The night was just like the other nights she’d spent with Damon this week—an inexorable blending of work and play, music and sex. By taxi, they headed to the first of a few out-of-the-way bars on Damon’s list tonight—but even as they discussed the initial band, called Playground Bully, Damon slid his hand high onto her thigh beneath the table where they sat and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Are you wet?”

Her heart beat harder at the question. “So wet,” she told him. And it was true. Even as she tried to concentrate on listening to the rock band, she stayed aware of that stickiness between her legs, just as he’d promised she would. She felt wired for action, her breasts heavy and sensitive within her bra, her cunt tingling.

“Good,” he said with a dominant smile that made her know she belonged to him, at least for tonight, for this week—and though she’d never liked the idea of that before, of being a guy’s possession, with Damon it was just one more sexual nuance added to all the rest.

“Are you hard?” she asked then, wanting to take part in his naughty, teasing game.

He cast a wicked grin. “Find out for yourself.”

She pulled in her breath. The room was dark, and they sat close to a small round table, side by side, so touching him without being seen wouldn’t be difficult.

Biting her lip, she reached out, sliding her palm directly over the bulge in his jeans. Which was more than a bulge. It felt more like a concrete column, rock-hard against her hand. She pressed down, pleasure from the touch stretching all through her, tightening her chest with desire, and surely making her damper where her panties were supposed to be.

“How do you stand it?” she whispered. To be that hard, she meant. And it was fairly early in the evening yet.

His answer came with a sexy smile. “It’s the price of mixing work and fun.”

“You manage to do that more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

His eyes sparkled with pure lechery. “So you’ve mentioned. I guess it means one is as important to me as the other.”

It was all she could do not to throw herself on him and forget Play-gound Bully altogether, but just then the waitress came, bringing two fresh drinks—wine for her; Damon was drinking rum and Coke tonight.

So they drank and they flirted even as they talked business, ultimately deciding Playground Bully didn’t have a unique enough sound to build upon, and moved on.

The next bar was a bit more upscale, just off the Strip, with an outdoor patio featuring a young woman who played the guitar and sang. As they watched, a waitress recognized Damon and asked if she could get a picture of them together on her cell phone camera. Brenna thought he looked sheepish—and was likely remembering exactly why his face was becoming known outside L.A., due to bad press and stinging accusations—but he agreed, after which people began to look at them, clearly trying to figure out who he was, and Brenna once again felt like the girlfriend of a celebrity.

“What do you think?” he asked her about the singer.

She pondered it for a minute and concluded, “I like her. She’s like…a Juliana Hatfield of another era.”

Next to her, Damon looked impressed, yet then said, “Good comparison, but that’s just the problem—the other era. Even when she sings more recent songs, there’s something too nostalgic in her voice. Nothing about her says new or now.”

His response surprised Brenna, since until that moment, they’d pretty much agreed on everything they’d listened to together. “But she’s so good, Damon. Don’t you think so?”

Instead of answering the question, he said, “Who’s her audience? Who would you market her to?”

The crowd around them consisted strictly of mature adults with an upwardly mobile feel—in their thirties and up; in fact, Brenna felt a bit young among them in her miniskirt. “The same people who are listening to Michael Bublé and Jason Mraz,” she said.

Only Damon gently shook his head. “Bublé and Mraz do say new and now. They put a fresh twist on their music that brings it up to date, even if a little left of current pop sounds. I don’t think this girl is in their league.”

Brenna couldn’t help feeling a little deflated—as if maybe she really wasn’t a good judge of what would sell.

She found Damon flashing a slightly scolding expression. “Don’t look so depressed. Music is subjective. Even people in the biz don’t agree on everything.”

She heard the honesty leave her even before she could temper it. “Up to now, I’ve felt like I’m really getting this. But if you weren’t here, if I were on my own, I’d probably approach this girl and tell her I was very interested. And if you’re right, if she doesn’t have what it takes, then that means I’d be making a big mistake.”

Damon tilted his head. “Everybody makes a wrong decision every now and then. It wouldn’t be the end of the world—or even the end of your job.”

“Have you ever made a mistake?”

“Claire Starr,” he reminded her frankly. “A mistake for different reasons—she turned out to be demanding and unreasonable to work with—but I still messed up. And I’m paying for it in a big way.”

Even bigger than you know, Brenna couldn’t help thinking.

Before they left the club, Damon introduced himself and Brenna to the singer and told her that if she wanted to send him something more edgy and up-to-date, he’d love to hear it.

The girl, who hadn’t had a clue she was being scouted by Blue Night, had seemed appreciative, even if a little embarrassed by Damon’s unspoken criticism. And as they left, he explained to Brenna that when someone showed promise, he’d rather risk hurting their feelings than not give them some guidance that could help them succeed. “And as much as you liked her, I’m willing to give her a chance to show me more.”

But as they climbed into a cab, setting off for their next destination, Brenna wasn’t sure she could do that—just walk up to someone and, effectively, tell them what they were doing wasn’t quite good enough, even though they’d never asked to be courted by a recording label.

Yet given other bits of growing confusion about exactly how she would pull off the one-on-one parts of this job, the parts that weren’t just about giving someone good news, Brenna decided to do what she’d gotten far too skilled at this week—she pushed her doubts aside and concentrated on the good parts of the evening: being on Damon’s arm, knowing later she would be in his bed.

Their last stop of the evening was at one of the older hotels on the north end of the Strip, in a lounge where a red-haired female singer belted out alternative hits at a piano. After about fifteen minutes, Damon leaned over to Brenna and said, “Please tell me you’re not digging this chick.”

Fortunately, she could. “She’s got a good enough voice, but…no. I’m not sure why. Because she’s trying too hard? Her stage presence is a little too harsh? Something about her feels like…it’s already been done?”

It restored Brenna’s confidence when he nodded. “All of that. She’s a Tori Amos wannabe. And you can’t duplicate Tori. You’re right—this girl’s got a decent voice, but she’s the epitome of a Las Vegas lounge act, and she’ll be stuck in places like this forever.”

“That’s…kind of sad,” she couldn’t help adding.

“That’s the biz,” he said, then lifted her chin with one bent finger. “But you’re sweet as hell, you know that?”

His eyes were sparkling on her again, melting her as usual, and she found herself amazed that he could still think her sweet after some of the things she’d done with him and how dirty they’d been together. It touched her heart—because even if she’d really, truly become new Brenna now, maybe that didn’t mean all of old Brenna was gone, and maybe he’d just honed in on the part that remained. The part that was softhearted, the part that worried about hurting people’s feelings, the part that…hated lying so very much.

Yet as they stepped out into the neon-lit Las Vegas night, sin of a different kind recommenced. “Tell me something,” Damon said as he opened the cab door.

She met his gaze beneath the bright lights. “What’s that?”

“Are your thighs still sticky?”

A fresh wave of lust washed through her as she boldly replied, “Very. And I hope you’ll make them even stickier soon.”