Leather Pants

  Mike and Judge Wright both dropped their smiles, looking surprised to see her.

  Mike instantly rebounded with a courteous smile. “Judge Alma, so nice to see you again.”

  “Same here,” she said. “And, Judge Wright, I didn’t realize you were such great friends with Mike. How interesting.”

  Judge Wright narrowed his eyes at her. “San Francisco isn’t that big of a city, Judge Alma. Everyone knows everyone.”

  He had a valid point.

  Sarah bobbed her head, noting the tension in the air. “I was hoping I might steal Mike away. I’m dying to dance, and I hear he’s quite the waltz master,” she lied.

  “I doubt I can be called a master, but I wouldn’t break your toes,” Mike said.

  “Great. If you’ll excuse us, then?” Sarah smiled at Wright, who continued glaring as if she were a bug that needed squashing.

  She took Mike’s arm, and they headed toward the dance floor off in the corner of the large ballroom.

  “What was that about?” Mike asked.

  “Before I answer, how well do you know Wright?”

  “Uhhh…I don’t know. He’s a Stanford alum. We sit on a few committees together, including one that does pro bono work for charities like the Wade Foundation. Why?”

  “Would you call yourselves close friends?”

  “Not particularly.”

  They stepped on the dance floor, and Sarah turned to face Mike. The two began waltzing, joining about twenty other couples, including Luci and Jack.

  “Well,” Sarah said, “what if I were to tell you that Wright might have crossed a few lines in order to keep your brother out of jail?”

  Mike lifted his brows. “I’d say I wasn’t surprised. He seemed genuinely interested in helping my brother when I mentioned our problem.”

  What? “You asked for his help?”

  “I told him that if Colt doesn’t do this tour, we’ll lose a lot of money.”

  So was Mike one of Wright’s “friends” who’d been part of his motivation to blackmail her? There was only one way to find out.

  “He threatened me, Mike. He told me if Colt doesn’t cross the finish line, I’ll lose my bench.” She held back mentioning the video, mostly because it was too embarrassing and, besides, the nature of the threat didn’t really matter. A threat was a threat.

  Mike leaned down a bit and spoke quietly in her ear. “Wright can be a little over the top, especially if you get in the way of his political career, but I’m sure he’ll keep his word, Sarah. That video is safe in our hands as long as you make sure Colt finishes his time—good move, by the way, switching his community service to your friend’s place. Makes it easier to ensure he gets a sign-off at the end of all this.”

  Sarah stopped moving, and her mouth hung open. “You know about all this?”

  “Who do you think got hold of the video and gave it to Wright? It’s my job to protect my biggest client’s interests, Sarah. And it’s in Colt’s best interest to kick off his world tour on time.”

  What a fucker.

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder and noticed a pair of intense hazel eyes staring at her over in the crowd. It was Colt, and he looked like he was about to genuinely ignite.

  Mike continued, “And I suggest you keep this to yourself. Colt won’t react well if he finds out you were helping him only to keep from losing your job. He thinks you’re special.” Mike pinched her chin and stared into her eyes. “I can see why my brother remembers you. You look like you’d be a good fuck. I understand they have excellent bathrooms here if you’re interested.”

  Sarah felt the rage bubbling up. Motherfucker was the one who’d convinced Wright to blackmail her? Motherfucker was trying to make sure Colt showed up at the concert on time.

  “I don’t get it,” she seethed. “Why not tell your brother what’s at stake? Why all of this…underhanded bullshit?”

  “The last thing he needs is to get his hands dirty or have more pressure—it won’t help him come around and there’s a lot of money tied up in this tour.”

  In other words, all he cared about was the money. “You really think Colt is going to get better in time for the concert?” she scowled.

  “We’ve got a few more weeks to find out. If not, I’ll come up with something. You just worry your pretty little head about making sure my brother finishes his service.”

  “Why does it matter? You’d just have Wright fix it—waive his sentence or something.”

  “Wright has been very helpful, but I doubt he’ll risk helping my brother again or looking weak in front of his politician friends. And he won’t get personally involved.” Mike lowered his hand from the small of her back to her ass and gave it a smack. “That’s why we needed you, little Sarah. So play nice.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Sarah, Mike, what’s going on?” Colt stood there next to them; meanwhile the other couples danced around the three.

  Sarah had no clue what to say. The truth seemed appropriate, but now…but now? Crap. Colt was not in a good place. He was still trying to recover from his accident, and if it was all psychological at this point, a trauma-induced condition, her telling him about his horrible brother—blackmailing her and manipulating him—would only make things worse for Colt.

  Damn. I feel so protective over him. This can’t be good.

  Sarah pasted on a smile. “Sure. Everything’s fine.”

  “Then why the hell are you standing in the middle of the dance floor looking like you want to punch his face?” Colt asked.

  Sarah blinked and looked at Mike.

  “Uhhh…” Sarah drew a blank.

  Mike cut in, “I asked her if it’s true about her being naked under her robe.”

  “Mike, you’re a fucking asshole,” snarled Colt. “I don’t know why I told you about that.”

  “What?” Mike shrugged innocently. “It was a joke. Right, Sarah? You’re not really mad.”

  Sarah shook her head. This guy…what a slimeball.

  “No. I’m not mad,” she said through her teeth.

  The song ended and Bennett Wade went up to the microphone and began tapping. Taylor stood at his side. “Attention, guests. Attention, everyone.” The room fell silent as the five hundred or so guests turned to listen to their enigmatic host, Bennett Wade. As for Sarah, she felt grateful for the interruption. This entire situation stank of lies. And somehow, it was Colt Young who was being lied to.

  By the person closest to him. It seriously bothered her.

  Bennett cleared his deep voice, and an audible sigh of appreciation erupted from the female guests. “As everyone knows, I generally like to lay on the flattery and gratitude at this event. Each year, this ball brings in over a million dollars for my charity, the Wade Foundation. But this year, thanks to all of your very generous donations, we’ve exceeded two million dollars.” The crowd applauded and made polite woo sounds. “And it comes at a time when our foundation is undertaking its biggest project ever.” Bennett went on to talk about a farming community in Bali, where the money would be used to plant new crops.

  “Anyway,” Bennett looked at Taylor, beaming proudly, “I have so much to be grateful for—my new wife, Taylor, our baby due next month, and the opportunity to dedicate my life to helping others. So this year, I want to give everyone a wish instead of my thanks. My wish is that each of you finds the same joy I’ve been blessed with.” Bennett looked like he might tear up. Sarah absolutely couldn’t believe it. Bennett Wade, one of the toughest businessmen on the planet, was getting emotional?

  Bennett grabbed Taylor and kissed her deeply, eliciting a giant woo-hoo from the crowd. He returned to the microphone. “Now I hate to put one of our generous donors on the spot, but I think I must. Mr. Colt Young has made a commitment of one hundred thousand dollars!”

  The crowd turned toward Colt and applauded. For a fraction of a moment, Colt looked like he had no clue what was happening. He smiled and gave a wave.

  What the hell? Sar
ah thought.

  “Hey, Colt!” someone yelled from the crowd. “How about a song?”

  Instantly, the entire room began chanting, “Song, song, song.”

  “No. But thank you, everyone.” Colt continued smiling and waving at everyone as if to say “not a chance.” But Sarah could see it in his eyes: Fear.

  Wait. If Colt couldn’t remember much, perhaps he couldn’t remember his lyrics, either. He had said he hadn’t played guitar in over a year.

  She leaned in and whispered, “Colt, did you forget your music, too?”

  He gave her a quick look, almost like he wasn’t happy she’d figured it out. He wanted to keep it a secret.

  He needs to keep it a secret. Ohmygod. Poor guy. Sarah suddenly felt like if anyone in this world deserved a little compassion, it was Colt. The accident, his horrible brother, and the loss of being able to perform his music—something she knew to be his passion—the guy really needed a break.

  Not wanting to see him pressured to death or suffer, Sarah beelined for the small stage. “Hi, everyone!” Sarah yelled into the mic over the chanting. “I am very sorry to inform you that Colt’s not allowed to play due to contractual commitments that prohibit it.” She pointed to Mike. “His lawyer is that constipated-looking man standing next to him, if you’d like to direct any disappointment his way.”

  The room began booing Mike, who did not look pleased at all.

  Fucker. I’d give them all rotten tomatoes if I could.

  Sarah looked over at Bennett apologetically. It seemed his heartfelt speech and a potentially awesome moment for his charity ball had been overshadowed by the crowd, who all wanted a piece of Colt and weren’t going to get it.

  “But I’ll sing for you!” Sarah blurted out, having absolutely no clue what had gotten into her. Maybe you’re the brain-damaged one and you don’t know it! (A) her singing sounded like a rabid cat being bathed in hot water while being stuck with knitting needles and (B) she hated singing. It made her feel corny and stupid.

  “‘My Heart’s on Fire’!” someone yelled out.

  Oh God. That was a Colt Young song. His number one single from last year.

  Uh-uh. No way. “How about ‘Row, Row, Row Your—’”

  “‘Heart’s on Fire’!” some other idiot yelled.

  “Okay, I am a superior court judge, not a singer. You know I can’t meet your expectations. And no way am I going to sing it in front of that man.” She pointed to Colt, but her pleas fell on tipsy ears.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Bennett and Taylor, who were not looking happy. These events were all about making sure people had a nice time, mingled, and opened up those wallets.

  Crap. She was not getting out of this, was she?

  “Okay,” she yelled, rolling her eyes and laughing bitterly—at herself, life, and the situation. Leave it to her to want to help someone and end up being forced to sing karaoke in front of the city’s most influential people.

  The chanting continued, and she held out her hands, signaling for them to be quiet. “Fine! Okay. If you stop yelling, you’ll get your song, but I want you to know that if I see any of your faces in my court, you’re all screwed.”

  The crowd laughed, and Sarah turned to the band leader. “‘My Heart’s on Fire’?”

  He gave her the nod. Sadly, they actually knew the song.

  Wonderful. What luck. She faced the crowd, her eyes zeroing right in on Colt’s beautiful, grinning face. Oh God. This is so embarrassing. But at least she’d save him from humiliation.

  She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Fuck. Me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Colt was absolutely stunned. He’d never seen anyone—that he could recall—take the ball and run with it like Sarah had. Most people in that situation would choke on stage if they weren’t used to performing, but not her. She realized she was cornered, accepted her defeat, and took it like a man.

  Or one hell of a sexy wo-man. Who sang like a dying canary. But instead of feeling embarrassed or trying to sound her best, she did the opposite. She hammed up his song—one he frankly couldn’t remember the words to—and went into full cabaret mode. She kicked and waved her arms as she sang. She egged the audience into joining her.

  She was goddamned fearless. I think I’m in love.

  “Well, I have to say, Judge Alma, that I’ve never quite heard my music sound like that before.” He held out a glass of champagne to Sarah as she exited the small stage and gave the applauding room the Pope wave.

  “Don’t even go there,” she snarled with a fake smile, taking the glass.

  “Oh, but I must. That was amazing.”

  “You’re not tone-deaf by any chance, are you?” she asked.

  “If you mean your voice sounds like a slipping fan belt in a 1970s Oldsmobile, then I heard every wretched note.”

  She flipped him off with her eyes. “Is that the thanks I get for—”

  “I loved it, Sarah. I mean that. No one’s ever done something so selfless for me.” She’d saved him from public humiliation. He couldn’t sing songs he didn’t remember.

  “I only hope this is one of those things you forget.”

  He took her glass from her hand, set it down on the tray of a passing waiter, and turned back to her. “That’s the thing, Sarah. I remember you. I remember every minute—even the other night.”

  She blinked at him with her hypnotic blue eyes. “Your memory is coming back?”

  “I’m not sure. I only know that I’ve written everything down about you that I can recall. And when I check my notes again the next day, none of the memories are missing. In fact, I end up remembering more.”

  “More what?”

  Like the way she tried not to look at his lips when he talked or how she blushed when he’d propositioned her the other night. The sound of her laughter when he’d come out of her bedroom dressed like a nerd.

  “More of you,” he replied.

  The band began to play an old ’20s song, ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’ ’ by Fats Waller. It was one of his favorites, though he loved the version Ella Fitzgerald did the most. It had inspired his first number one single, ‘I Am Misbehavin’ ’.

  Ha! I remembered. Sarah definitely had a positive effect on him.

  Colt grabbed Sarah by the waist and pulled her in, tightly holding her to his frame. The heat of her body seeped through the front of his shirt, sending his pulse racing. “I definitely want to remember this.”

  She simply stared up at him, her eyes filled with conflict. “Everyone’s watching us, Colt. We can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Dance at a charity ball? What are they going to do?” He began swaying with her in his arms.

  “They’re going to say things—about our relationship—about me.”

  “I’m sure they will. Especially the men who are all staring at you and those long, long legs of yours.”

  Sarah winced.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing. You can’t mention my legs—it’s a long story.”

  That was a very strange thing to say. “Okay. I’ll never mention your beautiful long legs again.”

  Her one eye twitched.

  He laughed. He loved the way she could say a thousand things with a flick of an eyebrow or narrowing of her eyes.

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Spend the night with me, Sarah. And I promise I won’t mention your legs again. But I will lick them.” Now that he had started to remember all of the tiny details—her soft breasts in his mouth, her firm ass in his hands, her warm, tight pussy sheathed around his cock—he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  “And, for the record,” he added, “I really don’t give a crap what people think about us being together.” Sure, they’d think it was a little strange for a guy with his image—leather-pants-wearing reckless rock star—to be dating someone so straightlaced, but that was the thing about Sarah, she made him realize how much he needed this in his life. Something real. I need something real. His job was tw
enty-four seven; playing the role was twenty-four seven. He needed someone to remind him that he was not that image.

  He was Colt Young, the guy who grew up in a small town outside of Albuquerque. His father died when he was four, leaving him, his mother, and his twin brother. To help out their mom, a school secretary with a nothing salary, he did odd jobs on the weekends at his neighbor’s ranch. Mike did the same.

  When it came time for college, Mike got a scholarship to UCLA, and he got a scholarship to Harvard. Mike had been beyond pissed about Colt getting into a better school, but it was nothing compared to how angry he became when Colt changed his mind in the eleventh hour. He’d decided to pursue a music degree instead. Music was his passion, and he didn’t want to waste his life doing something he didn’t love.

  So he decided to teach music—that was the plan—but one visit to his brother in LA on a long weekend changed it all. He’d gone into a dive bar with Mike and some of his brother’s friends, and it just so happened to be open mic night. Colt, filled with one too many beers, decided to get up on the stage and play with a borrowed guitar. He remembered the feeling of every note leaving his mouth, the taste of cigarettes in the air, the clanking of glasses being stacked behind the bar. He remembered everything about those three minutes that night and how he felt singing for an audience. It wasn’t even his song—some Van Morrison tune he’d learned to play—but it didn’t matter. He owned the room for a handful of breaths, and when it all ended, he realized he’d reached inside those people—their minds and hearts—and connected to them on a level he didn’t know possible. The applause and whistling overwhelmed him, but another surprise awaited him: a record producer who wanted to see him and talk right away. The rest was history. And that was who he was. Just some guy from a small town who got lucky.

  Maybe it took forgetting and the accident to remember that. In either case, he knew what people would think—badass rock stars don’t date judges—but he didn’t care. Besides, his PR team would spin it into something beneficial. He could see the tabloid headlines now: Colt Young “Don’t fight the law. Screw the law!”