Page 24 of Finding Grey
THIRTEEN
______
SEAN
The journalist Roger had arranged to interview Dante arrived promptly at eleven on Tuesday morning. A blonde bombshell of a woman, she reached out to shake my hand with a firm grip. “Good morning, I’m Simone Connelly. I have an appointment with Dante Sinclair.” She flashed the kind of smile that knocked straight men off their feet. With any luck, Dante would manage to stay upright.
“Please come in, Ms Connelly.” I led her into the formal living room where most of our guests preferred to conduct interviews they had during their stay. Small, and comfortably furnished, it provided a sense of intimacy and warmth, but without exposing the true living areas of the artists. “I’ll see if Mr Sinclair is ready for you.”
“Thank you.” Simone tried desperately to appear calm and professional, but the slight widening of her eyes and the way her breath caught in her chest gave her away. As I turned to leave, I glimpsed the mirror she took from her bag in order to check her appearance one last time. The thought made me grin. Dante and I had eaten dinner together for the past four nights in a row, and it suddenly seemed strange to see someone so flustered about meeting him. It did serve as a reminder, though. We lived in vastly different worlds, and always would.
The door to his bedroom was open and I rapped my knuckles against the wood. “Dante?”
“In here,” he called. I took a few steps into the room, until I spotted him in front of the bathroom mirror. It seemed Simone wasn’t the only one fussing over their appearance. “Is she here?” he asked, still running fingers through his hair.
“She’s waiting for you in the living room.” He continued to stand there, frowning at his wayward curls. “Don’t worry,” I teased, “you look very pretty.”
His eyes snapped to mine in the mirror and his lips curled into the trademark sneer he’d worn on his first album cover. The one that launched him to rock stardom. The same one that made a fifteen-year-old boy lose all control of his senses.
Turning away from the mirror, he recaptured my gaze as he sauntered closer. “Damned right, I’m pretty,” he muttered before continuing out the door.
By the time I managed to get my insta-erection to subside and came back into the main part of the house, Dante and Simone were already getting acquainted. Though I couldn’t see them from my position, I could hear them, and it seemed Simone’s air of professionalism was currently losing the war with her desire to giggle at every word out of Dante’s mouth.
“Let me show you around my current playground, Ms Connelly,” Dante drawled.
“I’d love to see anything you have to show me,” came the suggestive reply. “But please,” she added as they came into view, “call me Simone.”
“Simone.” The name rolled off Dante’s tongue as he led the smiling journalist by the hand. His tone implied he’d jerked off to that very name last night and was surprised to find out who it belonged to.
My mouth fell open. Dante had used exactly the same technique on me the night he arrived here, and again by the pool after my date with Alan. The thought made me want to throw something at his head. The man had no shame.
They made their way out to the patio, where Dante pulled out a chair for Simone in true gentlemanly fashion. The seating choice placed her in view of his mountain of notebooks, but not close enough to pick anything up for a closer inspection. He’d spent a good hour that morning strategically placing his guitar, notebooks and loose pages of completed sheet music. All evidence of scrunched paper had been cleared away until it appeared as if he had enough newly composed music to keep him in hit singles for years. Which was possible considering how much time he’d spent scribbling in those notebooks this past week. Still, he had yet to record anything with my father, and he’d barely picked up his guitar. Simone seemed convinced though.
I watched them flirt their way through the first interview question before turning away with an exaggerated eye-roll. A few minutes later, I took out a tray with coffee and some homemade shortbread. They managed to murmur a polite thank you, but didn’t look up as I served, having eyes only for each other. I could hardly blame either of them. Simone was a beautiful woman and Dante was a gorgeous, rich, talented, fucking rock star. Why shouldn’t they be eye-fucking each other? The fact Dante eye-fucked me over the dinner table each night meant nothing. Apparently, he did it to everyone. Tamping down on my highly inappropriate irritation, I went back inside and left them to it.
Exactly one hour later, Dante guided Simone back through the front door, complete with interview notes, some candid photos and a satisfied smile. She attempted to linger. Dante didn’t allow it.
“Thank Christ, that’s over,” he said as he came back to the kitchen. The smirk he’d worn for much of the interview had disappeared, and his gait had altered. It was more stroll, less swagger. “Damn, I hate interviews.”
I made a sound of disbelief before I returned to the salad ingredients I’d been cutting up for lunch. “You could have fooled me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He slid onto his usual stool and leaned forward on the counter as he gazed up at me.
“You seemed quite taken with Simone.” I made an attempt to imitate Dante’s sex-ridden drawl, but instead I sounded catty. Way to give the game away, Sean.
“I seem quite taken with everyone,” he said with a shrug. “It’s part of the job.”
He tried to steal a snow pea, but I swatted his hand away. “So, you’re saying to be a successful musician you have to seduce every person on the planet into fawning over you?”
“Of course not.” He shook his head. “Only people between the ages of eighteen and forty. That covers the majority of my listeners.” I rolled my eyes at him and he laughed. “Hey, you know about food. I know how to give a good interview.”
His words intrigued me, despite my bad mood. “Tell me more?”
“All right.” He straightened, seeming eager to impart his knowledge. “There are two elements to a successful interview,” he explained. “The first is content. If you want a journo to write a good article about you, you have to provide them with solid information to work with, which means engaging with them and giving thoughtful answers to their questions, not being distracted by what you’re doing later or… by what’s going on in the kitchen.” I glanced up and he winked at me.
“And the second?” I asked, unable to keep the grin off my face.
“The second is all about rapport. You have to read the person who’s doing the interview and give them what they want on a more personal level. Some women, like Simone, enjoy some mutual flirtation. They want to feel they’re connecting with me, getting into what makes me tick. Other women prefer to be strictly business. They want to get into what makes me tick as well, but it’s more like an interrogation than a connection. Either way, if I give them what they want, I’m more likely to get what I want, which is a good article.”