The faint thumping of music echoed in the vast underground garage. The dark carried the scent of damp concrete and the tang of exhaust. My door was opened as well, and my ankles went cold in the new draft. I looked up at the man’s stoic face, suddenly unsure. I was being rushed into a situation I didn’t have control of, and it made me feel vulnerable in a way I hadn’t before. Shit.

“Thank you,” I said, unbuckling myself and getting out. I grabbed my bag from the back, moving out of the way when a smaller man came from the kitchen and settled himself in my seat. He drove away with an ease that assured me he wasn’t going to damage my car, leaving nothing but space between me and Trent, who was deep in conversation with the second man.

Again, I saw him in an unguarded moment, the aide’s caring and concern pulling a depth of emotion from Trent that I hadn’t seen in him before. He was hurting. Deeply.

The two men shook hands, and the security guy took a deferential step back. Trent pushed himself into motion, bothered and hurried as he put a hand on the small of my back and guided me in. The two men stayed outside.

I preceded Trent in. The short aisle opened up to a busy kitchen that had a steamy, fragrant warmth and exotic accents shouted at loud volumes. I could hear the music better, and my step bobbled as I recognized Takata’s singing.

Takata is here? I thought in delight when I remembered the tour bus, then quashed it. I was here for Quen, not to be a fawning groupie.

Trent’s presence was quickly noted by the kitchen staff, each and every one of them meeting Trent’s eyes with an understanding that bit deep, making me almost angry that they cared so much for him. Then I quashed that, too. No one stopped us, and it wasn’t until we came out into the extravagant bar tucked under the second floor that we saw the first guest.

“Here we go, Ms. Morgan,” Trent said, the professional, congenial air of a host coming over him. “Get upstairs and wait.”

I faltered when the heat of the room hit me, the music pounding my insides. “No problem,” I said, not sure he heard me. Suddenly I felt vastly underdressed. Hell, even the woman dressed down as a hobo had diamonds on.

One of the bartenders intervened when the first guest approached, and we lost our security escort at the next. News of Trent’s arrival went out like a wake, and a ribbon of panic pulled through me. How did he deal with this? So many people wanting his attention, demanding it.