Destroyed (Lost in Oblivion, #3)(7)

Margo had been in plenty of beautiful hotels before. Being the child of a lawyer and doctor afforded her a world of culture beyond the symphony. She tapped the ornate button to the elevator. The bronze doors, designed in the typical lines and curves of the Art Deco movement, slid open silently and more silk-tufted walls came into view.

For such an old building, everything was remarkably quiet. The ride was smooth and when she arrived on her floor, the silence was pervasive.

She slid her itinerary out of the envelope. In a world where emails and copy paper were the norm, the elegant silvery gray stationery with Donovan Lewis’s corporate seal along the top was an anomaly—much like the entire situation. Discreetly-spaced letters underneath the raised seal were the only clue to the fact that it was for a record company.

A company that was very hands-on with their clients.

She didn’t quite know what to make of the company or Lila Shawcross and Donovan Lewis. Margo was a classically trained violinist and twice now she’d been invited to work with a band that was as rough around the edges as a garage band.

And yet her strings blended seamlessly with them.

It didn’t make sense.

Like that night with Simon made sense? Like your obsession with this garage band made sense?

Her grip tightened on the paper and she had to drag in a breath and force her fingers to relax. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, she focused on the letter.

The entire floor was reserved for the band and Ripper Records, which explained the quiet. Everyone was already at the venue for the festivities. She had to go to rehearsal then was expected to sit for a few interviews with the band.

Music Life was going to film the entire release party and there would be a special airing that Saturday with footage from the New York City and Los Angeles parties.

Why did they want to involve her? She wasn’t specifically mentioned in anything on the itinerary.

She slipped the sheet back into the envelope and into her purse. She leaned her suitcase against the wall but before she could open the door, it swung open.

Framed in the doorway stood a five-foot-four burr up her butt. A lovable one—usually—but thorny just the same.

“Hiya, sis.”

Margo searched for her voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”





2





Simon fit the key into the door. Who the f*ck still used keys? The door didn’t even bang effectively against the wall. He’d been nursing the mad since he’d checked out of the hotel on Park Avenue.

He was never going to hear the end of it from that little bout of excess. He’d used the sacred corporate card that was only supposed to be used sparingly.

The fact that he’d actually winced at the hotel bill he’d found by the door was saying something. What the hell had he been thinking?

Oh, right.

Blackout drunks didn’t think.

Fuck.

As usual, the ever efficient Lila had his suitcase in the corner and his schedule on the bar with a bottle of his vodka of choice. If only it was because she didn’t mind him drinking.

She’d learned long ago to put anything she wanted him to see within range of alcohol or food. He hated that she knew him so well, even if it did make him smile.

He opened the bottle and splashed an inch into the crystal glass and read his orders. Interviews by the dozen, about three seconds to warm up, and then rehearsal.

At the bottom in her elegant script was a personal note.



If you show up drunk, I will put itching powder in all of your favorite leather pants.



Simon’s lips tipped up into a grin.

He had to give her points for style. He knocked back the glass and pulled off his shirt. A shower was desperately needed. He hadn’t quite been able to think after that woman had spilled the words Violin Girl. His shoulders were still itchy.

Enjoying himself with a random woman was one thing—replacing another was a whole level of crap he couldn’t look at too closely.

Ever since he’d worked with her in the studio, he’d been losing time. For f*ck’s sake, he didn’t even have to actually work with her in the studio.

But he sure as shit hadn’t been able to walk away once he’d seen her in that cozy little booth. The memories from the huge studio from the first album juxtaposed over the more eclectic studio that Ripper Records owned.

Both times she’d been the proper little miss with her shoulders and back tightly squared off. Her entire posture screamed repressed, but then she lifted that bow and tucked it under her chin and it didn’t matter that she could make a coal into a diamond with how tight she was clenched.

Magic flowed out of her fingers and she closed her dark eyes then she was lost into the song. The strings were her conduit.

And he’d been so goddamn hard, he’d had to walk it off.

Connection to music was something he identified with. It was the only thing that had kept him together in Carson that shitty apartment with his father. It had been his ticket out of Carson and into Los Angeles, and now it was the only thing he had to focus on.

He didn’t want to see that same desperate longing in her face. It reminded him of that night with her and “The Becoming” crashing all around them. Of losing himself in her sweet, clasping body. It reminded him that sex wasn’t just scratching an itch and no matter how many different people he’d bedded over the years, she’d been the only one to make him crave more.