The Demon's Lover

Ashlynn

I left the salon with Emily, my agent, running a hand through the soft, freshly washed crimson hair on my head. "I don't know, Em," I grumbled. "My boss is going to be pissed." I'd left the states in search of a producer who wouldn't be so damned uptight. Unfortunately, the only producer who was available at the time was a complete prick. I was relatively sure he was trying to get in my pants, too, but that was beside the point.

"Oh, let him b***h," Emily said with a lighthearted shrug. "It looks f*****g incredible. At least you went to a professional and didn't try to dye this yourself." She hooked her arm through mine, pulling me just a bit closer as we walked down the path towards my apartment-- no, flat. We were in London now, and they called them "flats" here. "Repetition isn't good for anyone, love. Especially not us girls. It isn't like you went and got a tattoo or something. It's just hair. It can be dyed again, cut, grown out, whatever."

"You say that, Em, but you forget how annoying my record label happens to be. Any tiny change, and they'll push the album release back again."

"Then we find you a new label. I'm your agent, babe. You've got to start trusting me a little bit more." She was right, and I knew it. I just didn't want to admit it. So, the only thing I could do was nod as if I did agree with her. I already knew her opinion of my label, of my producer. She hated them just as much as I did. The only good thing about the label was the drummer they'd gotten into my band. Daniel. He was one good looking guy, don't get me wrong, just not my type. Then again, most everyone who knew me didn't think I even had a type. I was pretty sure I did.

By the time we reached my flat, a term I had to keep reminding myself about, Emily took her leave and started the short walk to her own. Which left me to my own devices. I fished my keys out of the pocket of the leather jacket I wore almost constantly, just because it had been a gift from my dad before I left the US. As I slid the key into the lock on my door, I noticed the letter in my mailbox. Huh. I thought I'd checked it earlier, and there hadn't been anything in there. With a shrug, I took the letter out, a brow raised at the care taken with the writing on the envelope.

Opening it, I realized that it wasn't just the address and name that was written with such care. The entire letter was. Apparently, it was from someone named Callum, another producer looking for new talent. A man who'd been impressed with my last album. Now that made my ego swell just a little. Well, I had been considering dropping my current label for a better one. And this sounded just like the thing I needed. My eyes skimmed over the rest of the letter, taking note that I was supposed to meet this man at his place.

SHIT! I only had two hours! I actually had to break out the shower cap I had, just to keep my hair dry while I showered like a woman possessed. I was determined to get this done as quickly as possible, since I'd looked up the address and seen that it would take about thirty minutes to get there by cab. As I stood in my room, towel wrapped around my slim frame, I stared into my closet. Damn it. Did I even have anything appropriate for a meeting like this?

I rifled through the clothes I had, finally settling on a knee-length black skirt with white button down top. Of course it was paired with a tank top under it, just to make sure that it wasn't too terribly sheer. Well, this gave me an excuse to wear the pantyhose that I'd bought months ago in hopes of using them for a meeting just like this. Those were slipped on, paired with a simple pair of black pumps. Over the white top, I threw on a black blazer, sliding my keys into my pocket and grabbing the only purse I had. I absolutely despised them, always had, but it was good to keep them on hand for events like this. The purse was a black clutch with a silver chain for a strap.

One last finger-comb of my newly dyed hair, a little makeup, and I felt like I was finally ready to leave the apartment. Another glance at the clock on my phone. Perfect. Just over an hour left to get there. I had been raised a military brat, and my parents always said that if you weren't at least fifteen minutes early, you were late. If it didn't take too long to find a cab, I'd be just over that time frame. Perfect.

******

When I finally got to the address I've given to the cab driver, I could feel my jaw hit the ground. "Holy s**t," I muttered, stepping up to the door. Was that mahogany? Nice. Okay, so should I use the knocker or the bell? For a moment, my eyes flickered between the two, and I finally settled on the bell. Well, good thing I'd gotten a manicure the day before, right? Not that I ever did anything special with my nails. Just the classic French tips. But instead of a white tip, I picked black. Every single time. After pressing the bell, I started to fidget just a little. My fingers trailed along the chain that held the purse up on my shoulder, twirled a bit of my hair, even tugged at the hem of my blazer a little. Thank God my hair was too short to really look good pulled up. It brushed over my shoulders, only lightly curled back at the salon, and enhanced by my flat iron when I'd been back home.

The man who opened the door was a little older. He had hair that was almost the same color as mine, but his eyes were odd. Who had naturally red eyes? No one I'd ever seen. "And you must be Miss Ashlynn." His voice was almost fatherly, deep and rumbling, littered with the accent I'd heard from the people inside the city of London. Not that Yorkshire accent my current producer had. "Master Callum is waiting for you in his office. If you'd follow me, please." Damn. He was one polite old guy, wasn't he?

I followed him into the foyer, my heels clicking across floors that looked like marble. The entire place was gorgeous, and I was beyond impressed. He led me up a staircase, one that pointed towards the left, and down another hallway. This hall was carpeted, but not so much that it felt like a chore to walk over it in heels. A pair of oak doors loomed before us at the end of the hallway, the knobs gold. Or maybe it was brass. I couldn't tell. And when he opened those doors? Holy f**k.

It felt like my heart had just dropped into my stomach. The man sitting behind the desk, wearing a well-tailored charcoal gray suit, was drop dead gorgeous. He was tall, well over six feet by my estimate, with shoulder length golden hair. No, not blond. That was Emily. This guy had gold hair. His eyes were almost the same color as his hair, which only made his appeal that much stronger. He had this light tan, like he was used to seeing the sun, but had never been burned or stayed out too long in his life.

The only problem? The look in his eyes was almost hungry and it was a little unnerving.