In the Mood

When Shasta Kovich's big hit shoots to number one, everything looks golden. That is, until her voice fails her under the rigors of her very first concert tour.  Now nothing is guaranteed.  Following surgery, Shasta's forced to endure vocal training from the most infuriating, arrogant man she's ever met or her recording contract is forfeit.

Blake Newcastle doesn't think much of the Goth waif when she lands on his doorstep, but he's pleasantly surprised once they begin working together.  He's the first to sense the untapped depths of her talent.  As Blake draws each exquisite note out of his new siren, their personal and professional lives become more intimately entangled until they're both faced with confronting a future neither anticipated.

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Read the first chapter

Shasta Kovich stood in the quiet hallway, eighteen floors up, staring at the once elegant flocked and foiled wallpaper, and growing more furious by the minute. For ten of those minutes she’d been alternately pressing the doorbell and knocking, without any answer. Now she was on the verge of blowing the top right off her pressure cooker.

She scowled at the art deco sconce on the wall and muttered, “Five more seconds and I’m out of here. This is bullshit!”

“One, two,” she counted, then a door farther down the hall opened and a man’s dark head popped out. Hello.

“Shasta?”

Shit. She was at the wrong door? “Yes,” she said with a definite hiss, even more annoyed now.

He looked her up and down slowly and his upper lip twitched in unmistakable disdain. What the —? Gorgeous did not mean he was automatically excused for something like that. She shifted on her spiked boots and glared back. It was blatantly apparent he didn’t like what he saw. Well who gives a shit? Who the hell does he think he is anyway?

He gave a curt nod of his head, beckoning her over. “You’re late,” he snapped. “And you’re at the wrong door. That’s my private apartment. This is the studio. I thought Sara told you all this.”

Shasta would have stomped her way over if her feet didn’t hurt so damn bad. What a prick. Nobody lectures her. Simmering, she scowled at him. “Must have been lost in translation.”

He stepped back to let her in. The enclosed studio was dead ahead. Looking through the window she saw a piano, music stand, and a couple of chairs. Acoustic tiles covered the walls and ceiling.

“You can hang your coat there.” He pointed to the small closet on her right then went into the studio and took a seat at the piano.

Shasta slipped out of her black leather jacket and hung it up. He swiveled on the bench when she walked in.

“Shut the door.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” Asshole. “Ever hear of the word please?” This guy’s manners sucked.

Blake Newcastle ignored the barb. “Have you been practicing?

She squared her shoulders. “A little.”

That earned a frown. “Let’s hope you didn’t screw up your recovery.”

Shasta’s jaw dropped. The gall! “What?”

“You heard me. You had vocal cord surgery. I don’t want you singing anywhere but here until I’m confident you know what you’re doing—and keep your chit chat to a minimum.”

Shasta was roasting in her gravy now. “Listen up,” she spat. “I have a number one hit. I know what I’m doing.”

“You had a number one hit. It’s already dropped to fourteen, and your concert tour was cut short when you blew out your voice because—” the jerk drew out that word longer than necessary, “you . . . don’t . . . know . . .  dick about singing.”

When all she could do was sputter he bludgeoned on. “I’ve listened to your CD and,” he grunted, “it was painful, but here’s the thing — the music itself wasn’t bad. You have raw talent. Notice, I’m emphasizing raw for a reason. You might even have a future in music if you listen and apply yourself. Otherwise, you’ll just be another in the long line of one hit wonders.”

If she could have burned him where he sat with laser beam eyes, he’d be charred and smoking by now. “I don’t like you very much.”

Nothing. Not even a raised eyebrow. “I don’t care. All I want to know is, will you listen to me and follow direction?”

She could feel the hostility coming out of her pores and she seriously wondered if she’d even be able to buckle under him at this point. After a lengthy stare down, she finally grumbled, “Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to hang onto your record contract.”

“Fine.” She was not happy about this. There had to be someone she could complain to. Sara was definitely going to get an earful.

He spun on the bench and faced the piano. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He hit a key and held it. “Give me a C.”

When she sang it he looked up sharply. “You’re flat. Try again.”

She took another breath and … he frowned. “Don’t you have any ear at all? Listen to this.” He stabbed repeatedly at the key, making her jerk with every irritating blow.

“Again!” He hit the key and finally she satisfied him — briefly. “Hold it as long as you can. Again.”

Shasta sang the single note but it faded out before the piano went silent.

“That’s what I thought,” he grumbled and spun to face her, straddling the bench. “You need to decide whether you want to be a rock star or a musician because you can’t be both.”

“What do you mean?”

“Choose — performer or musician.”

“But they’re the same.”

 “No.” He shook his head. “A performer is an entertainer, conscious of their image. It’s about dancing and theatrics. They have no problem kicking over their equipment and trashing instruments during a show, whereas a musician not only has a broad love of music, but a respect for the tools of their craft. So far you’ve been a performer, utterly abusing your instrument — your voice. A true musician wouldn’t lay their guitar down on its strings. That’s what you’ve been doing.”

His dark eyes bored into her and she looked away. “I want to be a musician,” she mumbled, painfully aware of the distinctions.

“Good.  Let’s see if we can turn you into one. First things first, open your pants.”

“I don’t fucking think so!” She backed away.

He snorted derisively and stood up, walking over to her. “Relax, you’re not my type and this isn’t remotely sexual.”

He walked behind her and stood there. Wary and uncomfortable, she looked over her shoulder at him but his patience was clearly wearing thin because he snapped, “Open those ridiculous leather pants you’ve poured yourself into or I will.”

Shasta undid the fly and just about jumped out of her stiletto heels when his hand came around and settled on her abdomen.

“Breathe.”

Never had she been so conscious of breathing, or of a man’s touch.

He heaved a heavy sigh. “Wrong.”

“How can I breathe wrong?” She was just as exasperated as he sounded.

“You are. You’re paying too much attention to keeping your stomach flat. Put your hand where mine is.”

She placed her hand over her stomach and he covered it with his. A simple, unexpected touch and now her heart was racing. It pissed her off.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

She inhaled, then exhaled, but didn’t notice anything unusual. “Yeah, so?”

“Wrong. All wrong. Inhale.” She drew in a breath and he said sharply. “I said inhale!  Our hands aren’t moving, notice that?”

“My lungs are higher.”

“Your diaphragm is here and you’re only using a fraction of your lung capacity.” He pressed into her abdomen and shoved the air out of her. Thank god she didn’t fart, too.

“Stand up tall and bring the air down lower, full complete breaths. Your shoulders shouldn’t move up and down.”

She tried again.

“Better. Keep going.” He stepped around her and quietly watched for a few minutes.

“Why am I doing this?” Shasta felt ridiculous, not to mention a little light headed.

“Because a person who doesn’t know how to breathe isn’t going to be able to sing.  I want long, sustained, strong notes coming from you and that isn’t going to happen until you learn how to breathe properly. You have an assignment. Every night when you go to bed, I want you to hold your abdomen and focus on how you’re breathing until it becomes so natural you don’t have to think about it anymore. In the meantime, keep your hand on your diaphragm as a reminder.”

He sat down at the piano and hit the C again. “Sing.”

She sang, clear and strong and he turned and nodded. “Good, keep it going. Hold it as long as you can.”

As the note faded away he finally smiled for the first time. She almost cried with gratitude.

“Much better,” he said.

She hated how much his approval meant to her already.

“You can close your pants now,” he said a hint of amusement. “When are you coming again?”

“Thursday.” She turned away with a blush as she zipped her fly.

“Wear comfortable clothes next time. Something comfortable you can actually breathe in — and that includes shoes.” He glanced at her sexy leather boots. “The last thing I want you thinking about here is your Goth image, got it?”

“Goth image,” she muttered then caught the hard look in his eye. “Fine.”

Shasta walked out feeling censured and diminished. The bane of her existence turned back to the keys, his long graceful fingers caressing a sultry jazz number out of the vibrating strings of his piano as the outer door closed behind her.

                                                                                   * * *

Bose dipped her egg roll and flipped her wrist to catch the drip of sauce before it fell. After taking the bite, she had to lick the side of her hand. “That sucks. How were you supposed to know he lived there too?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Shasta grumbled.

“So, are you going to quit sulking and tell me how it went?”

Shasta gave an absent shrug, twirling her fork in the rice and vegetable dish in front of her.  “He seems to know what he’s talking about, but he’s such a dick.”

Bose snorted and brushed her wispy brown bangs out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why do you say that?”

Shasta dropped her fork and reached for her water. “He’s just so unbelievably rude. It’s his tone of voice, the way he talked to me — at me. The guy thinks he’s hot shit. I totally wanted to slam his fingers in the piano or pick up the music stand and bash him over the head with it.”

Bose sputtered on a laugh. “I heard he’s not the only one who thinks he’s pretty hot stuff.”

“No way.” Shasta was lying, of course. He’d set her radar pinging before the first sneer. Her attraction had cooled dramatically after that.

“Way. Dee told me he’s gorgeous.” She watched her friend closely, waiting for the denial.

Shasta set her water down and went after a pea pod, pretending she was indifferent. “If you like that brooding, arrogant type, I suppose he’d qualify.” She looked up. “How would Dee know anyway?”

“Remember, she was going out with that guy from Pyramid Records for a while?”

“What was his name?”

“How should I know? Does it even matter? Anyway, he took her to one of those swanky functions, black tie and all that shit, and she actually met him there.”

“Him who?”

“Blake Newcastle, that’s who, and do you want to know who he was with?”

“Why would I even care?” Damn it, now she was curious.

“Valerie Walters.”

“Shut up!” Shasta stared at her best friend in disbelief.

Her reaction elicited a smile. “I’m totally serious.”

“What would the darling of Broadway be doing with a virtual nobody?”

Bose toyed with her straw and smirked. “I don’t think he’s as unknown as you think he is.”

“Huh.” Shasta sat back and pondered this little nugget of information.

                                                                                    * * *

Hours later, Blake wandered over to his recessed bar and picked up the bottle of brandy, pouring himself a glass. His elegant fingers curled around the crystal and he raised it to his lips, savoring the taste on his tongue.

From there he walked over to the large window overlooking the city. Lights glittered against the black velvet night. It was one a.m. and like so many other nights, he was up, driven to his piano to tinker with the notes that kept him from dropping off to sleep.

He set the glass on top of the instrument and sat at the sleek black baby grand and closed his eyes. His fingers found the keys and he brushed them softly, sensitively, already feeling the hum in his chest before he even drew a single note.

It would begin with an F. He smiled when he pressed the key and it answered the note in his head.

For over an hour he played, he worked, creating music out of thin air.

The bedroom door opened and an exquisite redhead stood leaning against the jamb wearing his discarded shirt, seductively unbuttoned.  The corner of his mouth rose and he spared her a brief glance, then his shoulders moved left with his fluid fingers.

“Come back to bed,” she beckoned softly.

“In a few minutes.” His lashes swept closed and he continued to play, dismissing her from his mind as he returned to the music flowing through him.

                                                                                       * * *

Upset, but not surprised, Valerie glared at the glossy instrument, her only rival for Blake’s attention. Returning to his dark bedroom alone, she knew how it would go. She’d wait until the wee hours of the morning, her hopes for one more round of lovemaking unfulfilled. When he was like this, she wondered if he even remembered she was there.

Why she put up with it, she didn’t know. No, that wasn’t true. She knew all right. When he finally focused on her the way he did that damn piano, he made her body sing, sent her flying to the heavens, holding her there like a suspended note until she vibrated back to earth, weak and dizzy. Sometimes the radiant glow could last for an hour or more afterwards. She’d learned to schedule her photo shoots after spending the night with Blake because he was better than any cosmetic at bringing her beauty to life.

Valerie dropped his shirt to the floor where she’d found it and slid back into bed.  Despondent, she turned on her side and hugged his pillow to her face, inhaling the lingering scent of him and the cologne he favored.

Val cursed herself for her weakness, then Blake, for his indifference.