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  Finding the question irrelevant, she jerked her head back and forth. “Of course not.”

  Disgust washed over his face and he looked her up and down. “You say it so … condescending, now don’t you?”

  On the defense, she fumbled for words. “Sorry, Mr. Waters, I’m not some ‘groupie.’” It was a word she’d read in an article about him today, citing he had lots of them.

  His eyes narrowed. “And what, exactly, do you think a groupie is?” He crossed his arms.

  She felt like an idiot, but she had to answer. “One of those women who parade around, hanging on your every word, go to all your concerts, stand in the pit.” She couldn’t help saying the word with disgust. The idea of the whole thing dumbfounded her. “And wear your t-shirts and know all your songs and try to …” She faltered because she didn’t want to say the last part. Sleep with him.

  “What?” He pushed her.

  Fine, she would say it. “The kind of women who would …” but she faltered again. “Do things with you.”

  The intensity of his gaze put her on edge; he shook his head and then exhaled. “Well, my groupies, would probably do a better job on this article then you.” He cocked an eyebrow and sat up. “Tell me what your favorite song of mine is?”

  It took her off guard he would demand this of her. It also ticked her off because she was embarrassed, she didn’t know one of his songs. Not knowing what compelled her to do it, she stood, gathering her laptop quickly. “I think we better start again tomorrow, don’t you?” She pulled her bag over her shoulder and then leveled him with a look that said, “You think you’re being uppity to me? Me? Well, I’ve got uppity on speed dial.” She didn’t really know what that meant, all she knew was he couldn’t treat her like some groupie, either.

  He gave her a confused look. “You’re done for the day?”

  Brusquely, she walked past his chair and moved into the kitchen, retracing her steps, feeling a bit jolted by her return to reality from the focused state she'd put herself in.

  “What do you mean?” Texas was on her heels. “I’m giving you some of my time.” He sounded gratifyingly annoyed. “And you’re turning it down?”

  She reached the front door and put her hand on the handle.

  His hand pushed against the door, holding it closed. Those blue eyes bored into her. “What are you trying to pull?”

  Stunned because he was so much closer than she expected, she paused as she found herself face to face with him. The scent of his spicy cologne and the coffee on his breath filled her senses.

  Their eyes locked, and they simply stood there.

  “I’m not much for games, Ms. …” His voice faltered.

  Clearing her throat, she frowned. “Wright.” She took a step back and forced her pounding heart to calm. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Waters. I’ll do an afternoon interview with you then.”

  Not moving his hand from the door, his frown deepened into a scowl. “I don’t know what your deal is.” His voice was low and gravelly.

  “Tomorrow,” she said again, not moving.

  Their faces were still close, and she thought of a documentary she’d watched on the Discovery Channel of what wolves in a pack do when they are having a standoff for the alpha role.

  For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

  He swiftly grabbed the door nob and pulled it open. “Fine, I’m up at six and out running immediately. I lift, have breakfast, and hit the studio by eight.” His mouth was set in a straight line as he took a step back. He cocked an eyebrow in challenge. “If you can keep up with the schedule, I’ll talk to you when I lift weights.” He shrugged. “No time to chat in the afternoon. I’m recording with the band.”

  Getting angry, she sized him up. “You want me to interview you while you’re lifting weights?”

  His face stayed serious. “You can do whatever you want, princess, but I would think a reporter trying to do her job, would do her job, right? She would be a groupie if that’s what the job called for.”

  The way he said groupie felt personal. What, exactly, was he talking about? Her heart hammered inside her chest, and she wanted to slap him hard across the face. The impulse shocked her as she never thought violence was the answer.

  His smile widened, and she saw something in those eyes, something close to anger. Now, his smile turned to superiority. “But do whatever you want if your work means nothing to you.”

  “I hate you,” she whispered then jerked back, taken aback by her own words. It was not like her to say things without meaning them. Even more, it wasn’t like her to put all her cards on the table. She felt like she was a savvy reporter, but all savviness had fled from her brain in his presence.

  The smile widened even further, and he let out a small, sardonic laugh. “Nothing new, princess.”

  At this point, she felt caught, and there was a feeling she wouldn’t be able to say anything that could even touch a man like this. The cold, hard look in those blue eyes was intimidating, leaving her almost breathless.

  “Maybe you’ll show up tomorrow. Maybe you won’t.” He nodded. “Good day,” he said as he prepared to swing the door shut.

  Rushing through it, she kept her face clear of emotion. “I’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow night, Mr. Waters. Hopefully you’ll be able to fit me in.”

  Later that night, Liberty stared at the blank page she was trying to write something on, but all she could think about was feeling like a failure today.

  Yes, she had lots of research, but she didn’t have any substance on the man with gorgeous blue eyes and a taunting smile.

  Her phone buzzed, and she saw it was her mother. She hesitated, not wanting to answer, but after three rings, she pushed accept.

  “Hello.”

  “Liberty, hello. Well, how did it go today with Mr. Waters?” Her mother dove right in, disregarding all niceties.

  “Hello, mother. The flight was good, thank you for asking.”

  Her mother ignored the sarcasm. “Do you think there’s a scoop? Something interesting for the public?”

  “What scheme are you working on, mother?” Her mother was always working an angle in her stories.

  Sighing, her mother finally confessed. “I don’t want anything too damaging, but Liberty, I need something to give this story an edge. Our numbers have been falling at The Times. Granted, we’re still on top, but we need to mix it up, add some flare. Texas Waters is a good opportunity to do that.”

  “He’s rude, I can tell you that.” She puffed out a breath, thinking about the arrogant way he spoke to her.

  Letting out another sigh, her mother said, “Do what it takes to get a good article. He’s known for womanizing. He’s known for being a player. Just get close to him and get a good story.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting I do unethical things, mother?” Her question was quiet. And absurd, but her mother was making her feel this way.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then what?” Her tone was testy.

  “Well, as you mentioned clearly in our last conversation, you’re not engaged to Hale yet.”

  Her heart pounded quickly. “You’re insane.”

  “Just get something good, dear. Talk to you soon.” Her mother hung up.

  Chapter 4

  Texas sat in Montana’s recording room the next afternoon going through another song with his crew. They were hitting a wall. The song was good. It flowed. There was just something in it that sounded wrong.

  There was no edge, he decided, so he told the band to take a break while he reworked it a bit. The night before he’d crashed after the prissy reporter had left around five. He’d ended up sleeping for the better part of twelve hours, but he woke up thinking about her.

  There was something about that reporter.

  It wasn’t the seductive, curvaceous body. No. She didn’t flaunt it like most women with her figure would. She had worn black shorts, a button-up shirt, and simple shoes. Her hair was back in a bun, and sh
e had glasses. Perfectly librarianish in fact. Maybe that was his problem actually. She was different then most women he dated. She was definitely the bookish, nerdy type. No time for high maintenance beauty he concluded. She hadn’t fawned over him at all yesterday. Just the opposite, she’d acted superior. He shook his head; he didn’t need that kind of reporter.

  Strike that. There was one thing he liked about this kind of reporter. She was more into what she was writing and the article than impressing him or having some angle with him. He’d had all sorts of reporters throughout his career, and he knew a good article could make or break an album.

  But no matter how good she was at her job, he didn’t need some prissy woman messing up his hectic schedule. And she couldn’t even name one of his songs, which was an epic fail on her part.

  He thought of Montana and the pressure that was on him to get this album done as well as the interview for The Times for publicity. He sucked in a breath.

  Touring with Montana had done wonders for him and his music. It had given him exposure, helped him secure a fan base. He couldn’t let Montana down. So—okay, maybe he’d blown it with the reporter yesterday. Yeah, she could have been more accommodating, but they did need her and her newspaper, but he didn’t have time to coddle her. He was on a deadline to finish his album

  He heard the buzzer, signaling someone was at the front door. He’d refused to let any staff or assistants be with him during his time in Jackson. The band showed up in the afternoon. A cleaning gal came when he was recording in the afternoon. That’s it.

  One of his band mates got up to answer the door, but Texas stopped him by opening the studio door and going through. “I’ll get it.” He waved Sloane Kent, his guitarist, off. “Let’s call it for today. Come back tomorrow afternoon, boys.”

  This had to be his concession. Dealing with her. He thought of Montana saying, “Do you want to have your own tour or open for me?” He had to make this work.

  This woman needed to understand, newsflash, he was the famous one. He didn’t like to pull rank, but if he had to, he would on this one.

  Going out of the studio and crossing the back deck for the kitchen, Texas pulled open the sliding door. He rushed across the kitchen then the main hall and saw her shadow at the door. It was clear, he thought, he was now on her timetable. Smart. Begrudgingly, he opened the door and flashed his best country music, charming, Southern smile all rolled into one.

  Today, she didn’t have her hair in a bun, or the glasses. Her long, platinum hair was down on her shoulders, straight, but in layers beautifully framing her face. She had on a red tank top, jean cut off shorts, and flip flops. Pulling her sunglasses up, she pushed her hair back with them, and he saw the most beautiful violet eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Mr. Waters.” Her tone was curt.

  “Ah, come in … please,” he said softly, thinking her eyes were so unique they could inspire a song. Why hadn’t he noticed them yesterday?

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Is this you trying to be charming?”

  Feeling put on the spot, he felt his grin widen, and he began to sputter. His old fiancée had once told him he sputtered when he was nervous or trying to cover something up. He always denied it, but yes, here he was sputtering. “Ah-I have to apologize for my rudeness yesterday.”

  Already, he was slipping from charming and reverting back into annoyed. He didn’t have time for this song and dance. Frankly, he didn’t like playing it. Throwing the door back, he gestured for her to come in. “I was thinking I could take you to dinner and do the interview?” He felt his lips stretch over his teeth. He had only just thought of dinner. It was a good idea. He could kill two birds with one stone: eat and do the interview. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he was starving.

  Brushing past him, she held her laptop in a yellow and white polka dot bag. He smelled something fruity and light, like vanilla and lemon, come off of her. Why was he noticing that?

  “No, I don’t do dinner with the people I’m reporting on. If we could go to the table and get down to the basics of this, that would be great. I have a schedule for you.” She was already moving into the kitchen and heading to the table.

  Schedule. Schedule? He was Texas Waters. Plus, she made it sound like she was turning him down for a date.

  Whatever.

  He dictated the schedule! Nobody gave him schedules except his superiors. Montana Crew, for one, could give him a schedule. But her? A reporter? If he wanted pencil-pushing administrator nerds to tell him when and where to go, he would have stayed in the Army.

  Angst started to fill his gut. His pleasing side was already wearing out. “O-kay.” He sat across from her at the wide table. He would have to call Montana and get a different reporter. He always had a good sixth sense about people, and he knew this wasn’t going to work out.

  Getting out her laptop, she opened it and didn’t even look at him.

  All he could do was stare at her and try to hide how much he hated being dictated to. Next, she’d be pulling out hair clippers and demanding he shave twice a day. Knowing he had to do this because of Montana, but not liking it at all, Texas forced himself to remain calm.

  “Okay.” She focused on him, her hands poised above the keyboard. “Full name.”

  She was really wasting his time with a question like that? He gritted his teeth for a second then let out a breath. He did not have freaking time for this. He hesitated.

  “Name,” she insisted, cocking an eyebrow at him and narrowing her eyes.

  Something inside of him didn’t want to back down. At the same time, he didn’t want to act like she had gotten beneath his skin. “Texas. Albert. Waters.”

  She didn’t seem to notice his annoyance, typing away.

  “The reason you were named Texas?” she asked.

  Was she seriously asking this question? He let out a rippled breath. “Guess my mother liked Texas.”

  “You don’t know why you were named Texas?” she asked in disbelief.

  Rolling his eyes, he sat back in the chair and relented to this stupid game. “Nope.”

  “You were raised in Odessa, Texas?”

  He nodded. All this information was accessible online. “Yep.”

  She eyed him. “Your parents’ professions?”

  This was a total waste of his time. “My father was a police officer. My mother stayed home, sometimes cleaned for people.” He gave her the Wikipedia version. “You didn’t read that online already?”

  Hesitating, she met his eyes then went back to the computer.

  Those violet eyes were breath taking. He tried to peer closer.

  “What was your home life like?”

  “I don’t know. Fine,” he said, getting a bit angry. “I grew up, what do you want?”

  Her eyes flashed to his, and she seemed to be sizing him up. She jotted down a couple of things. “Okay, you had a girlfriend who reportedly cheated on you while you were serving in Afghanistan?”

  This struck another painful chord. “I had a fiancée who cheated on me, yes.”

  She continued, not seeming to notice the upset tone of his voice. “Rumors say you made a play for Paris Ford last year. The woman who married Logan Slade, quarterback for the Los Angeles Wave, is this correct?”

  Wow. Talk about hitting below the belt. He let out a breath. “I don’t talk about rumors.” This wouldn’t be the easy, happy interview he had envisioned. No, this had taken a different turn. “I didn’t make a play for anybody, I asked her out and she said no. End of story.” He rolled his eyes, thinking if Logan got a whiff of anything like that in the press it wouldn’t be a good thing for him.

  “Okay. What led you to country music?” She softened her tone but it was a little too late for him.

  He had just gotten revved up. He let out a sigh then figured if she obviously wasn’t going for fancied up or friendly, he’d give her the truth. “I got out of the Army and was tired of watching people die, so I decided to write so
ngs about it.”

  At this, she glanced up, searching his eyes. “I didn’t see that on the Internet.”

  He let out a breath, knowing there had been a lot of care to make sure that wasn’t anywhere on the Internet. “Well, do you want to write crap that’s already been written, or are you interested in doing your job and writing an original piece?”

  It was his pet peeve. People with no creativity who just wanted to regurgitate stuff. He couldn’t deal with people who didn’t take their profession seriously and do original things with their lives. He decided he really didn’t like her.

  Narrowing her eyes, she frowned. “Well, if I wanted to just do an interview off the Internet, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Actually, strike that. I’m here to do a job. Up close and personal. Can you give me that, Mr. Waters? Because yesterday—you couldn’t.”

  He gave her a defiant look. “I offered an hour, but you didn’t take it.”

  “Oh, you mean after you gave me the third degree for not knowing what ‘out of the chute’ meant?” She returned a withering glare.

  They appeared to be at a standstill for a few moments.

  Okay, maybe part of him liked this woman, he admitted to himself begrudgingly. She was feisty and he liked a woman who didn’t fawn all over him.

  “Mr. Waters, I—”

  “Texas. Just call me Texas.” He waved a hand into the air.

  “Oh, well, okay. I will have you know I don’t need three weeks, but I do need the truth.”

  Letting out a low chuckle, he turned at the seriousness in her voice. “Really, that’s what this article is about? The truth? Most interviewers"—He emphasized the word—"want a story. They don’t want the truth.” He spread his hands, letting the way he felt about interviews and reporters seep through. Yes, in his experience, reporters were always trying to sensationalize something for the public. It made him sick. “Why can’t people just enjoy the music? Why can’t they just let the music hit them?” He pounded the center of his chest with a fist. “That’s the point of music. It’s there to change you and make you feel things you’ve never felt before. So why does everybody have to know the life story of the guy who wrote it? Why?” Frustrated, he thought about the stupidity of having someone hanging around for the next three weeks. “Can’t the music just speak for itself?”