Page 29 of Perfect Pitch

Her smile lights up an already exquisite face. I push a stray hair off her face before sharing, “A man is not finished when he is defeated, he is defeated when he quits.”

“Richard Nixon,” she immediately returns.

“How on earth did you know that?” My voice is incredulous.

“As an artist, I’m sure you can understand I’ve looked up any number of quotes for inspiration. I remember the ones that have meaning.”

My arm slips around her out of its own volition. “And what meaning does that one have for you?”

Her head twists away from mine, and her chin dips. “It makes me think of my mother—her strength, her fortitude. She’s an inspiration to me. You?”

“That in my line of work there’s no stopping or someone ends up dead,” I inform her bluntly.

I feel her body shiver against me as she turns to place the toaster on the counter. “That makes a great deal of sense.”

“You don’t.” Releasing her, I saunter around the counter and drop into one of the stools.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow with a familiarity I can’t quite put my finger on.

“You don’t make sense to me. Not yet.”

“Well, pardon me for not being an open book.” Her icy drawl is pronounced.

The ease at which she manages to do that sends fear skittering down my spine. So far, only one person manages to pin my ears back with just their voice—the man who I protect day in and day out. Shrugging away the comparison, I grin down at her. “That’s okay. It will give us much more to talk about during dinner tomorrow. Whoa, watch the coffee.” My declaration has Austyn pouring scalding coffee directly onto the kitchen counter.

“Damn, look at what you made me do.”

“What I made you do?”

“You caused me to be distracted at a crucial moment in my morning routine. You get equal blame, buddy.”

I laugh again before snagging the mostly full cup of coffee.

She glares at me. “After that, what makes you think I’d say yes to going anywhere with you?”

I drink deeply before leaning over the counter to declare arrogantly, “Because you’re intrigued by me.”

“Is it hard?” she asks angelically.

I sputter the drink I’d just taken back into my cup. “Excuse me?”

“Carrying around an ego that size. Is it difficult? Have a hard time slipping it in your pants with your big... wallet?” Her eyes gleam at me as they dance over my skin, causing pinpricks of awareness everywhere they touch. This newest wanna-be New Yorker is undressing me with her eyes.

I’m harder than I was for her if that’s possible. I have two choices—fuck her blind and possibly break her young heart or stay the hell away from her. But the problem is, I like this banter. I like her. I’m just discouraged I suspect Trevor spilled the beans about who I work for to this young musician. Sighing, I hate the fact I even question that.

For once, since I took on the assignment of working for Beckett, I’d like nothing better than to be seen as me—Mitchell Clifton. Not as the man who stands between the most influential musician on the planet and any potential danger. The imp standing in front of me may want her piece of that.

For some reason, that stings when I meet her guileless blue eyes.

I rake my eyes over her crazy hair, down over her breasts with the hard tips, and down the flat planes of her stomach. There’s not a man alive who would look at this woman and not be entranced. Tempted.

I’m certainly not immune.

“Wow, if it’s taking you that long to answer, it really makes a woman wonder.”

I shudder at her provocative teasing. My eyes lock onto hers and I can feel my life being upended because of eyes that remind me of blue orchids. They’re blinking up at me with a combination of sultriness and an innocence I’m not entirely certain is faked. Add that to—how did Charlie put it? A voice that could raise the dead—and I’m afraid I could be consumed alive.

With longing.

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