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  “Legacy,” supplied Elizabeth, rooting in her bag for a pen and notebook.

  “Oui. ’e ’as destroyed one of rock’s greatest bands.”

  Elizabeth glanced up from her notepad. “I thought his brother Devin initiated the band’s breakup?”

  “To save his own life,” Marti said theatrically, snuggling up to her Frenchman. “Zander put touring before his brother’s health. What are you writing?”

  “These are good questions.”

  Her siblings howled with laughter. “Even you can’t ask him this stuff, Snoopy,” said her brother.

  “Zander’s well aware of his reputation.” Elizabeth ignored her family nickname. “I found him both astute and highly intelligent.” She grinned. “He’s a big fan of my books.”

  “It’s lip service, Sis,” Luke said impatiently. “He wants a writer outside the music industry because an insider couldn’t keep a straight face when he raves about how great he is. What that guy really needs is someone who’ll call him on his bullshit.”

  Belle held out her hand again and he dug in his pocket for another coin.

  “Well, you can all tell him what you think of him shortly,” Elizabeth said. “He’s coming here after the gig.”

  Every head swung in her direction.

  “What?” repeated Luke stupidly, coin in hand.

  Marti leapt to her feet. “Claude, help me clean up.” She grabbed a stack of dirty plates.

  Belle shoved back from the table. “Marti, I’m checking your wardrobe for something prettier to wear.”

  “My God, you’re right.” Marti dumped the dirty dishes with a clatter. “Priorities.”

  Luke rummaged in his jeans for car keys. “I’ll head to the liquor store and pick up some decent wine. No, I’ve been drinking. Honey, you’ll have to drive.”

  “Forget that,” said Rachel. “I’m ransacking Marti’s wardrobe too.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Claude remained seated, his expression stunned. “A legend coming to our ’ouse. Cherie, what shall we get him to sign?”

  “I’m joking,” Elizabeth yelled amidst the chaos. “Of course Zander Freedman’s not coming here. He’s a rock star! I wanted to test how deep your convictions went.” Shallower than a kid’s paddling pool.

  “That is so mean,” Marti gasped.

  “What’s interesting is how opinionated you all are about someone you only know through the media.” Elizabeth made another note as everyone resettled, grumbling. “The cult of celebrity is fascinating.”

  “Okay, you’ve had your joke, but you can’t really want the job,” Luke said. “It’s so not you.”

  “And who is me?” she said, interested.

  “Conservative, unadventurous. You hate bad language—I’m pretty sure the swear jar was your idea. And frankly Sis, you’re just not cool.”

  Elizabeth raised a brow.

  “What our tactless brother is trying to say,” Belle said, frowning at him, “is that you’re sensible. Normal in the best sense of the word.”

  “You’ll hate it,” Marti agreed. “The consumption, the superficiality. I mean I can see why you’re tempted. A beautiful man says all the right things to someone used to academic geeks and nerds… No offense, Gareth.”

  “Wait, how am I involved in this?”

  Elizabeth patted his arm. “You’re not.”

  “And what will you do through the wild parties?” Marti continued. “If someone’s snorting coke or downing shots off some stripper’s navel.”

  “What I did when I was flatting with you. Ignore it and take a good book to bed.” She regarded her siblings with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Boring, sensible, unadventurous… I can’t wait to leave this person behind. What do you think I did when I lived overseas?”

  “What you do here,” Belle said. “Spend most of your time in the university library or your study except when friends and family drag you out.”

  “Maybe I had wild times but was smart enough to keep my exploits private.”

  Luke snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay, I’m starting to get interested,” Gareth interjected and Elizabeth smiled at him.

  “What about Mum?” said Luke. “Will it rebound on her in any way?” Their widowed mother had waited until her youngest left home before seeking ordination and was ministering in the Philippines. None of Jane Winston’s kids were surprised. A clergyman’s wife shared her husband’s ministry.

  “Only if she manages to convert Zander into a churchgoer.” Elizabeth’s own faith was more on the lines of “Lord, if you don’t want me to do this, you’d better find a way to stop me.” So far, God had proved very tolerant. But there was still a month before she joined Zander.

  “Take the job,” said Hayden, raising his glass to her. “If only to get away from all of us.”

  “I agree,” said the Frenchman. “And you have sangfroid. You can ’andle Zander Freedman with one ’and be’ind your back.”

  “I hear he likes it that way,” muttered Marti and then sighed. “Ignore me, I’m jealous. Go. Have fun.”

  “And to answer your earlier question,” said Gareth. “Not only can I offer you travel insurance, I sell life insurance.”

  * * *

  Skin prickling with dried sweat, Zander paced his hotel room at one a.m. chugging from a plastic water bottle. He needed a shower, but first he had to replenish the fluids lost through ninety minutes of high-octane performance.

  Draining the bottle, he lobbed it into the trash bin by the bed. The temptation to phone room service and order liquor bit hard after a concert, when adulation left him feeling invincible.

  Which was why he couldn’t risk going clubbing with his band.

  Stripping naked, he stepped into the shower and alternated the temperature between hot and cold to distract himself from dark and forbidden longings. But it was thirty minutes before he felt centered enough to shut off the water and dress in casual pants.

  Striding to the panoramic window, he hauled the gauzy curtain aside and looked over Auckland City’s lights to the dark expanse of harbor separating the mainland from Waiheke Island. He’d stayed there last night with his Kiwi mom and her new husband—a retired cop, for God’s sake. What was the family coming to?

  In the cocoon of his mother’s cottage kitchen he’d nearly spilled. Mom, I’m scared. Because it turned out the Canadian MD had been right. Zander had a bigger problem than strained vocal cords.

  But he’d kept his big mouth shut because Katherine was happy and he’d caused her enough worry over the years. Besides, she’d tell Devin because she and her younger son were so damn close these days, being neighbors and all. And then Dev would insist on a “serious talk” and damned if Zander was getting a lecture from his baby brother. The idea was enough to drive a man to drink.

  His hand hovered over the bedside phone.

  Nice try. With a curse, he opened a second water bottle and returned to staring at the view, switching off the bedside lamp so the city lights punched into sharp relief.

  He hadn’t seen his brother this trip. Dev and his librarian wife were walking the Milford Track during the southern hemisphere leg of Rage’s tour. Escaping the media and the inevitable question: “How do you feel seeing another bass player in your place?”

  Zander could answer that. Read Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief, dickheads—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But leaving Rage permanently had been Devin’s choice. God knew, Zander had tried to talk him into returning. Tried and failed. Since rehab, all his brother wanted was a normal life—whatever the hell that was.

  Zander sipped his water. Trampling over Mother Nature, apparently.

  When he tried to look beyond Rage all he saw was a black hole.

  Unconsciously he massaged his throat and could have sworn he felt the polyp on his vocal cords, though logic suggested that was impossible. It was fear scratching his throat. The specialist had said rest wouldn’t fix the problem.

&nb
sp; “My advice is to cancel the tour and have surgery.”

  “No surgery… Look what happened to Julie Andrews.”

  “Techniques have improved. The danger of irreparably damaging your singing voice is greatly reduced.”

  “But not eliminated.”

  “There are no guarantees in any medical procedure.”

  “Uh-huh. All care and no responsibility.” Except on Zander’s shoulders. “Where can I get a second opinion?”

  Across the street a light snapped on in a dark apartment block. A pudgy guy wearing navy boxers entered a small kitchen carrying a baby. The baby was bawling, eyes scrunched in a red face and its tiny fists waving. The harassed daddy heated a bottle in the microwave. A woman in a shabby robe stumbled sleepy-eyed into the kitchen, her hair mussed, and the man gently pushed her out of the room. A few minutes later, carrying the baby and the bottle, he snapped on a light illuminating a living room and settled on the couch in front of a big-screen TV. It was a life Zander couldn’t imagine.

  He jerked the drapes closed. And didn’t want to.

  Making a call on his cell, he sat down to wait.

  “Boldly they rode and well,” he muttered. “Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell.” Dr. Winston would get the Tennyson reference. She’d been exactly what he’d expected—sharp, smart and tart of tongue.

  Dimity had ranted about what a crime the good doctor’s website photo was, and how much older it made her look. But she was old, only a few years younger than him. Academics with beautiful minds didn’t always pay attention to their appearance, but even Zander hadn’t anticipated a long-limbed Pippi Longstocking, makeup-free except for a bright lipstick that drew attention to a wide, generous mouth, and red hair that frizzed as it dried.

  Elizabeth was attractive in a geeky, natural way, but her sexuality wasn’t the default in her toolbox, which differed from most women in his circle.

  She’d seemed surprised by her susceptibility to what Dimity called the “Zee-factor” though she’d recovered quickly enough when he’d started shortening her name. Zander grinned. Dr. Winston tickled his funny bone. And he’d clearly tickled hers, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Zander was used to deference and noted its absence. Most bold stares he got from women had an element of sexual speculation. That had been absent too.

  A murmur of voices outside the door roused him from his reverie; he identified Luther’s deep bass and a lighter feminine tone. At the knock, Zander stood. Thank God, protecting his voice didn’t require him giving up every vice.

  He hadn’t lied when he’d told Dr. Winston he wanted her literary credibility. But what he really wanted—what he needed—was the quality that shone through everything she wrote. Her integrity. Something he’d cast off at sixteen when he’d realized he would never be half the man his father was.

  So why try?

  He opened the door. Two women stood with Luther when both Zander and his bodyguard been expecting one. Zander looked at Yvonne for an explanation. The Kiwi hairdresser flashed the same saucy smile she’d used when propositioning him preshow.

  “My girlfriend also asked to meet you,” she said, loading “meet” with X-rated connotations. “If that’s a problem, I can send her away.”

  He looked at her friend and saw the same erotic speculation in her eyes. Zander did so love a forward woman. He opened the door wide. “Come on in, ladies.”

  Money might not buy love, but it didn’t need to. When you were a rock star, the chicks were free.

  Zander thought of Elizabeth Winston and grinned. Money did, however, buy everything else.

  Chapter Five

  Last time Elizabeth landed at LAX, she’d been in transit with six hours to fill. She’d caught a shuttle to Venice Beach and wandered the boardwalk with other tourists, then boarded her connecting flight to Charlottesville with a sunburnt nose.

  This time there was a uniformed chauffeur called Randy waiting with a white stretch limo. Unfortunately, she still had the same luggage—two cheap black suitcases with silver tinsel twisted around the handle for easy ID.

  Didn’t matter. As she settled into the luxurious interior, she was tempted to stick her head through the overhead slider and holler, “This is so cool.”

  But that would only prove her brother’s point.

  Instead she wound down the window, sucked in a lungful of heated blacktop, exhaust fumes and fun, then slid open the partition separating her from the driver.

  Before they reached Calabasas, forty-five minutes northwest, she knew Randy’s politics—Republican; his religion—baseball; and his marital status—happily divorced.

  Zander lived in Hidden Hills, surely an irresistible challenge to romantics, which could explain the security cameras and intercom on the monster entry gates. On either side of the gates, towering stone walls snaked into the distance to rejoin the Great Wall of China.

  Elizabeth had imagined his house as modern and stark, with an infinity pool populated by frolicking Playboy bunnies. Instead she was immediately charmed by a two-storied French provincial farmhouse, plastered in warmed butterscotch with chalky-blue joinery and curved wrought-iron balustrades. Ivy softened long stone terraces and grass sprouted between the paving slabs in the circular forecourt.

  She’d spent every spare minute she could steal from the thousand tasks necessary before a five-month sabbatical trying to get a handle on Zander—with minimal success. His public profile was all about “doing”…partying, publicity-seeking and performing. Her biggest challenge would be finding information he hadn’t already shared. Whether his memoir redeemed his reputation wasn’t something under her control. She suspected Zander didn’t entirely understand that her skill lay not in making controversial figures likable, but understandable. Mortal.

  She’d gone to great pains to spell that out in e-mails and received breezy, “We’ll sort it out as we go along,” responses. Not the way Elizabeth preferred to work, but jumping in the deep end meant learning to go with the flow.

  The contract had arrived, complete with a no-fire clause, and she’d signed it. Zander was a grown man and she had to assume he knew what he was doing.

  Elizabeth just hoped she did. Fortunately, she’d have time to settle in before he returned from Singapore late tonight.

  A slender teenager, the tips of her spiky hair dyed a fluorescent purple, waited on the terraced steps at the entrance, one hand lifted to shade heavily kohled eyes.

  She wore a black T-shirt with God Save the Queen in Gothic script, over a red tartan kilt. The larger holes in her torn fishnets were held together by silver safety pins, which glinted in the late afternoon sun, and platform boots added five inches to her diminutive frame.

  As Randy opened Elizabeth’s car door, she was intensely conscious of her long-haul flight attire—crumpled pants, flat shoes and comfy cardigan hanging to mid-thigh.

  “Welcome, Dr. Winston.” The teen’s accent was English, plum-voweled. She dropped her hand from her face, revealing a woman in her forties. “I’m the executive housekeeper, Philippa.”

  Trying to hide her surprise, Elizabeth shook hands. “What a stunning property.”

  “Actually, this is my least favorite of the five homes I run for Zander.” Acknowledging Randy with a smile, Philippa gestured for Elizabeth to precede her inside. “I think architecture should grow organically from its culture. Give me a Californian bungalow or Prairie School, not faux French romanticism.”

  “Prairie School… Isn’t that Frank Lloyd Wright?”

  “Yes, he was a proponent.” They stepped inside a formal entry foyer dominated by a floating staircase. “You’re familiar with American architecture?”

  “Very little.” Craning her neck, Elizabeth admired the custom moldings and coffered ceilings.

  “The prairie style is distinguished by hipped roofs, horizontal bands of windows and restraint of form and decoration.” Philippa led the way upstairs, every inch the chatelaine except clinking with chains and safety pin
s instead of keys. “I tried to talk Zee into commissioning one, but as soon as I mentioned the word restraint…” She laughed and her diamond nose stud twinkled. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want him anywhere near a national treasure.”

  “You’ve worked for him long?” The rooms they passed had vaulted ceilings, Parisian furniture and exquisite carpets over wide-plank hardwood.

  “Seven years. And you’re here to help him write his memoir.” Her tone was carefully neutral.

  “Third time’s a charm!”

  Elizabeth followed Philippa into a bedroom and blinked. Crystal chandeliers, pastel-pink taffeta curtains with tasseled ties, gilt mirrors and a fairy-tale four-poster. A vase of blush-edged white peonies adorned the nightstand, their saucer-wide extravagance adding to the opulence. In the adjacent bathroom she could see a claw-foot bath. “Did you put his other biographers in this room? It’s very…”

  “Feminine. No, they stayed in town. Only friends and family get sleepovers. And pen pals.”

  “You know about that?”

  “He used to read me excerpts out of your book. I’d say, ‘Zee darling, I came to the New World to make history, not relive it.’ No offense.”

  “None taken.” Frankness seemed to be the modus operandi in Zander’s world. “So you’re not based here?”

  Through a bay window, immaculate lawns swept away to a tennis court, a swimming pool—not infinity—and an outdoor pavilion.

  “I fly between his properties overseeing upkeep and preparing them before his arrival. While he’s on tour, we keep a skeleton staff; right now most of us are on holiday. He said to tell you anything you wanted to know, incidentally.”

  Can I do this job?

  Elizabeth felt overwhelmed suddenly, jet lag adding to her sense of the surreal.

  “You’re pale,” Philippa said. “Why don’t you freshen up, take a quick nap and come down when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lying on the princess bed, cradled by a thoroughly modern mattress, Elizabeth stared at the ceiling and thought of all the work she had to do to discover her subject. And tried not to panic. If she talked to people from his past, looked for different angles… Making a mental note to ask Zander for contact numbers, she fell asleep.