Cupid Loves Curves (Curvy Collections #11)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

AARON

T here’s something about Abby. She’s the first woman to come through this office who isn’t willing to do anything to be close to me. Cheyenne and the other girls throw themselves at me daily, every word out of their mouth simpering or a crude double entendre. They’re the kind of girls who are interested only in how rich and famous a man is. Me? I prefer a woman with more substance than that – a lot more substance.

Abby has a fire to her. She looks at me like she hates me, but she doesn’t even know me. Her attitude makes her more deeply compelling than any other woman I’ve met. Doesn’t hurt that she has the curves of a banging pinup model.

“Where’s Abby?” I ask Cheyenne in my outer office. For once, she actually seems to be working. That’s a change.

“Mr. Bryant! What can I do for you? I’m more than happy to help you with whatever you need…” Cheyenne bats her eyelashes at me, for maybe the millionth time this year.

“I’m sure you could, Cheyenne. However, I specifically want to talk to Abby. Where can I find her?”

“She’s in the copy room. I have her making copies of the contracts for the Rocco Vincent deal.”

I turn and leave a pouting Cheyenne behind me. More than once I’ve longed for the days when we hired people for skill instead of looks, but this business is what it is. When she works, Cheyenne does a good job and she sure as fuck knows how to work a room and convince men to follow her – or my – agenda.

As always, a sense of pride and accomplishment overcome me as I walk past the long line of gold and platinum records that line the walls of the office. It’s been years since I was actually in the copy room, but Abby is more than enough reason to go to this part of the office.

Since the moment she came into my office, I’ve been consumed with desire for Abby. These urges are distinctly inappropriate for me to have for an employee – even if she’s a temp. The Board would have my ass if they knew what I wanted to do with Abby.

“Are you settling in okay?” I smile at Abby, cursing myself using such a lame line to talk to her. But damned if I don’t feel like a teenager around her. I don’t even know the last time a woman had this kind of effect on me, especially one who’s a virtual stranger.

It's a long moment before Abby turns to me and her cheeks are flushed when she does. She smooths her hands over the waist and hips of her dress, and an animal desire unleashes inside of me. I need to claim Abby for my own.

“I’m fine, yes,” she says, though her voice sounds strained. The copy machine stops its grating noise and she picks up a large stack of paper. “Is there something you need?”

What I need would make HR scream …

“I don’t have a new task for you. Seems Cheyenne has you covered on that front.”

“She does, yes.”

“Abby, I’m going to come right to the heart of the matter. You have this air of…combativeness. It’s is crystal clear there is a lot you’d like to say, but aren’t. What’s going on?”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” she says in a rush, her blue eyes blinking rapidly. “I haven’t meant to offend. What did I do?”

“Don’t worry, you’re not fired or anything like that.” I smile at her, but that doesn’t seem to put her at ease in the slightest. “It’s more what you haven’t done. Walk with me back to my office.”

When we’re back in my office, Abby stands in front of my desk, holding the contracts tightly against her spectacular chest. Fuck. What I wouldn’t do to get lost in those amazing tits of hers.

“Have a seat, please. Actually, let’s sit on the couch – it’ll be more comfortable.”

Abby arches her eyebrow at me, then sits at one end of the couch. Wanting to respect the boundary she’s set, I sit with plenty of space between us.

“Is this going to take long? I think Cheyenne will kill me if I don’t finish her list by five o’clock.”

“Cheyenne can wait. If she wants to take issue with your work today, she can talk to me.” I pause, hearing the harshness in my voice. “Let me be clear. I know Cheyenne can be…demanding. You have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

A sound like a choked laugh comes from her and for a moment, there is amusement on Abby’s face.

“If you say so.”

“Abby, what’s going on? It doesn’t take a genius to see that there is a lot that you’re not saying.”

“Do you really want to know?” Now, Abby looks at me and the raw fierceness in her eyes makes me pause. Something says that I might regret asking, but I have to know.

“I do, in fact. Yes.”

“First of all,” she says, turning and pointing to the platinum record for the song Pussycat Royale above the couch. “There is someone missing from the credits on that.”

“What?” Pussycat Royale was an unexpected hit by one of the first women-led bands in the 1980s. The song was the first single by Ace Records to reach the top of the charts. Pussycat Royale was conceived as a novelty, and a definite one-hit wonder, but it made the women very famous and very rich.

“It’s missing the name Ophelia Moore. She’s the one who wrote the song.”

“What? No. It was the producer who wrote the song.”

“The hell it was!” Color rises in her cheeks and Abby stands, then starts pacing my office. “My mom wrote that song! She wouldn’t sleep with the…producer,” she says the word like it’s poison, “and so he stole the song from her. That bastard completely destroyed her career and wiped her from the fame she earned.”

For once in my life, I have no idea what the fuck to say. Dealing with angry people isn’t fun, but I know how to do that. Most people are angry for the wrong reasons and it doesn’t take much to handle them. But this? There is a palpable fury coming off Abby. Worse, I’ve heard rumors about what she’s claiming, so I know she’s not lying to get attention.

“Fuck. Abby. I’m sorry. I really am,” I add when she huffs and then walks over to the window behind my desk and stares out into the city. “I’d heard the rumors, but they were before my time. I’m not even sure Morris Orange is still around anymore. He went reclusive in the nineties.”

“He’s still around. Pardon my language, but that motherfucker owns the rights to a full album of songs that my mother wrote. He promised her the world, got her to sign a contract giving this label the exclusive rights to those songs, and then he reneged when she wouldn’t sleep with him. I’ve been trying to get those songs back since…” her voice catches, fury giving way to sadness, “since she died last year. He’s said he’ll sell them back to me if I come up with fifty-thousand dollars.”

“Do you trust him?”

“No. I know better than to give him the money unless he signs a contract and puts the master recordings in my hand. I loved my mom more than anything in the world, but she was too trusting and completely not business-minded in how to manage her creative career. Because of that bastard, she barely made ends meet by doing shift work in a factory and then singing in lounges at night.”

I let Abby finish talking. Unfortunately, this kind of story is all too common. There were – and still are – a lot of nefarious motherfuckers in this industry. Morris Orange was before my time, but what Abby’s saying sounds exactly like him and the way he ran this label. He was gone before I took over as CEO. It’s a point of pride that I’m fair with my artists. I’m not a pushover, but I give credit and rewards as they’re earned and due.

“What can I do to help? I can talk to Mor—”

“No!” Abby turns around in a flash, the contracts now crumpled from being held so tightly in her hands. “Sorry, but you really can’t expect me to trust a label executive, can you? I need to do this, or try anyway, myself. I don’t care if they don’t get airtime or much press, but I want to release my mom’s songs. The world deserves her songs.”

“Look. I won’t butt in if you don’t want me to. But know that if you need help, I will do anything and everything in my power to help you.”

“Sure,” she says, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Even though I know it’s wrong, I’m turned all the way on by watching her anger. She has a pure passion in her that resonates with me. She clearly loved her mother and is willing to fight to protect and reclaim what she loves.

“Can I ask what happened to your mother? You said you lost her last year.”

Abby looks at me and the anger inside her just falls away. Her face crumples a little, then she comes and sits back down on the couch, wringing her hands in her lap.

“Breast cancer.” Her voice is small and the urge to protect her and to make things right stirs the essence of my soul.

“I’m incredibly sorry, Abby. I truly am.” I touch her shoulder, wishing I could relieve even a small part of her pain.

“Me, too. I miss her every day. She’d…she’d have a lot to say about me working here, even as a temp. She always wanted to go to the Rockin’ Hearts Ball. Morris Orange promised her she’d be the showcase performer.”

“Abby, I know you’re mad at me and mad at Ace Records, but believe me when I’m sincere with what I’m about to ask. Would you do me the honor of being my date for the annual Rockin’ Hearts Ball?”