What happens when a Rock Star in Disguise meets a Billionaire in hiding?
Georgie doesn’t know who she is dating.
At a high society wedding, Georgie Johnson is introduced to Alexandre de Valentinois, a hereditary duke of nothing who flies around the world on his private planes and describes himself as “one of those despicable, idle rich men.” Yet, when pressed, he sings at the wedding in a gorgeous, clear tenor that tugs at Georgie’s soul, and miraculously, he calms her paralyzing stage fright so she can accompany him on the piano, even though she thought she had left her classical music career behind when she went into hiding.
But Alexandre has a dark side. His name is Xan Valentine, and he’s the rock star front man for Killer Valentine. He’s famous, but his paparazzi-dogged lifestyle might expose Georgie and get her killed.
In the elevator, Georgie stood against the back wall while Alex slid a keycard into a slot above the buttons, backed away from her, and stared at the flickering floor display the whole time, which just about drove her insane until she saw the black dome embedded in the ceiling.
Okay, Georgie didn’t want to end up immortalized as a GIF entitled #GetARoom, either. She twirled her purse dangling from her wrist to pass the long, drawn-out, agonizing seconds while the elevator ascended, the increased velocity dragging at her feet.
Far up in the hotel, the elevator doors parted, and Alex seized her hand again and tugged her out of the elevator. Three doors led off the short hallway, and Georgie realized they were up in the suites.
Alex said, “It’s small. The hotel was sold out. Flicka and her wedding party booked the better suites months ago, so I was only able to get a deluxe.”
Georgie’s heart jumped in her chest, and her hands felt empty because she wasn’t touching him. “Just get us in there.”
His grin bore a touch of desperation as he flung open the door and pulled her inside after him.
Georgie caught a glimpse of a blue and white living room and a dining room with a table for six, and the scent of the white rose bundles filled the rooms as Alex pulled her though the suite. In the bedroom, golden silk draped the bed, and a breeze fluttered the white curtains over the window that was open to a view over the skyline of Paris. She tossed her purse on a nightstand.
Alex grabbed her arms, whirling her around, and he pushed her against the closed door and kissed her. The scent of sweet champagne flooded her mouth, and she breathed deeply. His forearms were braced against the door around her head, almost caging her as he bent to her. Georgie wound her arms around his neck, her fingers sliding into his long hair at the back of his neck. Alex groaned against her lips and reared back, then dipped his head to run his teeth over her neck. He shrugged his suit coat off behind himself, the dark blue fabric falling on the carpeting.
She dropped her hand, caressing his side through his shirt. Bulges of muscle rippled under her fingers. Even while his hot mouth blew champagne-scented breath on her neck, Georgie explored his body with her hands. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling the fine cloth out of his waistband, and she ducked her hand under his shirt and soft undershirt beneath.
Ridges of muscle met her palm. He panted against her shoulder as she ran her palms and fingers into the furrows between his abdominals and up to the lean bulges of his pecs.
His hands smoothed over her hips, reaching for the zipper down her backside.
This felt tawdry, a quick fuck at a wedding with the guy she had performed a song with, and that was fantastic. Long-term relationships and even repeat sex weren’t on her agenda. Alex probably lived in Europe, and if they ever ran into each other again, they could be amicable and polite, and he would be just another guy that she used to fuck.