Chapter 1 Amanda
The private jet smells like champagne and money.
Which, frankly, is the only reason I agreed to this ridiculous trip in the first place.
Well, that and the six-figure performance fee.
I smooth my hand over the curve of my hip as I step down the narrow jet stairs into the warm California sunshine.
The late afternoon light glitters off the massive hangar windows, and somewhere nearby a helicopter thumps lazily overhead.
Hollywood, California.
Lord help me.
“Miss Perkins? Excuse me,” a woman—the big shot’s assistant, maybe—chirps beside me.
I turn to find a woman in a headset and beige power suit smiling like she just swallowed a lemon and decided to enjoy it.
“Yes?”
“Welcome to Los Angeles. Mr. Carter is thrilled you accepted the invitation to perform this weekend. I’m Debra Manfield, Mr. Carter’s personal assistant.”
I flash my best Broadway smile.
The one that wins over critics and donors, and cranky stage managers.
“I’m thrilled to be here.”
Which is mostly true.
Broadway may be my home, but a private performance for one of Hollywood’s richest producers is exactly the kind of exposure my career needs right now.
The assistant gestures toward a sleek black SUV waiting just beyond the hangar doors.
“We’ll take you directly to the estate. The stage is already set up, and the rehearsal space is yours whenever you're ready.”
Perfect.
Smooth.
Professional.
Exactly the kind of luxury arrangement I expected when the contract came through.
Then I see him.
At first, it’s just a shape leaning against the SUV.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark suit.
Familiar.
My stomach drops.
No.
It can’t be.
But then he straightens.
And the world tilts.
Alessio Figueroa.
Less to his friends.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
He looks exactly the same.
Maybe bigger. Harder.
His dark hair is longer now, clipped close at the sides but shaggy on top, and his jaw is shadowed with rough stubble.
The California sun catches the sharp angles of his face and the deep bronze of his skin.
But it’s the eyes that undo me.
Those dark, quiet eyes that used to look at me like I’m the only woman alive.
For a moment I can’t breathe.
My brain tries to pretend this is some kind of hallucination brought on by jet lag and too much in-flight champagne.
Then he pushes away from the SUV.
And starts walking toward me.
Oh hell no.
My pulse roars in my ears as he stops a few feet away.
He doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t even look surprised.
Just studies me slowly, like he’s cataloging every change.
Like he remembers every inch.
“Hello, Amanda.”
His voice is the same, too.
Low.
Rough.
Dangerous.
And just hearing it again cracks something open in my chest that I spent years trying to bury.
I swallow hard.
Because the last time I saw Alessio Figueroa he was kissing me goodbye in the doorway of my Jersey City apartment.
Promising he’d be back after a short job overseas.
Then he vanished.
No calls.
No messages.
No explanation.
Three years of silence.
Three years of wondering what I did wrong.
Three years of forcing myself to hate him just enough to move on.
And now he’s standing here like no time passed at all.