Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell

Chapter 11

Angela Morales

Bang-bang-bang.

I startled, sloshing bubbles and water over the side of the tub. “Who the hell would be coming by at”—I glanced at the phone—“ten o’clock.” Pushing the pause button on the music, I frowned. “Can’t even enjoy my bath in peace. This day sucks.”

Yanking the stopper, I shot to my feet, grabbed the soft, navy-blue robe hanging on its hook, threw it on, and tied the belt. After a quick swipe of the phone, I stowed it in a pocket of the robe.

Bang-bang.

“One minute, please,” I yelled from the hallway, giving my hair a quick twist into a messy bun. I didn’t even get a chance to wash it.

Marky, lying on a scattered newspaper on the coffee table, licked his butt, as if he either couldn’t hear the person on the other side about to knock down the door or he didn’t care.

Smashing my nose against the solid barrier, I peered through the peephole.

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped for three seconds. What in the hell is he doing here? I covered my mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around my middle, as if I could hold in the crazy, careening butterflies tumbling in my stomach.

I glanced through the peephole again. Hmm.I could ignore him. Except I’d already asked him to wait a minute, so he knew I was inside.

How did he even know where I lived, anyhow?

My eyes roved his body. Tall and toned, he was lean with wide shoulders, trim thighs, and carried confidence in every fluid movement. His glorious hair was tied at the nape of his neck, a few wavy wisps defying the constraint.

“Are you going to invite me in, Angel, or just continue to molest me with those lovely wandering eyes?” He grinned, showing his teeth. Two tiny, perfect dimples popped on each bearded cheek. A simple button-up, short-sleeved midnight-colored shirt stretched across his trim chest. A blood-red tie hung in the middle, emphasizing the colorful tattoos on each arm. Damn, I don’t remember him looking this sexy earlier today.

A pounding rush of adrenaline shot to my head. Wait, how did he know I was staring at him? He couldn’t, but since the door wasn’t opening and I wasn’t speaking, he must’ve put two and two together.

I cleared my throat, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled as far as the chain at the top would allow. “What do you want, Mr. Farrow?”

“Oh, do call me Viktor.” His rich, topaz eyes speared mine then moved lower, following the curve of my shoulders until his gaze rested on the opening of the robe at my chest. “Bad time?”

“It’s always a bad time if you’re dropping by.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Nice, Angela. Don’t let him see how much he affects you.

“Ouch.” He propped a hand on the door and pushed himself closer. “I’d like to come in and apologize.”

“Apologize for what? Being a jackass?” I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my stare. “You had to drive to my apartment to tell me? I figured someone as important as you would just send a peon to do their dirty work.”

“Actually, I did make my driver bring me.” His face softened. “Come on. Just give me a chance. I swear I’ll be on my best behavior.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Your virtue shall remain intact unless you wish it otherwise.” Sparkles shone from under his half-hooded eyes, and my core tightened.

Shit. Those eyes. So freaking sexy. I should’ve refused him immediately, but I hesitated, the rebuttal lodging in the back of my throat.

With a lazy, almost feline grace, he propped his shoulder against the doorjamb and leaned forward.

The scent of leather assaulted my nose, and I concentrated on my breathing and tried not to shiver with delight.

“If you say no, I’ll be forced to serenade outside your door with one of my favorite songs, ‘Push All Night.’ If so, I’m afraid it might draw a rather large crowd.” His head tilted, and that heated stare met mine. “Once the media gets wind, you’d have quite the mess on your doorstep.”

I slammed the door in his face. He wouldn’t really sing that song. Angry Gods always had some sort of sexual innuendos threaded through most of their hits, but that one was barely veiled and one of their biggest singles.

With a deep breath, I twisted around and leaned the back of my shoulders against the door, closing my eyes, hoping he’d leave me in peace. Something about him made me antsy, and again I wished I’d refilled my prescription. Tomorrow, I’m calling Dr. Huntington’s office.

“Oh, woman you got me up all night,” he scream-sang in his trademark style, a mixture of half-growl and clear alto. “I love that slow smile you spread for me—”

“Dear God.” In two seconds, I had the chain out of its cradle and jerked open the door. “Get in here right now before someone hears you,” I hissed.

With a wink and a mischievous smirk, he pranced inside.

I stuck my head out to ensure we were without an audience. To my chagrin, three college-aged girls stood frozen, eyes wide and staring at the spot Viktor had just vacated. They snapped out of their trance or whatever it was and ran toward me.

“Oh, my freaking God,” a girl with candy-apple red lips exclaimed. “Was that Viktor Farrow?” She clasped her hands under her chin and fluttered her lashes, tilting her head to try and get a glimpse of the inside of my apartment.

Another one, dressed in Daisy Dukes and a blue halter top, sprinted right behind her friend and stopped. “Can we say hi, or at least get his autograph?” Her bright eyes pleaded.

I retreated and slammed the door, locking it quickly. That leathery, woody scent of his circled around me.

“Hmm.” His breath stirred the hairs on the back of my neck, sending hot tingles down my spine. “It seems I’m not as washed up as some would believe.”

I turned to meet his stare, giving a small shrug. “There’s no accounting for poor taste.” I maneuvered around him and headed to the kitchen. What the hell was I doing with Viktor Farrow in my cheap-ass apartment? No doubt he’d sneer as soon as he took in the worn carpet, frayed furniture, and chipped countertops.

Reaching to the cabinet above my head, I fished around for two glasses. When my fingertips brushed against the edge of a couple, I pulled them out and set them on the counter. Am Ientertaining him now? The better question, though—what was his real motivation for dropping by?

I was a nobody, as he’d practically pointed out earlier, so I felt out of my depth with uncertainty.

“How the hell do you manage to cook anything in this cramped kitchen?” He stood in the doorway, and his tall form made the area seem even smaller. His presence lingered in the air and wrapped around me with a seductive embrace…or a clunky chain. I couldn’t decide which.

“It’s perfectly fine for me and Marky.” I popped a hot chocolate in the coffee maker then poured water in the reservoir, doing my best to ignore Farrow.

“Who’s Marky?” His tone of voice dropped to a growl, and he slid closer, his upper arm brushing mine.

The water heated, creating a soft hiss as it cycled.

Unable to stop myself, I looked upward into his face, following the line of his square jaw to the prominent cheekbones and sexy eyes. He really is spectacular.

“Well?” He pushed his head closer to mine, craning his neck downward, nearly planting his nose against my face. Some emotion flashed in his eyes. Anger? That didn’t make sense.

“Marky’s my cat.”

His shoulders sagged, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

What’s with him? Where’s that pissed-off rocker from the studio?

I fidgeted and shifted my feet, listening to the percolating water. With a thump, my phone fell to the floor, landing on Viktor’s boots.

That damn rip in my robe.

Before I could bend to retrieve the phone, Viktor crouched and held it in his palm, his eyes scouring the screen.

“Thanks.” I held out my hand.

“Hmm, what do we have here?” A corner of his mouth tipped upward as he tilted the screen toward him. “Have you been a naughty little angel listening to my record?”

Oh, dear God. He saw what I’d been listening to. Karma, you’re such a bitch. “Gimme that. Now.”

Slowly, he stood. A self-satisfied gleam shone from his gaze, and he propped a hip against the counter. “Why? I think this night needs a little music. Shall I push Play so we can listen to your brilliant choice?”

With a snarl, I thrusted my hand forward and snatched the phone away, my face a burning inferno.

“It was suggested by the app’s algorithm. Not like I went out looking for your crappy record.” Stuffing the phone in the opposite pocket, I bit my tongue to keep my mouth shut.

“Hmm.” His tone changed to playful, but he dropped the subject.

Thank God.

When the hot chocolate finished dripping, I grabbed the mug and handed it to him, thankful for something to do. “Sorry. I don’t have anything stronger.”

Dazzling me with a sensual smile, he took the cup, his fingertips skimming over mine, sending a zip of electricity racing across my skin. “Don’t need anything stronger, Angel. Not anymore.”

“Sure.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve heard that onebefore.” Once an addict or alcoholic, always an addict or alcoholic.

He stepped back a few inches and propped a shoulder against the wall, peering at me over the rim of his hot chocolate and sipping slowly, his stance a hunting jaguar waiting to pounce.

I broke the stare and concentrated on making another mug. My hands shook, and it took me two times to get the cup positioned into the holder.

“Having trouble finding the hole?” His leathery scent, along with a hint of cologne, wafted to my nose. The heat from his body, now only a few inches from mine, felt like a fireplace roaring to life against my skin. “I never have that issue. Sometimes, you must work it a bit, get it loosened up.” He bit his bottom lip and grinned, creating tiny crinkles at the corners or his eyes.

His deft hands twisted the plastic cup around then, with an index finger, he pressed the lid in place.

I shoved my fists into my old, ratty bathrobe’s pockets, wiggling a finger through one of the tears, unwilling to meet his eyes again. Am I really standing here with Viktor Farrow in my kitchen helping me make hot chocolate? Why am I not angrier at him for barging in on me?

“Mr. Farrow—”

“Uh-uh.” He wagged an index finger. “It’s Viktor, Angel.” He bent to the counter and placed both elbows on the top, angling his body so he could stare into my face.

“Okay, fine, Viktor.” I paused for a moment. His name on my tongue felt good, and that worried me. Nothing about this man should feel good.

He smiled, as if he also enjoyed the way his name sounded coming from my mouth.

I had to do something—anything—to stop whatever the hell this was. I would not fall for another man so similar to my ex, even if he was a sinfully sexy playboy and made my heart pound in my chest.