“No, you don’t.” Delighted that dealing with T-Rex was forcing Charlotte out of hiding, Molly dragged her to her feet and walked her to her office. Charlotte’s breathing was choppy again by the time she stepped through the automatic doors.

“Be brave,” Molly mouthed when her friend paused in the open doorway and looked over her shoulder.

A shaky smile, then Charlotte squared her shoulders and mouthed the same thing back at her. Be brave.

Having taken two days off work, Molly stepped out of the Arrivals gate at Sydney Airport early afternoon the next day to find a driver waiting for her. He held a sign that said only SC Crew. Already in her roadie disguise, complete with jeans, cap, and a long-sleeved, checked shirt, she followed him to the car and got in. No one seemed to pay her any special attention—either at the airport, or when she checked into the hotel—though according to Fox, she had the room that directly connected with his.

His room wasn’t booked under his name, of course, but that of another roadie. The other man was having a luxurious time up on the penthouse floor with the other members of the band while Fox and Molly had the invaluable gift of privacy.

As she walked into her room, having brought up her own luggage—a single wheeled suitcase—she couldn’t help but think how smooth the whole operation had been to this point. That, of course, led her mind to wonder how many times Fox had done this type of thing before and with how many different women. She’d grown up with a man who juggled women like multicolored balls, knew how—

“Stop, Molly!” She cut off the hurtful train of thought the instant she realized where she was headed, annoyed with herself for doing her best to ruin the weekend before it began.

 Fox wasn’t her father.

In fact, the two men didn’t even belong to the same species. Her father had been a particular kind of slime, and it wasn’t the fifteen-year-old girl he’d been discovered with who’d been his first victim. Thea’s mother, Lily, had been an innocent and trusting nineteen-year-old when he’d seduced her after convincing her that his marriage was about to end, only to arrange for her deportation when she fell pregnant.

Linking Fox to Patrick in any way was an insult to Fox.

With that mental reminder, she dumped her luggage on the stand in the corner, then pushed aside the curtains to expose an incredible view of Darling Harbour. The water glittered under the bright sunlight, the restaurants and cafés around it busy with locals and tourists both, while yellow water taxis bobbed at the nearest edge.

“This is the life,” she murmured, shaking her head.

What in the world was she doing here?

A glance at the connecting door gave her the answer. Beyond it lay the room and the bed of a man who’d become her addiction. He made her come alive in ways she’d never believed she could, had taught her she had the capacity to feel with a wild passion she hadn’t thought existed inside her. What would she do when he left?

The stab of pain in her gut was answer enough.

Walking over to the connecting door before the promise of future agony could paralyze her, she undid the lock on her side and tried the handle. It turned easily and while the room beyond was empty, she knew without a doubt it was Fox’s. His aftershave lingered in the air, one of his T-shirts was thrown across the bed, and a blue-green guitar pick lay on the bedside table. It was the one he’d used when he’d come to her house, the one that was his second favorite.

Smiling, she picked it up from the pile of papers on the bedside table. Blank sheet music, she noted absently, then realized not all the pages were blank. The one partially sticking out at the bottom had notations made in the light blue ink of the hotel pen that had rolled to lie against the lampstand.

She touched her fingers to the notes, feeling as if she’d glimpsed a secret. She’d known Fox had written a number of Schoolboy Choir’s songs, the majority in concert with David, but she hadn’t realized he had formal musical training. It simply made him more fascinating, made her wonder how many more facets of him she hadn’t glimpsed… would never get the chance to know.

She only had him for three more weeks, a blink in a lifetime.

Breathing past the melancholy thought, she tidied up the pages, then walked back into her own room, leaving the door open. Since the flight had only been a quick three hours, she wasn’t tired, and the idea of sitting in her hotel room didn’t appeal. She was considering heading down to grab a coffee at one of the harborside cafés when there was a brisk knock on the door.

Opening it, she found herself facing not a member of the hotel staff but a bearded man dressed in a Schoolboy Choir T-shirt, the black fabric stretched over a significant beer gut and tucked into faded blue jeans. On his head was a battered New York Yankees cap, and around his neck hung a nametag that identified him as part of the band’s crew.

“You Molly?” He grunted, then looked down at his clipboard. “Yep, you’re her.” With that, he thrust a lanyard and attached nametag at her. “Make sure you don’t lose that. It’s your passport backstage—without it, security will throw you out.”

Molly placed the lanyard around her neck, the photo on it a shot Fox had taken with his phone one night after dinner. “Got it.” She turned and grabbed the small backpack she’d carried on the plane.

Grunting again, the man scratched at the salt and pepper of his beard, then nodded at her to follow him. “So, you actually know any shit or are you just here to fuck Fox?”

His tone was so matter-of-fact that Molly answered before embarrassment could steal her tongue. “Fox must trust you a lot.”

A narrow-eyed look. “Hmm. Brains.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Maxwell. Don’t call me Max.”

“Nice to meet you, Maxwell. Are you the roadie in chief?”

“Roadie in chief?” He let out a deep laugh, slapping his beer belly. “Yeah, that’s me. I think I’m gonna put that on my business cards. Maxwell, Roadie in Chief.”

Laughing along with him, his amusement good-natured rather that mocking, she said, “Where are we going?”

“Out to where the band’s performing tomorrow night.” He stuck his pencil behind his ear, scowled again. “Never done anything this big this fast before, but it’s sick babies. Whattaya gonna do?”

“You flew down for this?” Molly had expected the band to just turn up on a temporary stage with borrowed equipment… but of course not. They had a reputation for the caliber of their concerts, would certainly not shortchange the charity or their fans by putting on a mediocre show.

“Boys flew our whole team down,” Maxwell told her. “Impossible to set up a show this big with a new crew, even with things stripped down to the basics.” Adjusting his cap, he led her out through a side entrance that exited into an open-air parking lot. “Today’s all about fine-tuning things, making sure the setup will work with the boys when they get going.”

Molly paused when Maxwell slid open the back door of a van and placed his clipboard on top of what looked like electronic equipment. “You know,” she said after he slid the door shut, hoping he wouldn’t take offense, “I don’t really know you and you want me to get in a black van with tinted windows.”

Booming laughter. “Yep. Brains.” Pulling out his phone with that pleased statement, he brought up the band’s website and took her to the Photos section. “Here.”

There was Maxwell with his arm around a sweaty post-concert Fox. Underneath were the words: Fox and Man-In-Charge-of-Everything, Maxwell, after the Chicago show.

“Convinced I don’t plan to drive you into the outback and feed you to the kangaroos?” Maxwell asked, a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

Grinning, she said, “Can I look at the other photos?”