“Why polish your claws, though? Forgot your broom and your cauldron?”

“Forgot your balls?” I shoot back, lifting my head and noticing he’s still standing, arms crossed over that broad chest. “Are you threatened because they want me here on your special movie tour? Or because your balls aren’t that big?”

He chuckles, soft and low and unfairly sexy as he scans the bus, his gaze settling on a spot on the ceiling.

As the bus starts moving, I signal to the door. “Last chance. If you’re looking for an escape, there’s the door.”

He doesn’t smile like I expected him to. “The girls on tour can be vicious, Pandora,” he gruffly warns, still scanning the bus interior, “I’m not your enemy—I’m the only guy who’s got your back here. Remember that when they try hazing you one of these days. You don’t belong here right now. It shouldn’t have been like this.”

He looks over my shoulder, narrow-eyed. “There have to be six cameras total here, at least,” he murmurs.

“And you want to disable them so there’s no evidence of you murdering me?”

“Nothing wrong with making sure they see only what we want them to see.”

“Who cares? This is all a big show so you can keep filling your pockets with dough.”

“Speaking of, whose pockets are full today?” He chews a stick of gum briefly before taking it out of his mouth, lifting his long, lean arms, and covering one of the camera eyes with a little piece. “How much did he give you?”

“Does it matter?”

“What was your price?”

“Who cares? The point is I was completely sellable. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

“We all have a price.” He swaggers back to me—the kind of swagger that lets a girl know the dude’s cock is leading him forward—and sits by me, sits really close. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, surveying my expression.

He’s somber and serious, and it makes me nervous. His sunglasses are tucked into his T-shirt—and those gray eyes are on me like . . . something palpable. He’s wearing no wig over the buzz cut I find so terribly sexy. A little kohl remains under his eyes, which only makes the shade of his eyes seem even more silver. Two thick leather bracelets cover his wrists. I’m suddenly feeling not as badass as I want.

“Because,” I finally answer.

“Because what?” He reaches up and tugs the pink strand of my hair, his lips curling in amusement.

“They met my price. I’m saving this money,” I admit, pulling my hair free from his grasp.

“Hmm.” He leans back on the seat and continues scrutinizing me. Somehow I want him to say something mean, so I can say something mean back.

Why the fuck doesn’t he? God, this man pisses me off.

“What? No mean comeback?” I demand.

“Actually, no. I’m giving Lionel what he wants because I want something in return—and I’m damn well getting it, so long as I put up with you. Don’t ruin it for me.”

“Me?! I’m not the one who covered the camera!”

“You’re right, you just threw the contents of your kitchen cabinets at me.”

I open my mouth to cuss, and he stops me.

“Didn’t you get the memo? I like oranges best.”

“You’re starting to irritate me.”

He leans over and whispers in my ear. “Next time you give me a tomato bath, I’m going to make you give me a tongue bath and clean up your mess.” He strokes the pink in my hair. “Fair warning.”

Something is crackling in the air so hard, I can’t speak or breathe. My nipples, my sex, even my skin feel hypersensitive. I wait for him to say something. A strange heat makes my jaw start chattering. Really. I haven’t seen Mackenna look at me this close in . . . years.

He puts his arm around my waist, and suddenly he starts pressing closer to me.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl.

He reaches his arm around me, and the touch of his fingers spreads warmth and pain in me. “You know you’re the only girl I’ve ever met who actually growls? Like a mean old bear,” he whispers huskily in my ear.

I especially disapprove of the tender way his thumb grazes my skin, causing delicious little ripples. And I wholeheartedly disapprove of the way he looks at me with a slight curve to one side of his lips because he knows that I do disapprove. I refuse to answer, so his scrutiny continues.

“What happened to you?” he asks me, his expression intent, his eyes concerned.

God, the gall. The way he moves his thumb . . .

“You happened!” When he’s close enough, I swing, but he grabs my wrist midair. I swing out again with my other arm but he grabs that too, setting them both over my head. The way he surveys me, like he’s dissecting me, makes me fight harder. “Let go!”

“So you can pull out a couple more tomatoes?” he asks, his eyes carving into me.

“What can I say? They looked great with your fucking Peter Pan tights!”

I struggle, but it only makes the current between our bodies crackle more, so I force myself to fall deathly still—every inch of my body aware of his hands on my wrists.

“Did you want my attention, Pandora? The rest of the band thinks you do,” he says. His low, unexpectedly soft voice rolls through me, inside my body, and I can’t think straight. My eyes blur from the force of his effect on me. I drag in a deep breath to calm down, but his hand sliding down the inside of my arm fucks up my thoughts. “Babe . . . if that’s what you want,” he finally whispers, a warning, “I can oblige.”