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of her head struck him like a punch to the belly. He couldn’t fault her for doing something he’d dreamed of for months, and he couldn’t deny her this one glimpse of fame any more than he could deny himself. Planting his hat on his head, he opened the door and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”
    Her smile reflected the sunshine brighter than the windshield. He returned her grin, and, hand in hand, they ran across the street.

Chapter Five
    Pictures and posters of musicians Brock coveted lined the hallways and electrical equipment filled the rooms behind the huge glass windows of the second floor they’d been directed to. This was it. The big time. Money. Recognition. A life where he’d never be indebted to anyone.
    He glanced at Ginger and the smile on her face sent his heart racing faster than a hayburner. Those cars, though gas guzzlers, could outrun anything set to chase them, and the rate his blood was flowing right now said nothing much would ever catch him. He drew in a deep breath, trying to knock the speed of his blood down a notch. The breath didn’t help. Not when he caught sight of her red lips. She’d added more lipstick to them in the elevator, and recalling the cherry taste set him on edge like no booze ever had.
    “There!” Ginger pointed at a door with KYX painted on it.
    Brock took a stabilizing breath, but sweat still covered his palm as he turned the doorknob.
    A redheaded woman behind a desk glanced up. “Can I help you?”
    “I’m Brock Ness, here to see—”
    “Thank goodness,” the woman said. “Come in.” She scurried around the big desk complete with a telephone sitting on one corner. “I’m Rene Goldman. My husband, Oscar, is in the studio. Let me get him.”
    The woman shot through a side door, and Ginger let out a low whistle. “This is one swanky place. It rivals the resort.” She took a couple of steps to run a hand over a plush, red-cushioned chair. “Velvet.”
    Brock didn’t need any reminders of the resort. His gaze was already locked on the candlestick telephone. Local calls were usually a dime, but long-distance was a whole different ball game. Only the rich could afford them. A call to Minnesota could very well empty one of his pockets.
    The side door opened again and a tall, bald man followed Rene Goldman into the room. “Hello, Brock,” the man said. “I’m Oscar, as my wife said, and I’m glad you made it.” Oscar turned to Ginger. “This must be your wife.”
    “Yes.”
    “No.”
    Both he and Ginger had spoken at the same time. “Yes,” Brock corrected, but Ginger spoke again, too, saying no this time.
    “Well, which is it?” Oscar asked.
    Brock didn’t have a chance to speak before Ginger said, “Either-or. Sometimes I’m his wife, sometimes I’m his manager.”
    A distinct sensation of his stomach falling had Brock clenching his teeth. While reading his letter, she’d questioned him on having an agent. The letter had specifically asked for one. He’d told her he planned on being his own agent.
    Rene Goldman laughed. “I know that feeling. Sometimes I’m Oscar’s wife, sometimes I’m his secretary.”
    “Exactly,” Ginger said, smiling brightly. “And, as Brock’s manager, I have a few questions concerning his contract.”
    Brock couldn’t stifle the groan that bubbled in his throat.
    Oscar laughed. “Before he gets a contract, he has to audition.”
    “Then let’s do it.” Chin up and strutting so the fringe of her purple dress bounced around her knees, Ginger marched toward the open doorway.
    Brock caught up with her, whispering, “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “Making sure you are the next big thing,” she whispered in return.
    “I don’t need—”
    “Yes, you do,” she insisted.
    “What do you think?” Oscar asked.
    Brock pulled his focus away from Ginger to glance around. The desire to whistle, much like Ginger had in the front room, overcame him. Shiny instruments, speakers, a microphone. This was it, the