Cause For Scandal (Dynasties: The Elliotts #3)
Author: Anna DePalo

One

She needed this interview. Her career depended on it. Her plan depended on it. And, as far as she could see, all that stood in her way were a few burly security guards, her lack of a backstage pass and close to twenty thousand shrieking Zeke Woodlow fans.

Summer looked at Zeke on stage. Even from her seat twelve rows back, his charisma was palpable. His blue jeans and black T-shirt outlined a lean and muscular physique. He wore his dark-brown hair longish, touching the collar of his shirt, and tousled, emphasizing his bad-boy image.

It was his gorgeous face, however, that really got his fans going. Summer itched to capture that arresting face with her camera.

Just then Zeke seemed to look right at her, and Summer held her breath. The connection lasted just an instant, but she felt his intensity down to the tips of her toes.

She only expelled a breath when he looked away.

No doubt about it. Zeke Woodlow’s sex appeal was potent.

Not that he was her type, of course.

She looked down at the round, two-carat, brilliant-cut diamond engagement ring on her hand.

Not at all.

As she was again jostled by fans, she bit back a sigh of impatience and looked around.

Madison Square Garden. One of New York City’s premier venues. Host to political conventions, site for countless sporting events and witness to history. Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen…and now Zeke Woodlow—Grammy winner, rock sensation and current “it” boy of the music world, whose latest CD, Falling For You, had gone diamond, selling over ten million copies.

Summer had all the vital information on Zeke. She knew that he’d grown up in New York but now lived in a Beverly Hills mansion, that he’d become famous for his sexy lyrics and that he’d helped start Musicians for a Cure, which had led to his headlining a Madison Square Garden concert series to benefit cancer research.

But, while she had all the facts, she didn’t have access, and unfortunately she had her heart set on getting an interview with Zeke for The Buzz. She’d been thinking for months about how to win a promotion at work. Her paternal grandfather, Patrick Elliott, believed even relatives had to work their way up within the family publishing empire.

So, when she’d come home one day and spotted an advertisement for Musicians for a Cure among her mail, she knew she’d found her ticket to moving up from lowly copy editor to trusted reporter. An interview with Zeke Woodlow would be just right for The Buzz, which was locked in a fierce battle not only with its closest rival in format, Entertainment Weekly, but also with other Elliott magazines. Patrick Elliott had declared that the head of whichever magazine in the family empire was the most profitable by the end of the year would become the new CEO of EPH—Elliott Publication Holdings—when he stepped down.

Now, clutching her notepad and pen, she shifted from one foot to the other. She’d come to the concert straight from work and she felt uncomfortable. Her toes in her chunky-heeled boots had been stepped on more times than she could count. Her pinstriped pants were perfect for the office but were too warm and out of place among a sea of jeans. Her turtleneck felt similarly tight and hot in the heat generated by thousands of swaying, dancing, jiggling bodies.

Around her, the audience seemed to move like a wave, swaying toward the stage and back, caressing the outer perimeter of Zeke Woodlow’s spotlight.

Because she was just a copy editor, she knew Zeke’s publicist would have laughed in her face if she’d asked for an exclusive interview. But she hoped if she got close to Zeke himself, she could convince him to talk to her. After all, she was ambitious, articulate and musically aware, and she worked for The Buzz—even if her position didn’t qualify her for a backstage press pass.

When Zeke finished the song he was singing, the crowd went wild. He joked with the audience, his sexy voice filling the arena and dancing across her skin like an intimate caress.

“More?” he asked, his voice deep and smooth as silk, teasing the crowd.

The audience hooted and hollered in response.

“I can’t hear you,” he said, cupping his hand to his ear.

The crowd roared.

“All right!” Zeke motioned to the band behind him, then slung the strap of an electric guitar over his shoulder. The music struck up, and Zeke started crooning one of his biggest hits, a ballad called “Beautiful in My Arms.”

As he sang about making love beneath waving palm trees, with the humid night air pressing around, Summer felt herself being seduced right along with the rest of the crowd, lulled into a magical moment. Only when the song faded away was the spell broken, and, even then, it took a few seconds before she shook herself and told herself to stop being ridiculous.

She had to remember she was here for one purpose and one purpose only, and it wasn’t to become another of Zeke Woodlow’s ardent admirers.

Thirty minutes later, when the concert had ended and the crowd was making for the exits, she pushed through the throng, intent on getting backstage. Unfortunately, her progress was halted by a tall and tough-looking security guard.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’d like to get backstage.”

The guard peered down at her, his eyes catching on her ring for an instant, his arms folded. “Right. You and a few thousand other people.”

“I’m a member of the press,” she said. She invested her voice with the same tone that she’d heard hundreds of times from the headmistress of the private girls’ school that she’d attended along with her identical twin, Scarlet.

“Let’s see your backstage pass.”

“I don’t have one. You see—”

But Mr. Hefty-and-Imperturbable had already started shaking his head. “No pass, no access. It’s that simple.”

She wanted to say, “Can we talk about this?” But since she doubted that would work, she fished in her handbag for a business card. She held one up. “See? I’m a staff member—” she didn’t bother identifying which staff member “—at The Buzz. You’ve heard of The Buzz, haven’t you?”

Mr. Hefty just glanced from the business card to her, not bothering to take the card from her. “Like I said, only authorized persons are permitted backstage.”

Argh. She should have been prepared for this.

“Fine,” she said in exasperation, trying one last gambit, “but don’t blame me when heads roll because Zeke Woodlow lost his chance at an interview with one of the leading entertainment magazines in the country.”