His Secret Muse: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (2 page)

Mr. Crow - apparently being the diva I suspected him to be - lets a few moments pass before he finally blesses the crowd with his appearance.

And even I, probably the only woman in this hall who has never finished any of his books and who has not been swooning over this man for the past few months, catch myself gaping and taking an especially deep breath when he walks on stage.

He is gorgeous. And tall. Tall men have always been my weakness, which probably comes as no surprise considering my own height.

But he is more than just tall. He is wearing a navy blue suit that seems to be perfectly tailored to his frame, combined with a tie in a light color. The suit is of a casual style, but one that suits him perfectly and emphasizes his broad shoulders.

His dark hair looks a bit different than it did in the pictures that Lesley showed me. It is shorter, with an undercut on both sides and more length on top and at the front where an edgy strand partly covers his left eye. He was cleanly shaven in the pictures I have seen but is sporting a three-day stubble tonight. I am quick to decide that I prefer the stubble by far. It adds to his edgy features and makes him look more interesting.

"Told you," I hear Lesley whisper from the side. "Quite a sight, huh?"

Yes, definitely
, I think. But I try to not let it show too much. Instead of agreeing with her, which would be the most honest reply, I just shrug and - without looking at her - say: "Yeah, he's alright."

Lesley snorts, but ignores me, as the applause and whistling around us slowly comes to an end.

Cedric Crow closes in on the interviewer until both of them are shaking hands directly in front of us.

Mr. Crow's splendor is only emphasized in comparison to the rather unimpressive stature and sloppy clothing of the interviewer when he places himself next to him.

What a gorgeous man he is. I am beginning to think that I should have given his books another chance before coming here. Wouldn't that have been the polite thing to do?

Then again, it's not like he is going to find about that anyways.

"Cedric," the interviewer says - and it's easy to tell that there's pride in the fact that he may address the writer by his first name. "So good to see you. And as you can tell, you have been greatly anticipated."

The interviewer gestures towards the crowd, who instantly replies with another round of approving whistles and applause.

And this time, I am actually rolling my eyes. I never understood why people in crowds tend to scream, whistle and applause for an eternity instead of actually waiting to hear the person they have come to see. If anything, their interruptions only prolonged the wait for the actual event that they have paid for.

I may be imagining things, but judging from Cedric Crow's face, I am beginning to think that he is equally sick of the constant noise that is thrown in his direction.

His eyes quickly scan the crowd, wandering through the entire hall before he lowers his head and quickly observes the audience below his feet. Us.

"Oh my God," I hear Lesley gasp next to me, as his eyes rest on us for a split second. "He looked at me!"

I raise my eyebrows and glance at her from the side. Nothing in his demeanor suggested that he was looking at us any longer than he has looked at anybody else in this giant venue. But I would be an ass to point that out to her right now.

I thought he would read to us first, but as it turns out, the first point on the agenda is the interview. The two men take their seats and give the audience a few more minutes to settle before the questioning starts.

The expectant silence that spreads through the hall as Mr. Crow starts speaking is almost bizarre compared to the noise that people caused just a few moments before.

The conversation starts with a few boring pleasantries. The interviewer asks how Mr. Crow is doing, and how long he has been in the city. If he has seen anything interesting during his visit so far and if he is enjoying his hotel room - a question that causes me to roll my eyes again.

If Mr. Crow is annoyed or bored by the opening questions posed at him, he is doing a very good job at hiding it. His voice is deep and steady while he - very politely - answers each and every one of them. Like most people who are used to be in the spotlight, he also makes sure to throw in the occasional joke and convey the impression that he is not taking himself too seriously.

It works. The audience laughs at just the right moments. It is easy to tell by his confident smile that he feels completely in control of the whole situation. And he is.

He appears to be a lot less nervous than the interviewer, who keeps shifting in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs and nervously fiddling with the cards in his hands that are supposed to lead him through the interview. His voice cracks here and there, and his nervous laughter almost makes me feel sorry for him.

Mr. Crow's overly self-assured attitude is intimidating, there is no denying that.

The conversation becomes a little less awkward once the interviewer starts asking him about his writing and his current projects. Now that he has overcome the lame opening questions and silly small talk, he can finally dig into his area of expertise. The book nerd is in his element.

And so is Cedric Crow.

"Are you willing to share a few details about your current project?" the interviewer investigates. "It's a novel series I hear? Similar to your 'Silent Daughter' novel from about two years ago?"

The interviewer turns to the crowd. "One of Cedric's biggest hits, as we all know."

And the audience agrees with him. Cheers and claps of approval fill the hall.

I glance over to Lesley, knowing that the mentioned title was not among the ones she gave me to read.

She looks at me and shrugs.

"It's okay," she whispers. "A love story really. I didn't care for that one too much."

"I see," I reply. "Didn't even know that he writes those kind of things, too."

She shakes her head. "He doesn't really. It's quite... twisted. Not your average romance."

"Mhm," I make.

The venue has quieted down again, and Mr. Crow finally gets a chance to give his answer.

"Yes, it bears some resemblance," he says. "The premise is similar, but the characters are very different. And so is their story."

He has a very distinct way of speaking. His deep voice emits confidence and a sense of security. But it also somewhat monotone, with little ups and downs as one would usually hear when a person speaks. It is hard to imagine him angry - or happy. Or just about any emotional state. Right now he presents nothing but confidence, control, and serenity.

"Your characters never have it easy with you," the interviewer comments. "It seems no one safe from ordeals that we wouldn't even wish on our worst enemies."

The interviewer pauses and looks at Mr. Crow, apparently expecting him to say anything to that.

But he shows no sign of reaction whatsoever and just returns a look with similar anticipation.

"Um, I mean," the interviewer adds. "It was kind of nice to see your characters have something good happen to them."

Mr. Crow chuckles.

"He kidnaps a young girl whom he knows no one will miss because she is unwanted and grew up in the shadows of a horrible family. And then he imprisons her until she falls in love with him," he explains, now turning towards the crowd. "Is that something good?"

Murmur and suppressed giggles fill the room.

His eyes still scan the hall, observing the audience's reaction. His gaze his intense and intimidating. Even without focusing on anyone in particular, his impact on the crowd - and the women especially - is irrefutable.

"Well," the interviewer interjects. "But he is saving her, practically doing it for her own good. And in the end, she is happy and grateful to be with him. Her life was miserable before he took her in, and - to quote her own words - 'turned into a dream no one even dares to express, because it is too surreal'. Quite a happy ending, wouldn't you say?"

The crowd certainly agrees. But Cedric Crow just shakes his head.

"Stockholm Syndrome," he says. "That's what some would call it. It is a well-known phenomenon."

"One that you are familiar with?"

The interviewer leans forward, fiery about the fact that he dared to pose such an intriguing question.

A faint smile surfaces on Mr. Crow's face. He lowers his eyes for a moment, before he dramatically lifts his head, gazing down at the crowd with that same intense and mysterious look he likes to sport. "Maybe."

Another muttering spreads through the hall, joined by occasional giggles. They love him. The way he speaks, especially in the light of his dark writing, promises a delicious fright.

No one here, or very few, I assume, would actually want to be kidnapped and imprisoned, experiencing God knows what kind of torture in the process. But to read about it, to fantasize - that is what he gives them. And it probably doesn't hurt that he looks and acts the way he does, slightly narrowing his eyes as he observes us. If anyone here fantasizes about being kidnapped, they probably have a man like him in mind.

The murmurs and giggles eventually fade into another round of applause.

I am too deep in my ever-analyzing thoughts to realize it and do not join their clapping hands this time. Instead, I roll my eyes, annoyed by the new wave of noise that spreads across the hall and look up at him, trying to read that unreadable face.

And then he looks back.

He is focusing me, stopping the hovering motion with which he has scanned the hall before. His eyes remain on me for just a second longer, before he withdraws them.

Damn.

For a moment, I am sure that I must have imagined things. But this thought is revoked when I notice Lesley glancing over to me.

She noticed it, too.

But unlike before, when she thought that he had been looking at her, she doesn't say a word this time. She does give me a little frown, though, when she notices that I am not applauding like everyone else.

"Maybe, huh," the interviewer repeats, adding a snicker himself. "Well, Cedric, your stories are known to be a little... let's say daunting. Why do you think that attracts so many people?"

Mr. Crow looks at the interviewer and hesitates for a moment. It is unusual for him to be processing an answer for this long. And there is no need to wait for silence, as the venue hardly could not be any quieter.

Thousands of people are hanging on to his lips. And he makes no effort in hiding how much he likes it. He is bathing in the undivided attention, his eyes scanning through the attentive audience with relish.

Then, he looks back down to the first few rows.

No.

He is looking at me.

And this time, there is absolutely no doubt.

My heart skips a beat. Then another one. And another one.

His eyes are still on me. And by now, it is becoming apparent to everyone around us.

Geez. Why is he doing this?

The tension is almost unbearable. The entire audience is staring at him, eagerly awaiting a reply, increasing the tension with their anticipation.

While he just sits there and fixates me with his intense gaze.

“I don’t know why it attracts so many of my readers,” he finally says without adverting his eyes from me. “We could just ask them.”

The interviewer – much like everyone else in the hall – does not understand what Mr. Crow is aiming at.

“Well, um, we can’t really do that right now, so-“

“Yes, we can,” Mr. Crow interrupts. “Let’s ask that young lady right here.”

He lifts his right arm and unerringly points at me.

Lesley gasps next to me while my face loses all of its color.

Fuck
.

We are not the only ones who are taken aback by Cedric Crow’s odd suggestion. Another confused murmur is spreading through the hall. People around us are stretching and leaning forward to see who that ‘young lady’ is he is pointing at.

The interviewer looks back and forth between me and Cedric Crow, unsure what to do.

“That, um, well, I mean we can’t just-“

“I’m sure we can,” Mr. Crow interrupts. “Would you care to join us up here for a minute?”

It is the first time that he is directly addressing me.

I hold my breath – and so does Lesley next to me. Unrest and muttering sweep through the crowd, and I have no idea what to do. So I opt for the only response that comes to mind and firmly shake my head.

He smirks and nods. “No worries, I don’t bite.”

The crowd laughs, and Lesley nudges me from the side.

“Come on,” she hisses. “Don’t embarrass him.”

Embarrass him
? What about embarrassing me?

I turn around and look at her with indignation.

“Excuse me?” I hiss at her. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t just-“

I stop when I notice a staff member running along the small aisle between the stage and the first row. He is carrying a little step and places it down in front of the stage.

“Go!” Lesley urges, grabbing me by the arm in an attempt to lift me up from my seat.

I feel completely helpless as I get up and squeeze myself past the people sitting between us and the middle aisle, avoiding eye contact with all of them.

I don’t need to look back to know that all eyes are now on me, just waiting for me to trip and fall or embarrass myself with whatever will come out of my mouth, once I am standing on stage, interrogated by the man who everybody here adores. Whatever he intends to do – they will all be on his side. I can only come out as the loser in all of this.

Great.

I move slowly, almost like a robot. The man who brought the step to the stage also helps me to get up on it. I thank him with an appreciative smile. There’s pity on his face.

“A round of applause for the lady,” Cedric Crow yells towards the audience. And of course, they obey.

I am blinded by light and noise as I step up onto the stage, which grants me a false sense of security for a few seconds.

He gets up from his armchair und approaches me, his hand stretched out to greet me.

“Cedric Crow, nice to meet you,” he introduces himself, and the audience giggles. “And your name is?”

The same guy who was in charge of providing the step now hurries at my side to hand me a microphone.

I take it and try to figure out how close to my mouth I should hold it for people to hear me, but without causing one of those embarrassing screeching sounds.

“Renee,” I whisper. My breath is so out of control that my reply comes out all hoarse and muffled by a sudden whooshing sound as if I was deliberately blowing into the microphone.

What a great start.

The crowd chatters and murmurs, but right now I can barely hear them, let alone see them. Thank God.

Being the center of attention has never been my thing, especially since my height draws quite a lot unwanted attention by itself. Standing on a brightly lit stage with thousands of eyes on me – most of them probably filled with envy – is torture.

But I have to admit that is made a lot easier by him.

His handshake is firm and warm but not too tight. He places himself closely next to me, so close that our bodies almost touch.

Unnaturally close.

His height comforts me, because next to him, even I feel rather short and weirdly protected.

“So, Renee,” he starts, placing his hand on my shoulder. “What is it about my stories that attracts you?”

I flinch at his touch, even though it doesn’t necessarily feel uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually.

But what am I supposed to say?

I gulp as I try to think about an appropriate answer that does not necessarily reveal how little – close to nothing – I have read of his works.

“Well,” I utter. “There is a certain attraction to reading about dark and, I guess, scary things. It’s exciting.”

Brilliantly vague. Of course, he doesn’t let me get off that easily.

“Sure, I’m not surprised to hear that,” he says, ever so politely. His hand is still on my shoulder. “And what, in particular, was it that you liked about ‘Silent Daughter’?”

Up until now he has been partly facing the crowd, even whilst talking to me. But he turns around now, lightly squeezing my shoulder when he asks: “Assuming you have read it?”

The light grip on my shoulder feels almost like a warning. And so do his eyes. As if he is trying to tell me that there is no other answer but ‘Yes’ to this question.

I narrow my eyes as I look up at him, trying to let him know what I think about this little stunt he is pulling at my expense.

He either doesn't notice it - or chooses to ignore my fury. 

“Yes,” I hiss. “Of course, I read it. I liked it a lot.”

I can neither see nor hear her, but I am sure that Lesley must be close to a near death experience right now. How could I be so stupid and lie to him? This can never end well.

And I am sure he knows. He knows that I am lying. But he is generous enough to not call me out on it.

“Great,” he says instead. “So, what did you like about it? Why was it so intriguing?”

Of course, my answer to that can only be as vague as what I uttered before. We both know that. If he hadn’t just summarized the novel’s story, I would have no idea what ‘Silent Daughter’ was even about.

But I have to come up with something. And I am not going to let him win this easily.

“It’s a fantasy,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “A fantasy, huh. Tell me more about that.”

I notice the interviewer shifting in his seat behind us. He must hate this. Why does not put an end to it? I am sure the audience would be a lot more interested in what else Cedric Crow has to tell about his books, his work, and his personal life.

They sure as hell cannot enjoy witnessing this. Witnessing Cedric Crow humiliating a young woman, who they feel sorry for and probably envy at the same time.

No one is getting anything out of this.

Except for Cedric Crow, it seems.

He smiles down at me, completely ignoring the crowd beneath us. The intensity with which he faces me is so incredibly intimidating.

I clear my throat and turn away from him, holding on to the microphone in front of my chest for dear life.

Closing my eyes, I begin elaborating what I have been hinting at, repeating the thoughts I was having while I was still sitting in the crowd, safe and sound, with no one aware of my existence except for Lesley. Right now, I wish for nothing more than to be back there in that comfortable, anonymous seat.

To my own surprise, I can come up with quite a few things to say about what is so likeable and enticing about his books. A lot more than I should be saying. My nervousness causes me to ramble, eventually turning to an in-depth analysis of his reader’s psyche.

I keep talking, adding more and more random aspects and digging myself deeper with every single one.

Why is no one stopping me?

The main reason for my awkward rambling is the fact that he doesn’t react to anything I say. I keep adding pauses, glancing at him from the side, practically begging for him to stop me, to say something, to ask something. Anything, really.

But every time our eyes meet, he just reciprocates my gaze with the same attentive smile, with no intention whatsoever to interfere.

Since no one else is saving me, all that is left to do is to save myself.

Shut up
, a voice has been yelling inside my brain. But for some reason, I am having trouble to listen.

This has to stop.

I literally bite my tongue to prevent myself from going any further. If I keep quiet for long enough, he will have to say something eventually.

But all that follows is an awkward silence.

And his eyes are still on me.

I frown at him.

And finally, his handsome face is capable of showing a reaction. A sadistic smirk that promises no good.

“Interesting insights, Renee,” he says. “One question, though: How come you keep referring my readers as ‘them’?”

The audience mutters again while I have to gather all my strength to not let my jaw drop to the floor and reveal what kind of shock this question poses to me.

“It almost sounds as if you spent more time analyzing my readers psyche than reading my books,” he adds.

That asshole.

The smug grin on his face widens as he realizes the impact his accusation has on me.

I stare up at him, trying to process what is happening to me right now. And how to get out of it.

“I, well, that’s not-“

“Tell me,” he interrupts. “What is your favorite book?”

Shit.

As I try to gather at least one of the titles that Lesley has handed to me, the interviewer finally has enough and comes to my rescue.

“Well, thank you very much for your interesting… insights,” he says, jumping up from his armchair behind us.

He pushes himself between us, forcing Mr. Crow to remove his hand from my shoulder and take a step to the side. A hint of annoyance flees across his face but is replaced by his professional smile just a moment later.

“I think it’s best if we carry on with our little talk here,” the interviewer declares, still looking at me. As if I had been the one who intruded and jumped up on stage to have this painful exchange with Cedric Crow.

I nod and smile, casting Mr. Crow a quick and nasty look before I hand over the microphone and turn around to make my way back down to the safety of my seat.

“Thank you,” Mr. Crow concludes. “Applause for Renee, please!”

The crowd obediently dismisses me with a reluctant round of applause, while I lower my head and avert my eyes, trying my best not to stumble while I flee from the stage.