Jackson and Charlotte kept arguing, but Kat, who'd been watching carefully the whole time, leaned forward and pressed the b.u.t.ton that allowed them to hear her.

"Uh ... guys. I have no idea what just happened, but something did."

They couldn't have cared less.

Jackson was speaking calmly, but his expression made it clear that he was holding his anger just under the surface. "The way I wrote it, I sing the melody here, you sing the harmony, and then in the next verse, we trade places."

Charlotte shrugged. "I realize you wrote it, Jackson, you don't have to keep mentioning it. All I'm saying is that I think it sounds better this way."

"Well, you would, wouldn't you, because all you can hear is you."

"That's just not true. The harmony is vital. It wouldn't sound the same if it was just my voice."

"Well, I think you're wrong, and as it's my song-"

Their voices were getting louder and louder, but when F. Aspen came back in with another man, Kat let go of the b.u.t.ton, and suddenly the argument was muted.

"See what I mean?"

F. Aspen seemed to be continuing a conversation he'd already started with this other man, and Kat looked at him curiously. The other man was older, like her dad older, and dressed in what Kat recognized as a bespoke suit. Under it, he wore a Cocteau Twins T-shirt, but the suit had cost more than five grand, she knew that. He was very handsome in a rich, smooth way, and although his face was unlined and relaxed, his eyes were sharp and cold. He turned to look at Kat.

"You're Kat Karraby, the manager?"

She nodded, trying to look as calm as he did.

"Is there a contract between these two?"

She shook her head.

"Or between them and you?"

"No. We're friends. Nothing on paper."

A short smile. "Well, then, nothing at all." He pressed the b.u.t.ton and spoke to Jackson and Charlotte. "I'm John Sparks. I run this record label."

The two musicians fell silent. Charlotte turned to face the gla.s.s, and Kat saw John Sparks's face grow even more still.

He let go of the b.u.t.ton and spoke to F. "You're right, she's smoking hot. And she can really sing?"

"Listen for yourself." Aspen leaned over. "Sing that second song you did, the one that speeds up."

"'Intoxication'?"

"Yes."

Jackson sat down at the piano, and Aspen brought up the playback, with the additional percussion and instruments they'd added earlier. He dropped out Charlotte's recorded track so Sparks could hear her sing live, although once she'd started, he hit record again. "No point in missing another take while we're at it," he muttered to himself.

It was clear to Kat, who knew them well, that the argument they'd just had was working in their favor musically. The song was about s.e.x, basically, about the slow build-up, about the gentlest beginnings turning into the most incredible pa.s.sion. The song began simply and slowly and gradually doubled in pace until the last verse. Charlotte was clearly giving it her all and letting her anger power her singing.

It was an awesome performance. Her voice was so mellow, so round in tone, but then she would give it an edge, a rasp, a subtle break that made the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. Kat could see that John Sparks was affected, but he was also all business.

He interrupted the song. "OK, so my understanding is that there is no contract between the two of you, is that right?"

Charlotte and Jackson stopped playing and looked at each other.

"How do you mean?" Jackson asked.

"I mean that if the record label wanted to sign just her, it could, right?"

There was a pause. Then Charlotte answered. "Well, yes, theoretically. But no, practically. We're a band, not a solo act."

"But you're the one with the major career in front of her."

"Not without him. Without the songs to sing, I'm just a singer."

John Sparks laughed. Not a pleasant sound. "You've got it backward, sweetheart. Songwriters are thick on the ground, and so are singers. But singers with voices like yours, looks like yours, and a media story like yours are not thick on the ground. But hey, if you don't want to sign with us, don't. I'll find the next big thing somewhere else."

He waited a moment and then shrugged. "Think it over. We'll talk tomorrow." He turned and headed toward the door. Then he stopped. "Aspen, don't record anything else, OK?"

When Jessika turned up to take them back to the hotel, n.o.body was saying anything to anyone. But the silence was deafening.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

As the three of them trudged across the lobby, they were hailed by Justin, the desk clerk.

"Miss Williams? Your room has been changed." He handed her a new wand.

She frowned. "Was there something wrong with my room?"

He shook his head. "No, it was at the request of your record label. We already moved your luggage."

"Oh. Am I still on the same floor as my friends?"

"No. You're on the top floor now."

Jackson gave a snort. "Of course you are. And now the persuasion begins, right? Can't you see that's what they're trying to do? It's a seduction."

Charlotte was exhausted and really didn't want to fight. One of the paparazzi outside the hotel had mentioned the Charlotte Williams Sucks Web site, and all she wanted to do was get to her room, take a shower, change into her jammies, and see what bulls.h.i.t they were saying about her now.

"Come on, let's not fight. I'm with you, remember? No one is going to seduce me into anything."

But when they pushed open the door of her new suite, even Jackson admitted that the label was looking pretty s.e.xy. A giant room looked out over the city, one wall completely made of gla.s.s. A plasma screen folded out of a wall, and a gorgeous modern chandelier ran the length of the enormous dining table. All three of them headed for the white leather sofa in front of the window, although Kat veered off at the last minute when she spotted a leopard-print Eames chair instead.

"I could get used to this," she said as someone knocked on the door.

"It's me," said Jessika, followed by three guys pushing trolleys. "I thought you guys might be hungry." Large silver domes were quickly unloaded onto the dining table and pulled off to reveal steak frites, a delicious-looking salad, three kinds of doughnuts, and a fruit platter Tiffanii could have used as a s...o...b..ard. "We can go out for dessert after if you like."

There was silence, followed by a fairly inelegant scramble for the table.

"I didn't realize how hungry I was," Charlotte admitted, once she'd gotten a plate of delicious fries down. She turned to Jackson. "Look, I'm sorry I was snappish before."

"It's OK. It's all a bit overwhelming." Jackson was looking better, too, as he munched his way through a loaded plate.

"I don't want them to sign me on my own." Charlotte reached for his hand. "You know that, right?"

He shrugged. "I'm not going to stand in your way. I already told you, this isn't really my scene. Face it, you and I got into a fight in the studio already, and I just don't want to fight over music. I think I might be better off getting back to where I'm happiest, and that's New Orleans." He paused and smiled at Charlotte. "But I don't want to leave you alone with all these wolves, so let's take it day by day for a bit, OK?"

As Charlotte nodded, the phone rang. Kat went to get it, but after a few seconds, she held it out to Charlotte.

"It's someone called Mr. Edelstein. He says he's calling from New York."

Charlotte looked at her watch. Edelstein was her dad's banker, the man who'd refused to give her any money. It was after nine there. Oh, G.o.d, maybe something had happened to her dad. She took the phone.

"Mr. Edelstein?"

"Miss Williams?"

"Yes, it's me. Is something wrong?" Smart, Charlotte Smart, Charlotte, she chided herself. Of course something's wrong. He's a banker, and your dad stole millions of dollars. Of course something's wrong. He's a banker, and your dad stole millions of dollars. As far as he was concerned, something would always be wrong. As far as he was concerned, something would always be wrong.

But she was mistaken.

"I'm calling with good news, Miss Williams. I'm sorry for the lateness of the hour, but when I heard you were on the West Coast, I thought it might be acceptable to call."

Charlotte sank to the edge of the sofa, confused. "No, it's fine, Mr. Edelstein, but what is it?"

"Your money, Miss Williams. Your personal account. I've managed to free it up for you. Our branch in L.A. should already have delivered a checkbook and bank cards to your hotel. In addition to the ten million dollars or so that is in your account, you have access to a fairly sizable credit line."

Charlotte gasped. Kat and Jackson looked worried, but she held up a rea.s.suring hand. "Are you joking?"

Mr. Edelstein seemed affronted. "No, of course not. I never joke about money in excess of one million dollars." There was a pause, and then he chuckled. "That was a joke, of course."

"Of course." Charlotte didn't know what to say, so she did what she'd been raised to do, which was to say thank you. Then she hung up the phone and turned to face her friends. "Well, that changes things a bit."

"What happened?" Kat looked worried.

"I'm rich again."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

It was only much later that Charlotte thought to check the Charlotte Williams Sucks Web site. After the surprising call from Edelstein, she and her friends had ordered champagne and then basically hung out and watched a movie. Very glamorous.

Charlotte had mixed feelings about the money. On the one hand, of course, she was glad to be solvent again, and it meant she could pay some bills and go back to Yale if she wanted to. But on the other hand, she had been getting used to the freedom of not having money.

Jackson was scornful of this position. "There's no freedom in poverty. This is one of those lies the rich make up to make themselves feel better about the ma.s.sive discrepancy between them and the poor. It's not very freeing not to know where your next meal is coming from."

Charlotte frowned. "I'm not glorifying poverty. I'm saying that wealth carries implications and responsibilities."

"Why? It didn't before."

A slight chill had entered the room. Suddenly, Jackson got to his feet.

"You know what? I'm really tired. Let's talk in the morning and work out what to do once we've all had a good night's sleep, OK?"

Charlotte had started to try to talk him out of it, to invite him to spend the night with her, but she realized she needed time to think as well. Kat was going out with Jessika, "to see some things," and went to get ready. Charlotte was left alone, and she was glad of it.

She turned on her laptop and connected to the Internet. Let's see what the world is saying about me now Let's see what the world is saying about me now, she thought to herself.

The Web site was at least consistent.

"Charlotte Sings for Her Supper," read the headline, which was inoffensive enough, but the article wasn't very kind.

"Charlotte Williams arrived in Los Angeles ready to steal the careers of harder-working young women. After never publicly showing an interest in music before, she met up with a talented musician in New Orleans and quickly took advantage of him. Now she's meeting with record labels that reportedly are only interested in signing her. How long will it be before she jettisons those she no longer needs? Not long, we imagine."

There was a picture of her taken outside the hotel that morning, looking like every tabloid photograph she'd ever seen. Why did those pictures always look so similar? There was just enough truth in the story to be believable, but they'd twisted her motivation to make her look terrible and selfish. She thought about all the tabloid stories she'd read over the years and wondered how many of those had been true. Not so many, it would seem.

There were links at the bottom of the article, and she discovered that CWS was not the only site paying attention to her now that she was back "on the scene." Other gossip sites wondered which club she'd favor with her first visit, and some had photos of her coming back to the hotel. Great. It wouldn't be long before her local friends got in touch, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

The phone rang. Maybe it was Kat.

"Hey there, wh.o.r.e. How ya doin'?"

The voice. Charlotte felt herself flood with adrenaline and wished she wasn't alone. She looked around for another phone, but there wasn't one.

"How did you get this number?"

He laughed. "Well, let's think about that. Your picture is all over the Internet, the name of your hotel is public knowledge, so I just called the front desk and asked for you. Not so hard, huh? Maybe for you, but not for those of us who think for a living."

Charlotte was angry. "Look, I have no idea who you are or why you think it's cool to bug me, but I've done nothing to you, and I want you to stop."

"You've done nothing to me? Actually, your father took all of my parents' money and reduced them to utter poverty, just as they were beginning their retirement. You just watched your dad go to jail, but at least he'll be fed. I watched my parents cry with dread that they'd lose the home they've lived in for the last fifty years. I want to watch you cry and beg for mercy, Charlotte, that's what I want. I want to watch you write me a big fat check to save my parents' home."

"You want money? That's what all this is about?" Charlotte was incredulous. "I thought you were crazy, but you're just a f.u.c.king thief."

"It's not thievery, baby, it's retribution."

"I'm not giving you anything, loser."