Page 22 of A Little Bit More

She patted his hand. “And this is Scotland. Where you have the right to eat haggis and play the bagpipes.”

“I hate Scotland,” he whined.

“If you’re hungry,” said his unsympathetic wife, “eat a banana.”

“A banana is no substitute for a Boston Cream.”

“Maybe, but the banana won’t give you a heart attack while you’re prancing across the stage during your next concert.”

“I don’t prance. I sing.” He paused. “Enthusiastically.” Which could be very active.

“Of course, you do.” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I know you hate eating healthy, but I can’t bear the thought of you not being around to watch our kids grow up.” Her voice softened. “I can’t bear the thought of living without you.”

Josh let out a sigh, mentally cursing his high cholesterol. “I’ll eat the damn banana. Now tell me what Kirsty said.”

“Grunt blackmailed Lake into watching his kids for a weekend. Lake’s palmed them off on you.”

“That devious, Limey asshole. He conned me.” And then a thought dawned. “That means we don’t have to babysit Grunt’s kids.”

“No,” Caroline said. “But Lake has washed his hands of them.”

“So, we need to find someone else to do it.”

They caught each other’s eyes and smiled. “Mitch,” they said at the same time and then burst out laughing.

Josh tugged on his wife’s hand until she came around the table to sit in his lap. Man, but he adored his smart, gorgeous, and very devious wife.

“It’s late,” Caroline said. “We’ll call him tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a plan.” And then he kissed his perfect wife.

* * *

At the ripeold age of nineteen, Jasper Fox had reached the pinnacle of British music. He’d just had his third solo number one—a one-fingered salute to the dickheads who’d said he’d never survive outside of a boy band—and was touring to sold-out venues. His adoring fans, who called themselves the Vixens, wore cute little headbands with fox ears to his concerts. If he wanted company for the evening, all he had to do was crook his finger at one, and his bed was filled. He had more money than he’d ever dreamed of, designers begging him to wear their clothes, and Hollywood calling daily to ask if he fancied trying his hand at acting. The answer was yes. But he was smart enough to wait for the right role—he didn’t want to end up in an Elvis movie.

And the kids in his boarding school had told him he’d never amount to anything.

He worked hard. He played hard. And he’d grown up hard. Which, to Jaspar’s mind, meant he was entitled to have everything he wanted, when he wanted it and the way he wanted it.

And he didn’t want a new bodyguard.

“Where’s Mike?” he demanded as he held court in the middle of his apartment-sized dressing rooms at Glasgow’s Hydro stadium. “Mike’s supposed to be my main bodyguard.”

“Mike’s at home,” his manager, Stephen Ames, said. “Recovering from the injuries he sustained last week.”

They had to be shitting him. “They weren’t that bad,” Jasper said, aware his entourage was hanging on his every word. As they should. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t have jobs. “At least, not bad enough to miss work.” Mike and he had plans. They were going to tour the Glasgow nightclubs after the show was over. Mike never missed an excuse to party. Never.

Stephen appeared to take a deep breath. “He broke his wrist and sprained his ankle.” Another deep breath. “While partying with you.” Another breath. “Last weekend, when you were supposed to be at a press junket in Edinburgh.”

Jasper narrowed his eyes at the man. “Are you sick? You’re breathing funny.”

His manager gave him a smile that was more grimace than anything else. “You’re lucky Benson Security was able to step in at the last minute and provide Mr., erm, Grunt, here to cover for Mike.”

Jasper eyed the man-mountain standing behind his manager. The guy had to be at least seven feet tall, although Jasper was a little on the short side, so he might have been overestimating. But, apart from the height, the man was built like a pro wrestler. All oversized muscles, no neck, and a permanent frown. He also had no sense of style. He was dressed head to toe in black and wore scuffed workmen’s boots on his feet.

He wouldn’t do.

“I want Mike,” Jasper declared, half-expecting his bodyguard to manifest before his eyes.