Intrigued By You, page 1
Copyright © 2025 Tracie Delaney
Edited by Vicki James at The indie Hub
Proofreading by Katie Schmahl and Jacqueline Beard
Cover art by CT Cover Creations
Photographer: CJC Photography
Cover Model: Lewis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Content Warning
Blurb
A note from Tracie
1. Aspen
2. Joz
3. Aspen
4. Joz
5. Aspen
6. Joz
7. Aspen
8. Joz
9. Aspen
10. Aspen
11. Joz
12. Aspen
13. Aspen
14. Joz
15. Aspen
16. Joz
17. Aspen
18. Joz
19. Aspen
20. Joz
21. Aspen
22. Joz
23. Aspen
24. Joz
25. Aspen
26. Joz
27. Aspen
28. Aspen
29. Joz
30. Aspen
31. Joz
32. Joz
33. Aspen
Acknowledgments
Newsletter Sign Up
Books by Tracie Delaney
About Tracie Delaney
Content Warning
It is crucial to me that this book is an enjoyable experience for you. However, parts of the subject matter may be triggering for some.
To avoid spoilers for those who wish to discover the story as it unfolds, if you believe you may be affected, please visit the author’s website for a full list of content warnings.
www.authortraciedelaney.com/books/intrigued-by-you
He was the wrong man in every way—
and the only one I wanted.
As the CEO of my family’s music empire, I lived by one rule: never mix business and pleasure. Until Joz Raynor crashed into my world—flirtatious, magnetic, unpredictable - and carrying the kind of scars fame couldn’t hide.
I knew better than to get close. But the more I tried to keep him at arm’s length, the deeper I fell into his music, his touch, his fire. He made me reckless, to want things I shouldn’t.
Joz was more than a rock legend—he was temptation and danger wrapped in an indulgent package. When his past came roaring back to destroy us, I had to face the one truth I feared most.
Loving him might cost me everything… but maybe some risks were worth taking.
A note from Tracie
Dear Reader,
Well… what a surprise this was. When I finished Devoured By You, I truly did not plan to continue the Kingcaid series even though I’d originally intended to release nine books. See, the thing is, every book that released after Wrecked By You sold less than the preceding one. That told me that you, my readers, were ready for something new from me. And I always listen to you. Always. I write for me and for you, so if you’re telling me to switch directions, that’s what I do.
After I made the announcement, I was flooded with messages begging me for Aspen’s story. The issue was that by then, I was fully immersed in The De Vil Dynasty world and committed to a course. But I tucked away that piece of information for the right time. And when it came, oh my goodness! Aspen and Joz’s story poured out of me. I could not type fast enough, and when it was finished, I sat back with a huge smile on my face because their journey is…. well, it’s everything.
Joz is not your typical moody, broody, bad tempered rock star (he is a massive flirt). And my girl Aspen lived up to the feisty, opinionated woman we saw in previous Kingcaid books. I adore her. She is one of the best heroines I’ve ever written.
So make your favorite drink and find a cozy spot to settle down with Joz and Aspen in Intrigued By You. I’d love to hear what you thought once you’ve finished reading. Why not join my Facebook reader group Tracie’s Racy Aces, and take part in the discussion over there.
Happy reading.
Love,
Tracie
Chapter 1
Aspen
Ready to land the big fish? You bet I am.
Big cities had a vibe, an energy that seeped from every crevice and burrowed into the best parts of me. I was at my happiest in the midst of the throng being carried along by a sea of people all in a rush to be somewhere. It was thrilling, exhilarating, vibrant. The scents and sounds nourished me, giving me a shot of adrenaline that lasted for hours. There was only one thing in the world that fed my soul more than big city energy.
Music.
I could not imagine a life without music. The day my father put me in charge of Kingcaids’ music label was burned into my memories. I’d basically auditioned for that role since I was eight years old, and while I may be the youngest CEO in the business, I had a secret weapon these other music executives didn’t.
Love.
They were in this business for the money. I chose to be in it because I couldn’t live without music and musicians. That was not to say I didn’t have targets to hit and goals to meet, but those things were a byproduct of my love. They came because I adored what I did.
As I pushed through the doors of my London office, my smile grew wide enough to split my face open. When rock god Joz Raynor’s manager called me two weeks ago and arranged a meeting in London, I’d thought it was a joke. For more than a year I’d knocked on doors, made a million phone calls, sent hundreds of emails, and Joz’s team had ignored every single one. I had no idea what changed their minds, but I also had no plans to question why. My father always said never look a gift horse in the mouth, and my father was a smart man.
Signing Joz Raynor to my music label would make other major artists sit up and take notice. We were no match for the Sonys, the Universals, or the Warners, but I firmly believed all I needed was to persuade one of those megastars to sign, and others would follow.
“Hi, Carmel.” I smiled at my receptionist, who had taken extra care with her attire today. I called it the Joz Raynor effect. Most of the women in the building would have pulled out their fanciest clothes and applied makeup when most days they wore jeans, a shirt, and did little more than tie their hair up to keep it out of the way. Every single one couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of the reclusive Raynor, and even better if he noticed how much effort they’d put in for his benefit.
I could hardly blame them. When the man wasn’t playing to thousands at some of the world’s biggest stadiums, he was a ghost. I should know. He’d been on the same cruise ship as me, and I hadn’t seen him once. Not for the want of trying, but that man managed to avoid bumping into me the entire time we were at sea.
“Hi, Aspen. Ready to land the big fish?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I swept through the reception area and strode into the elevator. Melody, my assistant at our London offices, greeted me with a cup of coffee and a stack of messages. I flicked through them. Nothing urgent. “Are we all set?”
“Sure are. I’ve got Conference Room A ready for you. We’re good to go.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I yawned—jet lag already catching up with me. I’d planned to fly to London the day before yesterday, but something had come up in New York and I’d had to delay my flight, landing only this morning. Thank God for private jets. I’d hate to rely on commercial to get me to an unmissable meeting on time. These days, delays seemed to be the norm, and I hadn’t waited a year for this opportunity to have something outside of my control fuck it up for me.
My stomach swooped as I pushed open the door to the conference room, but nerves were good. Nerves focused the mind. I set down my coffee cup and took a seat at the head of the table. Two twenty-five. They should arrive any minute now. Although musicians often had their own timings no one else was privy to. I fully expected him to turn up late.
Oh, they were late all right. Twenty minutes, and still no sign of Raynor or his manager. I took up pacing as though that alone had the power to force my errant rock star to show up.
At two fifty, I’d had enough. Grabbing my phone, I scrolled until I reached Mike Jones’s number and hit dial. Voicemail. Great.
“Hi, Mike. It’s Aspen Kingcaid here. Call me back.” I avoided calling him an unprofessional asshole. For all I knew something could’ve happened, and I’d hate to be that person. Then again, if they were going to be late the least Mike could’ve done was call me and let me know.
The conference room door received the brunt of my annoyance as I yanked it open and slammed it behind me. I headed for my office, ignoring Melody’s grimace as I passed by her, and flopped into the chair behind my desk. As a woman, I had to fight for every success in this male-dominated arena. As a young woman, only in my twenties, that fight became a constant battle to prove myself worthy, and Mike Jones and his fucking egotistical star had sent a clear message that they didn’t value me or my time.
Well, you know what? Screw them. Screw them to hell and back. I refused to sit around here with my lady balls in a sling, hoping for
I pushed up from my chair and grabbed my purse. “Melody, I’m going out.”
She shot to her feet. “What if they arrive after you’ve gone?”
It was bad business to cut off my nose just to gain a moral victory, but I was all out of fucks to give. An entire year of my life wasted on some douche who probably got his kicks from punching down.
“Tell them they’re too late.”
By the time I broke through the doors and emerged into the humid July air, my anger had reached DefCon 10. How dare they haul me all the way from New York for a meeting Raynor’s manager insisted had to take place in London, only for them not to show up?
I was on the cusp of calling one of my brothers and asking them what they’d do in my situation, but at the last minute, I shelved the idea. It wasn’t that I was above asking for advice, but reaching out when I had a river of rage coursing through my veins was a terrible idea. All too often, women had to deal with the “too emotional to lead” bullshit—not that my brothers would ever think such a thing—and I’d worked hard to present the image of a cool head under pressure, and I’d succeeded. I refused to blow that carefully cultivated image for Joz Raynor. He wasn’t worth it.
The scent of spiced lamb, grilled onions, and garlic wafted through the open door of a kebab shop. My empty stomach rebelled at the smell, and I covered my nose and mouth and hurried past. I really should have eaten something, considering I only managed a small yogurt on the plane, but I was too on edge for my meeting to keep anything down. Now I was too enraged to eat.
A loud crack of thunder sounded overhead, followed by forked lightning that looked as though it wanted to split the sky in half. Seconds later, the first blob of rain landed on my cheek. In less than a minute, the temperature dropped several degrees, and I shivered in my thin summer dress as I rifled through my purse. No umbrella. Damn. The rain was heavier now, pelting me as I frantically searched for shelter.
Across the street, a gift shop aimed at tourists caught my eye. I darted over the road and launched myself through the door. Considering I was already soaked, buying an umbrella or a plastic poncho was probably moot, but I wandered the aisles anyway.
A stack of umbrellas were propped up in a metal stand in the corner. As I sidled through the cramped store, my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and held it to my ear while choosing a bright red umbrella with white polka dots.
“This is Aspen.”
“Hello, Aspen,” a gravelly voice said. “This is Joz Raynor.”
My hackles rose. Here we go. Launching straight into excuse city. “Mr. Raynor. You’re alive.” My tone oozed sarcasm, which, as a Brit, he should have appreciated. Or at least picked up on.
“Last I checked.” Was that amusement in his tone?
“Do you often miss meetings on a whim?”
“Something came up.”
Yeah, probably his dick. “It must’ve been important.”
“It was.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely for you? As for me, I’ll haul my ass to the airport and get back on my plane, despite only having landed a few hours ago for a meeting I traveled to London for especially to meet you.”
Breathe. Professionalism, remember?
A low chuckle sounded in my ear. The jerk was laughing. Okay, that did it. Screw professionalism.
“Believe me, Mr. Raynor, I find nothing about this situation remotely amusing. I am jet lagged, hungry, and soaking wet, so I suggest you go find your entertainment somewhere else because I’m hanging up now.”
“Hold up, Spitfire.”
I almost choked on my own saliva. “Spitfire?”
“Do you often talk in run-on sentences, or is it because you’re hangry?”
A shocked breath fired into my lungs, and it took me several seconds to answer. “That wasn’t a run-on sentence, and you’re a jerk.”
I cut the call, quelling the anxiety circling my stomach. Goddammit, Aspen. I played right into the stereotype of ‘woman = over-emotional’, but in my (probably weak as fuck) defense, Joz Raynor was a jackass.
My phone immediately rang again. I stared at the withheld number, grinding my teeth and wavering between curiosity at why he’d bothered to call back, and the desire to stand my ground and leave him hanging.
Curiosity won out.
“Yes?”
“Do you talk to all your prospective artists like this, or am I the lucky one?”
“My artists, prospective or otherwise, have the common courtesy not to blow me off for their latest fling.”
I was so far over the unprofessional line now, I couldn’t see it with a telescope, but this chump had it coming. I could almost feel my blood temperature rising to boiling point just talking to the guy. Maybe him bailing was serendipity. I could’ve dodged a bullet laced with poison. I mean, if he was this intractable during our first interaction, I imagined he’d be a constant thorn in my side if he signed to my label.
He chuckled again, except this time it was less restrained. “That’s a hell of an assumption, Spitfire. Got me buried firmly in that rock star box, huh?”
His genial response caused a river of shame to run through me. If the roles were reversed and he’d assumed I’d missed a meeting to scratch an itch, I’d have carved him a new asshole.
I cleared my throat and grimaced my way through an apology. “I’m sorry. But I’m also annoyed. My time is valuable, Mr. Raynor. I flew from New York overnight especially for this meeting. Wouldn’t you feel the same in my shoes?”
“Depends on the shoes.”
Prickles sprang up along the back of my neck. He was being purposely obtuse. “Why are you calling?”
“I thought you might want to meet me where I am rather than at your offices.”
I heaved a sigh. If this guy was playing with me, I was going to roast his nuts on an open fire. “And where is that?”
“The Rusty Nail in Soho.”
Never heard of it. “Sounds like the kind of place that has a sign on the door that reads ‘Enter at your own risk.’”
“You’re not wrong. Don’t worry, though. I’ll protect you.”
My jaw locked. “I don’t need protection, Mr. Raynor.”
He let out another one of those throaty chuckles that probably made his female fans drop their panties and throw them at him. “You’re an independent gal, got it. The type who takes Krav Maga classes on a Sunday afternoon, insists on cleaning herself up after sex, and always makes her own eggs the next morning.”
He was either riling me on purpose or was completely oblivious to just how much of a jerk he was being. The jury was out on which one until I met him. If I met him.
Oh, who are you kidding, girl? Of course you’re going to meet him.
“Will your manager be in attendance?”
“No. Why, do you need a chaperone?”
“Not at all. But if I find out you’re wasting my time for the second time today, you might need someone to patch up your bloody nose.”
If my father heard me talking to anyone like this, let alone a man I was trying to sign to my record label (and, if he did, one who would make countless millions for my family), he’d fire me on the spot. But there was something about Joz that stripped away the layers of professionalism, leaving me feeling raw and, I’d reluctantly admit, a little unhinged.
Maybe this was why he was out of contract. The official PR line was that he’d grown tired of working with the larger labels and was looking for a more personal touch from a smaller, family-oriented business. The real story could be that they got rid of him because he caused too much trouble.
For the fourth time, he laughed. This man appeared to be impossible to rile, which, in my experience with artistic types, was extraordinarily rare. They usually needed handling with kid gloves and a plethora of ego strokes.
“I’ll see you soon, Spitfire.”
I stared at the screen. Ugh. He’d ended the call before I could.
I stuffed my cell in my purse, paid for the umbrella, and headed out onto the street. A few minutes later, I was situated in the back of a cab on my way to some dive bar to meet an unreliable rock god.
Only one of us would emerge the winner—and my money was on me.
