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Overview
Most musicians would do anything to work with the hot, young record producer known as "Rolling Deep." R.D. can pick and choose any artist he wants—and he wants Laurel Raineau. A classical violinist, Laurel plays soaring music that touches R.D. to his very soul. But the last thing Laurel wants is to work with someone whose exploits with the ladies appear in the tabloids every week.
Not one to take no for an answer, R.D. keeps trying—and failing—to let Laurel know that he's not the player he's made out to be. So he introduces himself to her by his real name, Zachary Wilder, hoping to win her over. But it's Zach who falls under this beauty's spell. Now it's only a matter of time before Laurel learns who the man she's losing her heart to really is—but can she walk away from a passion that feels so right?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429925945 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/04/2024 |
| Series: | The Grayson Friends Novels , #4 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 289 |
| Sales rank: | 233,654 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Francis Ray is the New York Times bestselling author of the Grayson novels, the Falcon books, the Taggart Brothers, and Twice the Tempation, among many other romances. Her novel Incognito was made into a movie aired on BET. A native Texan, she is a graduate of Texas Woman's University and has a degree in nursing. Besides a writer, she is a school nurse practitioner with the Dallas Independent School District. She lives in Dallas.
Read an Excerpt
It Had To Be You
By Francis Ray
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2010 Francis RayAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2594-5
CHAPTER 1
She haunted him.
There were times when he could think of nothing else. She was passionate one moment, spurning him the next. She drew him, excited him.
And he couldn't have her.
On the telephone in his home office in the hills outside of Los Angeles, Zachary Albright Wilder paced the length of the spacious hickory-paneled room, his anger growing with each agitated step. "What do you mean she won't work with me?" he snapped. "Deliver me from divas."
"Now, Rolling Deep," Oscar Winters, his agent, soothed, using Zach's professional nickname. "Forget this one and move on. After two weeks of not taking my phone calls, I was finally able to corner Laurel Raineau's agent and pull from the sharp-tongued woman that it's your reputation with women and for hard partying that has Raineau backing off. Her agent said that your image isn't the kind she wants associated with her classical music."
"What!" Zachary came to a complete stop and shoved his hand through the thick, straight black hair that brushed the collar of his shirt. "We're in the twenty-first century for goodness' sake! Sure, I go out with a lot of women, but I'd be suicidal if I was intimate with all of them. I couldn't possibly party as much as the media says or I wouldn't have a wall full of platinum and gold records I've produced."
"Just what I told her agent," Oscar agreed.
"It's not my fault the media chooses to go with what titillates and sells more magazines and newspapers or boosts ratings on the radio or TV rather than the truth," he said, moving across the handwoven silk rug in front of his massive cherry desk. "To have them tell it, I've slept with every female artist I've ever produced, and in my spare time there are the movie starlets and heiresses."
"I tried to tell her agent it was all hype, R.D."
R.D., Rolling Deep, the moniker given to him by one of the first clients he'd ever worked with, a hard-core hip-hop artist whose hero was Scarface. The name stuck as Zach worked with more and more musicians who came from the street — or who wanted people to believe they had.
"Perhaps it's the name." He rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't thought about it much. To him, the nickname simply meant he didn't have to look to anyone to cover his back. However, he was certain no one feared him. It was the exact opposite. When he went out, he was usually swarmed by autograph seekers or approached by hopeful musicians. He'd changed his cell phone number again just last week because of so many unwanted calls. Twenty-four-hour staffed security at the gated entrance of his home wasn't ego, but necessary to maintain his privacy.
"But your name is known all over the world. You have the golden, or should I say the platinum, touch." Oscar chuckled.
"It seems Laurel Raineau didn't get the memo," he said sarcastically. He'd promised himself long ago that he'd never let his success go to his head. He'd seen it wreak havoc with too many lives. Your star could fall even faster than it rose.
"Forget her," Oscar said again. "In two months you go back into the studio with Satin to do her next album. She was at Mr. Charu's last night and asked about you."
Zach grunted. The restaurant in LA was one of "the" places to be seen. The very reason Zach seldom went there anymore. Satin had the voice of an angel and the sexual appetite of a succubus. While working with her on her last album he'd flatly told her that if she didn't stop coming on to him, he was walking. He had never been intimate with a client and he didn't intend to start.
He should just move on as Oscar said, but he couldn't. Despite her snobbish attitude, when Laurel Raineau picked up a violin, it was pure magic. The music drew you, moved you. Passion and fire.
Laurel was five foot three and probably weighed 110 pounds soaking wet with all of her clothes on. Yet her music was more powerful than any he had ever heard, and he'd listened to and played musical instruments for as long as he could remember.
For personal and professional reasons he wanted to produce her next album. As a free agent, he was in a position to pick and choose his projects. There was a long list of musical entertainers from every genre who wanted to work with him.
All except Laurel Raineau. That stopped today. "Did you get her address?"
"I did," Oscar answered, relief in his voice that he had been able to do at least one thing his biggest client had asked. "It's a couple of miles from you, actually." He gave him the address.
Zach was moving behind his desk before his agent finished. "Hold." He pressed the intercom to the garage. "Toby, bring the car around immediately."
"Be right there, Zach."
Toby Yates, friend, former drag car racer, and chauffeur, was one of the few people who called Zachary by his name. "Talk to you later, Oscar."
"If you took no for an answer, you wouldn't be where you are today. Bye."
Zachary disconnected the call and headed for the front door. Ms. Snob wouldn't find it so easy to ignore him. She'd have to tell him to his face all the crap she'd said about him — if she had the courage.
Opening the twelve-foot door, Zachary quickly went down the fourteen steps to the waiting black Bentley. Toby was there with the back door open, as Zach had known he'd be.
"Thanks." Zachary practically dove inside. He didn't need a chauffeur most of the time, but there were occasions when he was working on a song, was too tired after seemingly endless hours in the recording studio, or was with a client who he didn't want to drive. It also gave Toby a reason to stick to his sobriety. He'd been with Zach ever since Zach came to LA against his father's wishes to make a name for himself in the music industry.
Zach's fist clenched. He'd done what he'd set out to do, but the rift between him and his father was never mended before his death.
The car pulled off smoothly and started down the long drive. The iron gates swung open. He gave Toby the address. He wouldn't need a GPS system. He'd grown up in LA and knew the streets well.
In a matter of minutes Toby turned up a steep hill that gradually leveled off. Up ahead was the ambiguous iron gate. Zach felt a muscle leap in his jaw. Toby pulled up until the back window of the car was even with the speaker box.
Zach rolled down the window and punched the black button. "Zachary Wilder to see Ms. Raineau."
"Ms. Raineau is unavailable."
Zachary held on to his temper. It wouldn't do any good to blow. The person was just following orders. "Perhaps if you'd tell her who is calling, she might change her mind."
"The answer would be the same" came the droll reply.
Patience. "If you would please just tell her."
"Sir. She is unavailable and this conversation is over."
Zachary locked the curse behind his lips. If he ever got his hands on Ms. Snob, he'd have a few choice words with her. He sat back in his seat. "Home."
Toby pulled off and started back down the road. Arms folded, Zachary slumped back in his seat. Somehow, some way, he was going to talk to her.
"Zach, a stretch limo just came out of the gate."
Zach shot up in his seat. Sure enough, there was a black limo behind them. The car could have dropped her off or anyone else off or have someone else inside. "Once we're on the street, follow it and don't let it get away."
Toby snorted, straightened his mirror. "You're such a kidder."
Zach grinned. Toby lived for speed. He might not have a GPS system, but he did have the latest radar detector.
The limo passed, and although Zach already knew he wouldn't be able to see inside, he leaned closer to the window. "Can you tell if it's a car service or private?"
"Service," Toby answered.
The chances went up that Laurel might be in the car. People who were as successful as she usually had a personal driver. They tended to be more loyal and they were on hand whenever you needed them, but Laurel hadn't been in LA long enough to hire a driver.
"He's taking the exit to LAX."
Better and better. Zachary watched the limo take the lane for departing international flights. "Ten bucks says Ms. Snob is in that car."
"Not this time," Toby said good-naturedly. "I always lose when I bet with you."
Laughing, sensing he'd run Laurel to ground at last, Zach scooted forward in the backseat. "I've got you now."
"The paparazzi are always hanging out here. You're going to have to be fast on your feet to get past them," Toby warned.
As a part member of a chart-topping band, and now a producer for many of the top musical stars, he received a lot of attention.
Zach had always been courteous in the past. It was better that way. However, today he had no intention of letting the horde with cameras and mikes slow him down.
The limo inched its way over to the curb and parked. Toby muscled the Bentley in ahead of a Jaguar. The man in the car laid on his horn in protest. "You better hurry. I'll circle."
Zach was already reaching for the door handle. On the sidewalk he hurried toward baggage check-in for first-class passengers. He didn't see her until a guy who looked like he could bench-press five hundred pounds and not break a sweat moved to reveal a delicately shaped woman wearing large-rimmed sunglasses, a short-brimmed woven hat edged with black ribbon, a white blouse, and slim black pants. On the other side of her was a twin to the first guy.
Laurel Raineau. Victory. Grinning, Zach moved to follow her into the terminal. He made it within five feet of her before one of the twin samurai faced him, blocking his way. He moved to step around him. The man moved with him.
"You're in my way," Zachary said.
The man said nothing.
Zachary tried to look past or over him, but that was impossible. He was a yard wide. "Should I call airport security?"
The bodyguard folded his massive arms.
"Rolling Deep!" a female voice screeched. "It's Rolling Deep!" The cry was taken up by another and another. If he had miraculously managed to escape the attention of the paparazzi earlier, he was in for it now.
A crowd converged on him. Cameras flashed. The bodyguard moved back, then turned and walked away. There was no way Zach could continue. People would follow. If he got close to her again, her bodyguards would stop him. He was sure security was nearby, watching to see that things remained relatively calm.
All he'd need was Laurel seeing him having an altercation with the authorities. She already thought the worst of him. Swallowing his disappointment, he signed any paper and legal body parts presented to him.
Laurel had managed to escape him.
Later that night, on the balcony of his house, Zachary stood with a bourbon glass in his hand and gazed out at the sprawling lights of Los Angeles below. He'd purchased the home a couple of years ago for the view and the isolation. Sometimes he needed to get away, and Cliff House, as he'd come to call his home, allowed him to do just that.
He needed both tonight. He'd been a few feet away from Laurel and hadn't been able to talk with her. No one probably had. He didn't think it was because her two scary bodyguards would deter a real autograph hound.
The mere fact that she had bodyguards should have put the media and the autograph seekers on full alert. That hadn't happened. Her last album, as had all the rest, might have gone platinum, but her audience wasn't the screaming, in-your-face type wanting you to sign their bodies.
He had nothing against his fans. They just expressed their pleasure in different ways. Pity. Laurel might be snobbish, but her music deserved to be heard by the masses.
And she thought him beneath her. Just as his own father had. Zach's hand clenched the glass. His father had called the hip-hop and pop music he produced "useless noise."
Having a man you looked up to dismiss your passion, hurt. They'd never managed to get past their differences. At the time of his father's death, they were still estranged.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons Zachary wanted to produce Laurel's next album. His father had loved classical music. Oddly, it was her music that soothed and touched Zach more than anything else after his father's death.
Zachary had been working late one night — at least trying to — when he'd heard the haunting sound of a violin. He'd looked up from the keyboard to the large-screen TV he'd forgotten he had on.
Her dark head was bent, her eyes half closed, her lips slightly parted as if held in the grip of passion. He'd risen and walked closer to the fiftytwo-inch screen and just stood there, mesmerized by the sounds she seemed to effortlessly coax from her instrument. She was a stunning combination of cool beauty and gut-wrenching passion. Her black hair was drawn away from a knockout face with ice-pick cheekbones, full lips, and a dainty nose. Her floor-length ball gown had been eye-popping red.
He'd reached for the remote control and hit RECORD, chastising himself for being so slow to react. Once her segment was over he'd booted up his computer, found her Web site, and purchased all seven of her albums. They were good, but he'd always felt that she had held back. He suspected that, like many musical artists, Laurel performed better in front of a live audience. Her producer should have understood and worked to get her to bring that same incredible fire to the studio.
The idea of him being that producer had taken root when he'd read that she had rented a home in LA to work on her next album. But she wanted nothing to do with him. He sipped his drink. Somehow, some way, he'd change her mind. Like Oscar said, a no didn't deter him.
Behind Zachary, the phone on his nightstand rang. Ice cubes clinked against the crystal as he sipped his iced tea. In the old, foolish days he'd let everyone believe it was bourbon. Those days of trying to fit in or impress people were long gone. Now people tried to impress him.
Except one beautiful woman.
"Hello, Zachary. You didn't return my call last week. I really need to talk to you. Call me."
Zachary took another sip and thought about dumping his tea and adding the real deal. These days Carmen could try the patience of a saint. She was too clingy, too needy, and perpetually in a funky mood. A lifetime ago she had tossed the engagement ring he'd bought her back in his face and stomped on his pride with her stiletto heels. He'd been just out of college and ready to conquer the world. She'd given him a fast reality check.
They had been lovers for six months. He'd thought she loved him as much as he loved her, and would gladly follow him to LA. He was wrong. She thought he was crazy for planning to go off on his own and leave his privileged life behind. She had no intention of going with him and be bored or do without while he tried to start a music career.
Carmen hadn't left her name on the answering machine, wouldn't have thought she had to. At thirty, beautiful, willful, pampered — she would hate the more accurate word, spoiled — she thought the world revolved around her. Her older husband and the fluctuating economy were giving her a reality check of her own.
The word in their circle of friends in Atlanta was that Carmen wasn't adjusting well to her husband's financial woes. They'd moved to a smaller home, let their house staff go, were down to two cars instead of five, and were no longer members of the country club. Since her parents, who had always catered to their only child, had invested in her husband's business ventures, they were in the same sinking boat.
Zach and Carmen had met again at a party when he'd gone home for Christmas. They hadn't seen each other since that night. She'd tearfully apologized for her behavior and begged him to forgive her. Because he'd long since moved on and was happy with life, he didn't see any reason to hold a grudge.
She'd asked for his phone number to keep in touch and, because she'd looked so miserable, kept dabbing at the tears in her eyes, and was so unlike the fun-loving woman he once wanted to marry, he'd given it to her. Since then she'd called every couple of weeks. He usually called her back the next day, but he wasn't in the mood to hear again how unfair life was. He probably shouldn't have given her his new number.
He had his own sob story.
The answering machine clicked on. If that was Carmen again, he really was getting bourbon.
"Hi, Zach. I just called to say I love you and bug you about visiting us again."
Zachary turned at the animated sound of his younger sister's voice. These days each time he heard Paige's voice, she sounded happier than the last time. Marriage and Shane Elliott agreed with her. He moved toward the phone.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from It Had To Be You by Francis Ray. Copyright © 2010 Francis Ray. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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