Page 6 of Ireland

“It’s more like you’re following me since this is my place.” The song ended with a moment of stunned silence. Then the applause started again, the truest sign that the performance had resonated with its audience.

“I meant on social,” he qualified.

“God no,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

“Right.” He sneered. “Gail and I are just celebrating.”

“Of course you are. Hi, Gail.” She shot a sympathetic look at the other woman. “Listen, I don’t mean to keep you. I just wanted to say thanks so much for signing that settlement agreement today. I had my fingers crossed.”

His smile lost a little of its shine. “Why?”

She ignored the question. “You know… most people will do just about anything to avoid pissing off my brother, but then youaredumber than most.”

Gail’s brows lifted while his smile fled altogether, his denim blue eyes taking on a hard, mean edge. Why hadn’t she seen that nastiness in him before?

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“As I said…” She grinned. “In any case, I’m the one you should be worried about. I hold grudges, and my memory is long. Then again, you’re going to rot in obscurity somewhere, and that might satisfy. Maybe.”

Graham scowled. “You’ll eat those words when you hear my songs everywhere you go.”

Tossing her head back, Ireland laughed uproariously. “Stand-up might be an option if you ever stop being delusional. Although, you don’t have the presence to hold an audience hostage like the guy onstage right now.”

“Okay, bitch,” Gail said, shifting to stand.

He thrust his arm out to stop her. “Fuck you, Ireland.”

“No, thank you.” She made a face. Then she stopped playing with him. “The truth is you’re passable enough for cruise ship entertainment and local bars, but you don’t have star quality. Yeah, you’ll get your demo seen by the eyes you want, but they’ll know my father is humoring someone by sending it. Maybe you’re his housekeeper’s kid, they’ll think. Or a nephew. No one important or with any true talent.”

“What do you know, nepo baby?” Graham jeered. “You’ve got your job because you were born into it, not because you know what you’re doing.”

He looked past her, and his jaw clenched.

Ireland glanced at the two burly security guards who walked up on either side of her. “Show him out, please, gentlemen, after he’s closed their tab. She’s welcome to stay, but put his name on the DNR list. We’re an upscale establishment. We don’t cater to losers.”

“You’re going to regret fucking with me,” he snapped.

“Okay. Bye now.” She walked away, glancing at her favorite table tucked in the corner by stage left. AReservedsign was already on it, and she silently thanked the staff for doing that for her despite not calling ahead as usual.

Piped music blended with the din of the crowd while the band took a break. She dropped into the club chair facing the wall and heaved a weary sigh. The ways her job fucked with her emotional wellbeing seemed endless.

Long, strong legs draped in expensive gray material rounded her chair, drawing both her attention and her gaze down to a pair of lustrous black crocodile dress boots. From there, shehadto look upward… over lean hips and waist, muscled torso, and powerful shoulders. She stared at the full, firm lips—a sinner’s mouth that softened his intensely focused stare.

Goddamn.

In an instant, the crowded club seemed to fade away. Her heart skipped a beat, then her pulse began to race. The trumpet had obscured the lower half of his magnificent face. Now, she saw the chiseled bone structure. The sculpted cheekbones and the perfect symmetry of his features. And that impossibly tempting mouth which promised the most decadent pleasures.

He looked to be about Gideon’s age—an irresistibly gorgeous, highly sensual man in his prime. She’d met so many celebrities and musical superstars in her life, people whose livelihoods depended on their extraordinary good looks, and none held a candle to the enthralling and overtly sexual male in front of her. She’d never even imagined a man could be so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

It was an effort to dismiss him by returning her gaze to the photo of Louis Armstrong on the wall. “I don’t want company,” she said brusquely, acutely aware of his proximity—and unwavering stare.

He stood there, unmoving, for another endless minute. Then he spoke.

“Fine by me,” he replied, his voice like smoked whiskey. There was a subtle drawl in it, smooth as molasses. It was a lover’s voice, intimate and unhurried, and like evocative lyrics, it made her think of those voluptuary’s lips moving in a caress against bare skin. The hairs on her nape raised, causing the tiniest, most delicious shiver.

He moved to the loveseat across from her, directly in her line of sight so that she couldn’t help but watch as he folded into the cushions like a lounging jungle cat, all sinuous muscle and dangerous grace.

And there was no doubt that he was a danger. As relaxed and leisurely as he appeared at first glance, his heady charisma was a potent lure—a silent provocation to play on the wild side. For allhis urbanity, the man inside the custom-made clothing was not to be taken lightly.

---