Aella

My secret admirer was in the audience again tonight. I couldn't actually see him from on stage, so how I knew baffled me as much as his presence did, but I could feel him out there, his cool eyes fixed on my every move.

It wasn't a creepy stare—not even disconcerting. It was mostly frustrating, because I wanted him to do more than look after three weeks of watching me.

As I sang my second encore to a sold—out Las Vegas theater, I took a detour across the stage to stand facing the crowd. It was probably a bad idea to encourage his interest. Even a hot stalker was still a stalker. Yet he'd never approached me, nor had he done anything else threatening.

The spotlight followed me easily despite the fact that I was straying from my routine, but there was a split—second when it wasn't blazing down on me that I could actually see the crowd. My eyes instantly met his, and my stomach did a flip.

The view didn't last. It was obliterated by the lights almost immediately, but I was left with an image of a broad—shouldered man standing taller than the rest of the audience by at least a foot. The fans around him all swayed to the song while he remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on me. The only movement about him had been the fluttering of his pale blond waves in a wind that didn't seem to affect anyone else.

He'd been utterly still, transfixed, but his lips had mouthed three words.

I was almost unconscious of the words belting out of me in the full—on rapture I always experienced when I sang, as if some instinct had taken over and my lungs were on autopilot.

I finished to a deafening roar of cheers, my body still buzzed as if I were in the afterglow of great sex. Beaming at the crowd, I raised my hands and took a deep bow.

As I said my thank—yous to the adoring fans, they chanted, "Aella, Aella, Aella," while pumping their fists. Long—stemmed roses rained down from the front row as I made my way off the stage and toward my entourage of bodyguards and handlers.

You are mine. The words continued to echo in my head all the way to my dressing room as if he were still speaking them. As if I could hear him clearly across the throng of people and the growing distance between us.

My nipples prickled with awareness and I shook my head as I locked myself inside the quiet sanctuary where I readied for every performance. That couldn't have been what he'd said, but I couldn't shake the sense that it was. The words had been as clear as if I'd actually heard them over the noise of the crowd, even over my own song.

The knock on my door a few moments later sent my heart into palpitations. Had he come to claim me? Did I even want him to, whoever he was?

"Come in!" I called, standing from my seat at my dressing table and tightening the belt on my robe. My mouth had gone dry, but I'd forgotten where I'd set my water bottle.

The door cracked open and a familiar head popped in. My face fell and my tension seeped out of me so quickly I had no choice but to sit back down.

"Oh, it's you. Come in, Sergio. What does Mr. Chase want now?" I asked with a resigned sigh, forcing myself to shake off the disappointment. Jesus, I really had wanted to see my mysterious fan, hadn't I?

I snagged my water bottle and took a long drink while I looked at Sergio expectantly in the mirror. Despite my status as a so—called star, I still had to answer to the owner of the Las Vegas resort where I'd begun my residency at the beginning of the year.

So far, Mr. Chase had proven to be a pain in the ass who always sent poor Sergio to bring unwelcome news. He also didn't like to take no for an answer.

Sergio nodded and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, as you are aware, your contract provides for a certain number of shows at Mr. Chase's other properties. He would like to discuss the possibility of a short tour of his Australia resorts for the first half of April."

I eyed the diminutive man. He always looked like he'd just braved a storm and hadn't put himself back together, but he was Chase's right—hand man, which counted for a lot.

"Does he really want a discussion, or is he giving me an order? Because if it's the former, my answer is no. I've barely gotten settled in here. The whole point of a residency is so I don't have to tour. The fans come to me."

"Yes, I understand," Sergio said, dropping his eyes briefly, and I had the sense that he hated this part of his job. "Forgive me for repeating myself, but your contract requires at least one two—week tour per quarter at his other resorts, beginning with the second quarter, which is in less than two weeks. It is, of course, flexible on timing, but he would prefer to set the schedule at the start of each quarter."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Since when is Chase so strict about schedules? The man eats ice cream for breakfast. He isn't the epitome of a rational human being."

Sergio's face turned bright red. My knowledge of his boss's breakfast preference probably sent the wrong message, but Sergio knew as well as I did that my presence at one such breakfast wasn't because I'd been in Chase's suite overnight. He'd called an early meeting, which he'd taken in his pajamas, and proceeded to present me with a full sundae bar complete with sprinkles and hot fudge.

When Sergio stammered an attempt at a reply, I stopped him. "Hold on. You're the one who wants to nail down this schedule, aren't you?"

The ensuing silence told me all I needed to know.

I sighed. "You could have said as much. I know Chase is a pain in the ass to manage. I don't want to make your job harder."

His tension eased a bit. "So you'll do it?"

I finished wiping the remainder of my makeup off with a fresh towelette and met his gaze in the mirror again. "I'll think about it."