“What does that mean?”

Devin looked at her. “You sure I’m not boring you with the This Is Your Life, Devin McClain, story?”

“No. It’s fascinating. Having fame, fortune and an entourage is so different from my life, or the life of anyone I’ve ever known. As your personal assistant, I should have a better idea of who you are other than what your official media bio says.”

His penetrating blue gaze roamed over her face—almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. “Ain’t no one gonna believe that you’re just my personal assistant, Liberty.”

A wave of heat steamrolled her. Holy crap, the man simply oozed potent sexuality when he put his mind to it. Her heart raced and her palms sweated just from the smoldering way he looked at her. What would it be like to have him touching her as he murmured in her ear with his deep, raspy voice?

Sheer. Fucking. Heaven.

She managed to toss off a breezy “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

He grinned, well aware that he’d gotten to her. “First off, as my personal assistant, you should know that my legal name is Devin McClain Hollister. When I started out, there was an artist with the name Gavin Hollister, so we used my middle name.”

“It’ll be easiest if I stick to calling you McClain. Finish the story.”

“I’d written all my own songs on my first album. I had finished maybe . . . four during that yearlong tour. So the label handpicked another half a dozen songs from other songwriters for me. I didn’t like a single one of them. But I was new to the business and the label, which had successfully put out hundreds of records, had to know what they were doin’, right? Rather than delay the release of a new record, I fell in line—against my gut instinct—and recorded those shitty, clichéd songs.”

“What happened?”

“The album tanked. Big-time. Only one song cracked the top hundred—a song I’d written. I still went on tour to promote the album, but wasn’t part of the primo gigs. I wasn’t a failure, but I’d slipped a notch.” He popped an orange segment in his mouth and chewed. “That slip gave me some clarity. I understood there’d be an ebb and flow to my career, no matter if I hit that upper level of megastar success that so few do. I needed to be prepared for when I started the descent back down because it would happen at some point—it happens to everyone.”

That was way more insightful than she’d expected.

“I realized two things. First off, for me it was about putting out music I was proud of—no more slapping crap on a record just to make someone else’s deadline. I needed to surround myself with other musicians who had the same vision, which is why my band has stayed together. The music we create in the studio and on the road is because we gel as a group. I retained control of the only part of the business to me that matters, and that’s the music.

“Second, I had to make my time on the road productive. The best thing I ever did was learn to write music anywhere—on the bus, in a restaurant or in a hotel. I stopped limiting myself to havin’ the perfect conditions, and the result was the music became . . . truer somehow. But at the end of the day, I’m an entertainer. I’m not curing cancer. I hope I’m providing songs that hit home for people, make them think or laugh or cry, or just provide them with a catchy chorus they can sing along to. I’m lucky I get to do what I love every damn night. And I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta this journey while I can.”

Liberty let that sink in. It didn’t sound like Devin was repeating a PR company’s suggestion, but rather his true thoughts.

“You’re awful quiet over there, G.I. Jane. Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Honestly? I get the life is a journey, not a destination mind-set, but when did your fans start thinking you belonged to them? I read the case reports, and you’ve had some crazy things happen over the years that would’ve made me hire a full-time bodyguard a long damn time ago.”

“Which incident?”

“Inez Vanderpol.”

He sighed. “My first superfan.”

“Didn’t she stalk you too?”

“As much as a sixty-six-year-old woman can stalk someone, yeah. She ended up in a mental hospital in Ohio.”

“What happened?”

“It’s really f**kin’ bizarre. After my third album, she joined my fan group. When she learned that I’d been born on the same day her first husband had died, she was convinced he’d been reincarnated in me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No way.”

“Yep. And get this: Her husband had also been a musician. So she started following me on tour. I saw her at every concert. She left flowers, and, uh, inappropriate gifts for me at every stop. I was new to that sort of attention, so I thought it was harmless.”

“Meaning that she was harmless.”

“Exactly. Then, when I had my final fan meet and greet for the year in Nashville, she literally tackled a woman I was talkin’ to—just for talkin’ to me. She was hitting her, screaming at her to keep her hands off me—her husband. Big public mess. I had to get a restraining order. Then I didn’t hear anything from her until my next album came out. She showed up at concerts again and wrote me really long, really sexually explicit letters.”

“What format did she send them in?”

Devin looked uncomfortable. “She e-mailed some to the contact e-mail on my Web site. The ones she handwrote?” His gaze met hers. “She stuffed them under the door at my house.”