Playing Dirty Read Online Free PDF Page A

band probably wouldn’t make the July 1 deadline for recording their album, due to “malaise.”
    But of course, after all the negative PR, even this hadn’t been the straw that had broken Manhattan Music’s back. It had been the phone call tipping them off that Quentin would quit the band, tearing apart this cash cow of a country supergroup, before they delivered their third album. Sarah was beginning to wonder whether the whistle-blower was Quentin himself, heartbroken by his friends’ betrayal, lost in a fog of drugs, desperate for help. She was determined to find out.
    Steeling herself for her confrontation with the band, she gave herself one last experimental glare in the rearview mirror and stepped out of the convertible with her bag. Shouts and laughter drifted from behind the mansion. They knew she was here because she’d identified herself to an intercom at the gate. She stepped across the driveway, onto slate flagstones between lush plantings that bespoke money, around the side of the mansion, and into a back courtyard with a large pool.
    “Welcome to the house of cards,” a man called to her from a table where the four band members sat. Then, “Ow! Who kicked me?”
    Erin jumped up and hurried toward Sarah with a loud schlop of flip-flops. She wore the Daisy Dukes—that wasn’t just a costume for the album cover, apparently, but everyday wear—and a minuscule T-shirt with no bra for her ample bosom. And a necklace with a small diamond cross, which Sarah thought understated and strange for a redneck woman.
    “Thanks so much for coming!” Erin exclaimed in a chipmunk voice, the high harmony for the group. Sarah could see why the men loved this blond, tiny-voiced, big-breasted girl. And she felt that familiar envy from high school, fresh as yesterday, of beauty queens who were easy with boys.
    Erin tilted her head to one side, long blond ponytail curling around one breast. “We’re sorry you came all this way for nothing. Everything’s great with us. And as you saw when you met Rachel, we don’t need any help with publicity.”
    “Erin,” Sarah said pointedly, “the only publicity the Cheatin’ Hearts have had this year is bad publicity.”
    The three men, whom Sarah could see dimly through the dusk, guffawed and clapped appreciatively. One of them yelled, “Better than nothing!”
    “I disagree,” Sarah called back.
    Erin gave Sarah a cute pout. But Sarah thought she detected a calculating look in Erin’s blue eyes as shechirped, “Well, have a drink while you’re here! Quentin makes a mean margarita.” She drew Sarah by the hand to the table. “This is Quentin, and Owen, and Martin,” she said.
    “I’m Sarah Seville.”
    The men stared dumbfounded at Sarah. Her heart raced. She was used to meeting celebrities, but it was strange to study them all day, then finally meet them, larger-than-life. Especially stars as handsome as these. And after spending years as a mousy jock and only nine months as a sexy PR diva, she still got a small thrill from being gawked at.
    Quentin’s eyes met Sarah’s, then slid rudely down to her breasts and back up. He meant to intimidate her. But he wasn’t doing a very good job. His wide green eyes gave him the look of a small boy at the circus for the first time. She felt her envy of Erin melting away, replaced by power.
    All at once, the three men were scraping back their chairs and standing.
    “Take mine,” a voice said in her ear—the strong melody from the albums, Quentin. A chill coursed from her ear down to her toes. “I’ll get you a drink,” the melody added.
    By the time she’d turned to him, he was walking toward the house, ethereal in the strange light of sunset. All she could see were the ancient deck shoes that looked like he might have bought them the last time they were in style—middle school—and a pair ofcargo shorts, and a loose green T-shirt. But she knew from the album cover that an incredible body was hidden underneath the