Sing Your Pleasure. A.C. Arthur
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She wasn’t a rail-thin woman—after being in the business for years he knew this was the look, slim and trim, almost emaciated—on the contrary; she was full-figured with more curves than the law should possibly allow. Her clothes, however, left a lot to be desired. She wore slacks, nice enough, in a navy blue color and a button-down blouse, high heels and light makeup. An outfit that didn’t scream “sexy” and barely whispered “diva.”
It yelled “average, nondescript, forgettable” from the business standpoint. On the personal, well, he didn’t even want to think about that.
All those words were deadly in his line of work.
Then he closed his eyes, shut out the visual and simply listened to the voice bellowing from the speakers in his home studio just outside of Miami.
The throaty, rich sound of a mezzo-soprano voice filtered throughout the room. He’d listened to this demo CD more than a dozen times in twenty-four hours, had become addicted to the smooth, melodious notes. There was no doubt she had a voice, a good strong one at that, just right for singing R&B ballads and dance tunes. Ten minutes into the first listen he’d known Jason had picked a winning voice.
As for the rest, the whole package, which was what he was responsible for, that was going to be a problem.
She just didn’t fit the bill. This Charlene Quinn did not look like a “diva.” Hell, she didn’t even look like a nightclub singer. She looked like what she was, a voice instructor at the local college. Now he did have a little more information on her, she was the daughter of a television-and-movie producer and best friends with one of the owners of Limelight Entertainment Agency. That told him two things. One, she was rich and privileged and probably thought the world was supposed to treat her exactly that way. And two, she had high connections. Limelight was a contender in the business, representing a lot of the heavy hitters in the movie as well as music industries. Still, Akil focused on the talent; connections and money meant nothing to him if his artist had no talent to work with.
On the demo she’d recorded three tracks. The first was an old Tina Turner hit, “Shake a Tail Feather,” that had him bopping his head and feeling the emotional energy that up until now, only Tina had been able to infuse into her songs. The next was the song Jason heard her sing in the karaoke bar, “Hero” by Mariah Carey. Again, a tune that is probably not advised to be tried by another vocalist, but Charlene had done it amazingly well. Her vocal range was outstanding as she hit the higher notes just as easily as she rocked the lower ones.
The last tune was an unknown, the beat was slow, jazzlike, and the lyrics were sultry. More suited to the Billie Holiday and Lena Horne types. Charlene had begun with a slow steady intro that immediately caught his attention. “The first time we made love,” were the lyrics and from the way she belted them out you’d think she was experiencing her first time all over again. From the verse to the chorus to the bridge, which could have been instrumentally arranged better, to the killer climax of the ballad, Akil had been transfixed, pulled into the very heart of the song and the soul of the singer.
The contradiction between her look and her sound was astounding.
Akil was a music producer and as such he was responsible for all stages of the audio development, working with the artist, studio musicians, engineers and related staff. That’s what his generic duties were. But Akil hadn’t risen to the spot of being one of the most sought-after producers of the decade by being generic. When he took on a new artist, he took on every aspect, from the audio to the performance to the overall image that was presented to the public. His goal was to give the listeners what they wanted, to produce the best music, to give the best images. That’s what made him unique in this business, it’s what made him better than most of the rest. He was known as a perfectionist, a slave driver, some had said. But in the end it was all for the best; ninety-five percent of his songs debuted in the top five on Billboard. Eleven of the twelve entertainers he’d been responsible for introducing to the world were top charters and now multimillionaires sought after for performances on the Grammys, the BET Awards, the MTV Awards and so on. The twelfth didn’t fall into that category only because Nichelle Dante had decided after her first R&B album that she wanted to sing gospel instead. Akil had hooked her up with a great producer at Footprints Gospel Records and she was now topping the charts there.
He had an impressive record, a great reputation and money in the bank to back it up. That all started with a confidence and heartfelt belief in his artist.
Looking down into the smiling face on the picture once more, he shook his head, not sure he felt that way about Charlene Quinn.
Chapter Two
Some men went for breasts, others big booties. Akil was a thigh man, through and through. So it was no wonder that when Charlene Quinn walked into his studio, where he was seated at the mixing console, and he’d turned around in the swivel chair and was face-to-thigh with her, his pulse quickened.
He’d seen her before, her photo and in person the day they’d met at the offices of Empire Music. So he wasn’t totally shocked at how pretty she actually was up close. Still, the effect of those voluptuous thighs wrapped so succulently in soft denim slacks made the rise to his feet a little slower than he’d anticipated.
A smile a mile long—no kidding, she had a beautiful, wide smile that made her eyes twinkle slightly, if one was looking at such things. Anyway, she smiled when he extended his hand and he felt the frown before he knew better to stop it.
“Ms. Quinn, I’m glad you made it safely,” he said. Shaking hands was customary in business. Feeling tugs of something indescribable when his flesh touched hers was not. So he pulled away quickly and acted as if the mixing console needed more of his attention than she did.
“Ah, yes, I did get here safely. The private jet you sent helped a lot.”
Her voice was deeper than he remembered, throatier, kind of like when she sang. And whatever fragrance she was wearing was playing with his senses. Luckily Akil was a big boy, he knew how to handle his urges. He also knew that urges in the direction of one of his artists was a no-no. Besides, this was Charlene Quinn, the woman who was supposed to be Playascape’s next diva. He would have his hands full with this transformation without adding the sticky strings of sex to the mix.
“So, I’ve got a few songs from a great writer I’ve worked with before. I’d like you to read over them tonight, get a feel for the flow, then we’ll get started first thing tomorrow morning.”
He was sitting again, not really looking at her but knowing she was there.
“I thought we were having dinner tonight,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I mean, Jason said I’d meet the team tonight at dinner. Doesn’t that include you?”
Akil nodded. “Yes, I’ll be there. But I don’t want you getting it confused with a night on the town in Miami. We’re here to work. I brought you out here because I can focus better in my own space. And for this CD we have a lot to focus on.”
She didn’t like the way he’d said that.
As a matter of fact, Charlene hadn’t liked a thing about Mr. Akil Hutton since the first time she’d met him. Could anybody be as rude and arrogant as him? Probably, but she hadn’t met them yet—which was saying a lot considering her background in L.A. She was finding it hard to swallow these traits from Akil.
She should have expected it, though, she’d told herself repeatedly. He was one of the most sought-after producers on the scene today. She’d been shocked when Jason told her that’s who she’d be working with. Truth be told, this entire situation was still a shock to her.
While she’d always loved to sing, Charlene had never really considered a career in music. Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly true. Else why would she have had a demo CD all ready when Jason asked for one? The recording had taken place more than a year ago when one of her students had written a song and asked her to sing it. When she did he’d offered to record the demo for her. But Charlene had taken those CDs and stuffed them in her dresser drawer, realizing that she’d never have the guts to send