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Last Monday I had a lovely time – and lots and lots of delicious cake – meeting with a few fellow writers. We didn’t just eat cake, though. We talked a lot, too. Mostly about writing. And I came away with a bit more focus than I’ve had while stuck between edits and release days.
So for the next few weeks I’ll let the Muse work her magic on Gareth and my tangled-up corporate espionage investigation and focus instead on rock star Tempest and and his infatuation with security chief Max Young.
Last week, Tempest pulled out all sartorial stops (not!) to shock Max and impress the man he’s been ordered to have dinner with. Here, we find Tempest at dinner and it’s going about as well as both he and Max expected…
Tempest was so used to being treated as a commodity – in exchange for favours from some highly-placed political figure, for the director of their company’s bank to show off his investment, or at charity events and fan galas – that he slipped into his public persona without thought. It didn’t faze him much that Vince Franklin sat far too close, that the man’s eyes lingered on every sliver of exposed skin and that the conversation veered from boring to inappropriate far sooner than he had anticipated.
“Will you strip for me?” Franklin asked when barely half the food had disappeared. “If I offer to pay you extra?”
“You’re not paying me at all, Mr. Franklin,” Tempest countered, his comment a clear no.
Vince stared at Tempest’s mouth as he filled Tempest’s glass, his eyes cold and hard. “An artist with integrity, how rare,” he sneered and Tempest decided that matters had deteriorated far enough.