A Wild Affair

'And when you do, I suppose you only listen to classical music?' he enquired, and she saw from the quick look she gave him that he was mocking her again, little teasing glints of gold showing around the fathomless black pupils of those eyes. 'Solid stuff, of course,' he said, pretending to think seriously about it. 'Beethoven or Mozart?'

'Don't put words into my mouth!' she flared, very pink. 'I didn't say anything of the kind. I listen to all sorts of music so long as it's easy on the ear.'

'But I'm not,' he supplied, and she eyed him with wrathful reluctance.

'You know very well you are!' He knew, of course, how could he fail to know? He was one of the top recording stars of America and was beginning to be the most popular male singer over here in England, too, although this was his first big tour of Europe. 'You're…' she broke off, biting her lip at his wry smile.

'Go on, Miss Jones,' he mocked. 'I can't wait to hear your verdict.'

'You're not interested in what I think—why should you be?' She was finding his intimate, teasing amusement distinctly nerve-racking, and decided to change the subject. 'I suppose you have to rehearse before your tour starts?'

He did not fail to notice the deliberate introduction of a red herring, but although his eyes gleamed with laughter he answered. 'We kick off in Liverpool in three days' time and go on to some gigs in a couple of other big cities before we go back to London to finish with the big concert.'

'That's sold out, isn't it?' asked Quincy, having read as much in the newspapers. His concerts had been a sell-out within days of the tickets being put on the market and there was a big black market in tickets, she had heard, with people paying fantastic, inflated prices to get hold of one.

Bobby came charging into the room, an album under his arm, and held it out to Joe Aldonez. 'Could you write something across the cover, Joe, not just sign your name?'

Quincy looked at the album furiously—she forgot that she had just told Joe that she didn't like his singing and, her temper soaring, snapped: 'Bobby, you've been in my room again, how many times have I told you to leave my things alone?' Only as she realised what she had said did she stop, her mouth open in a gasp of dismay, meeting the amused gaze of dark eyes and flushing hotly.

'It's yours, is it?' Joe asked softly, watching the colour running up her face with unhidden enjoyment.

'Yeah, it's hers,' Bobby admitted. 'She nearly drove us nuts since she bought it, playing it over and over again.'

It was his most recent album; the record sleeve carrying only a single dark red rose lying against a background of soft black velvet—the image conveying exactly the sexy sound of his voice.

Quincy would have liked to sink down through the floor and never be seen again. She looked at her brother vengefully, and Bobby backed, keeping a wary eye on her. 'But you will autograph it, won't you, Joe?'

'I'd be delighted,' Joe drawled. While they watched he wrote something across the top of the cover, signed his name with a flourish born, Quincy imagined, from autographing a thousand souvenirs, and handed the record back to Bobby, who grinned ear to ear, muttered: 'Thanks, Joe,' and bolted before Quincy could demand her record back. She was dying to know what Joe had written. As soon as he had gone she would pursue Bobby to his lair and retrieve her record before he could auction it or swap it for something he considered more desirable.

The coffee began to make violent noises of impending explosion. She switched it off and Joe took the tray for her through to the sitting-room. She followed, wishing they would all leave. They were visitors from an alien civilisation, as out of place in her quiet little world as she knew she would be in the world they obviously inhabited. Joe might only be wearing black jeans and a white shirt, covered by a black leather jacket fitting tightly at the waist, but she could guess that his clothes were not off the peg: they were designer-made, their cut and fit elegant and sleek. His shirt was silk and clung to that lean, muscled body like a second skin and he breathed an air of sophisticated assurance, wearing the clothes with a casual panache which didn't care what he wore, so certain of himself that she felt he would have looked just as good in shabby, well-washed jeans and an old sweater. Carmen Lister had the same cool, chic certainty about herself.

It wasn't what they wore—it was how they wore it that counted.

Billy Griffith got up as she entered the room and smiled at her. Joe glanced at him, his winged brows lifting in question. 'How are things coming?'

'I've explained how difficult it would be for us to change all the publicity now,' Billy Griffiths said smoothly. 'Mr and Mrs Jones understand the position.' Quincy stared at him and did not much like what she saw. He looked calm and serene, but under his smile he was tempered steel, she sensed, tough and unbreakable, yet ready to bend if he decided it was necessary. Not someone to cross if you could help it, this man, Quincy thought, his charm was strictly skin-deep and his determination to have his own way absolute. As she sat down he sank back into his own chair and leaned towards her.

'Quincy, we're going to have to throw ourselves on your mercy,' he said, smiling. 'Okay, we jumped the gun, and maybe we shouldn't have announced your name to the press before we'd spoken to you, but how were we to guess there'd been this sort of mix-up? We had the draw this afternoon in London, Joe himself picked you out and the press were there at the time. It seemed a great idea to drive down here and have them around when you heard the news. We took your entry at face value.' He smiled again. 'And a very pretty face it is, too—you don't mind my saying that, Quincy? As soon as we saw the photo, we all said: this is our girl!'

'Photo?' Quincy asked, frowning.

Joe put a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small, crumpled snapshot. She looked at it, appalled.

'Oh, no, Bobby didn't send you that!' It was a very old photograph of herself in jeans and a cotton T-shirt, the dogs cavorting around her, her chestnut hair blown around her heart-shaped face in wild disorder, her eyes wide and bright as she laughed into the camera. 'That was taken years ago, I'd only just left school!'

'You haven't changed,' Joe assured her, and she looked at him with dislike.

'Thank you!'

'You were just what we were looking for,' Billy Griffiths told her. 'A typical fan, someone to represent all of Joe's millions of fans around the world. You're going to live out the dreams of a million women, Quincy.'

Quincy opened and shut her mouth in an attempt to speak, but she was so angry her voice had gone on strike, she couldn't get a word out, and while she was still in her dumbstruck state, Billy Griffiths said: 'Sit down next to Quincy, Joe, I'm sure she's dying to know what we've got in store for her.

'

You bet I am, Quincy thought, wondering if she should escape now and lock herself in her bedroom, or wait until these steamrollers in human form had departed before announcing that she was not going through with whatever horrific plans they had up their sleeves.

Mrs Jones poured the coffee and handed round the cups. Joe sat down and glanced sideways at Quincy, his long lashes sweeping against his tanned skin. 'The general idea is for you to come up to London, have your hair done and buy an evening dress…'