hair and chest. He jumped, and I jumped back.

Ronan was standing over us. He held a cocktail glass, now empty and dripping. On Yancy.

“Shit. Watch what you’re doing,” Yancy said.

“Sorry,” Ronan said flatly. “I think someone bumped me. Can I get you another one?”

Yancy got up, annoyed, and so did I. He threw me an apologetic look, wiping at his clothes, and said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll be here,” I told him. He disappeared through the crowd, and I gaped at Ronan. “Did you seriously just pour a drink on a man to get him to stop talking to me?”

“I was trying to hand you a cocktail. Should I not have done that?”

“You’re kidding me.”

He shrugged. “I slipped.”

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