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sudden adulation that Murder City Ravens
had attracted recently unnerved him. Some people followed them from gig to gig.
Would they follow them out of the United States, on the next leg of their world
tour? He hated to imagine they would. It went beyond music, verging on stalker
behavior. Fuck, it was stalker behavior. As a rock band, they’d
attracted attention from a select portion of fans, but their recent single had
crossed over to the main charts and to attention on major TV shows. Now the
album was bursting through as well and the resultant attention was getting hard
to handle. This was probably the last time he could get away with going
incognito.
    Adding a light shadow to the crease of the sheet tucked
under her breasts, he remembered how it felt to touch her there, to cradle her
breast in his hand. Bloody good. He’d go in search of her soon. See if she
wanted lunch or breakfast. Brunch, that was it. For people like him who ate
when they were hungry, he was never sure what to call it.
    He glanced back toward the bed. Tomorrow he’d have his first
event as a published author. He’d used his mother’s maiden name for his pen
name and called himself D. G. Ford, although his agent had used extreme
persuasion to try to get him to use the name thousands of fans knew him by. But
he’d wanted the book to succeed on its own. Wanted it badly, and only now that
it had was he willing to come out of the closet.
    So maybe his last chance at anonymity came today, before the
book signing over the weekend. With one last glance at the image of the girl
who’d given him such an incredible time last night, Donovan headed for his
closet and the neatly folded jeans the maid had put there for him.
    Some things about fame and fortune didn’t suck. Someone to
tidy after him was definitely a plus. Not knowing whether a woman wanted him or
Donovan Harvey, member of Murder City Ravens, was firmly in the negative
column.
     
    Allie tapped her foot on the shiny floor at the airport. He
was late. She’d dragged herself out of bed at an unnatural hour, left a rock
god sleeping by her side, only to discover a text after she reached the airport
telling her that “her” author had missed his plane and would arrive an hour
late. She could have used that hour. Styled her hair properly instead of
blasting it with the blow-dryer, had a decent breakfast—or woken Donovan
Harvey.
    This morning she was past groupie. He’d been fantastic,
surpassing all her fantasies, so different from what she’d expected but
delivering in spades. Interested in what she did, funny and, holy hell, so good
between the sheets that he’d knocked her out cold. She hadn’t slept so well
since forever.
    The announcer told everyone that they shouldn’t make stupid
jokes in security and then another one broke in to announce the arrival of the
plane from New York. Thank the Lord. Allie prayed he was on this one.
    He was. Carl Morano, a middle-aged man wearing a Hawaiian
shirt with parrots rampaging over it, hurried out of the exit, toting a huge
briefcase and dragging a small case on wheels.
    She smiled and stepped forward, every inch the publishing
professional, or the best she could do after the best sex of her life. “Mr.
Morano? Hi, I’m Allison Bartz.” She held out her hand but Carl was having none
of it. She found herself grabbed and pulled into a male chest. The second in
two days. Whoop-de-doo. Things might be looking up, if Carl weren’t solidly
married and definitely off-limits.
    “Hi, Allie! After working with you, I feel like you’re one
of my closest friends.” He winked. “Maybe more, hey?” He released her and
grinned. “Thanks for coming to meet me. I could have just got on the shuttle to
the hotel, you know.”
    “Nonsense. Besides, we have things to discuss. It’s your
first panel this afternoon, so we need to get you settled in and registered.
Anything I can do to help, I will.” Briskly she set out for the cab line, her
heels clicking