“A bit of a challenge, but I’ll give it a try. What should I start with? Not house. Rock? Alternative? Jazz—”
“Jazz.” Ruby loved jazz and was quite sure this young rock star would be stumped. Which, bizarrely, would please her.
“Jazz it is. Okay, then. A-hem. Of course we have ‘Ruby, My Dear’ by Thelonious Monk; ‘Ruby, I Need You’ by the Steel Brothers; ‘Ruby’ by Ambrose Akinmusire; ‘Ruby’ by Art Farmer; ‘Ruby’ by Jimmy Smith; ‘Ruby’ by Benny Carter—”
She froze. “You’ve heard of Benny Carter?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I am. Not many people know jazz.”
“How do you know so much about jazz, Ruby So Sweet?”
“My dad turned me on to it.” She just stopped herself from adding, before he left. “When I was a little girl. Not many people have heard of Benny Carter.”
“My father was a jazz musician. Upright bass. I’ll never forget the first time he caught me listening to the Ramones. I thought he’d have a heart attack right there in my bedroom.”
Ah, yes, the Ramones. Their album had come out when Mark was what? Ten?
She asked, “Was he a successful musician? Your father, I mean.”
“In his time. Played with some of the greats. Monk, Brubeck, Hancock.”
She leaned back, studying the way he coolly listed some of the greatest names in jazz. “Impressive.”
He shrugged, and for just a second his eyes flashed with an emotion she couldn’t place. “At the time. He gave it up when I came along.”
“Really? Why?”
His laugh was wry. “The usual. Mom didn’t like the late nights, the travel. The unpredictable income.”
“That’s understandable.”
He eyed her over his beer. “Maybe. Anyway, he taught me everything I know about music. So, Ruby baby. Shall I continue?”
Nodding, she settled into her chair and listened. And listened. And listened. Finally, she waved him to stop. “Fine! I get it. There are a lot of songs with the name Ruby in the title!”
“As there should be.”
She rolled her eyes and bit back a grin. Yeah, he was a charmer, all right. And she’d fallen right into his trap. But why her? Why had he picked her to flirt with? Glancing around the room, she saw half a dozen gorgeous young things, some of whom she’d hired herself as eye candy. And that they were. In her vintage suit and high-buttoned shirt, Ruby felt downright dowdy in comparison. At least her red peep-toe pumps were sexy.
Straightening her blazer, Ruby took a deep, calming breath. But then she looked up and her heart stopped. Because Mark wasn’t just looking at her, he was scrutinizing her. She found herself pinned under his gaze as if he’d tied her to the chair.
He took a slow swig from his beer. “I noticed the tattoo on the back of your neck. It’s nice work.”
She wore her hair in a high ponytail, and her hand went to the cherry blossom tattoo at the top of her spine. “Thank you.”
If possible, his gaze became even more intense. “It looks familiar. In fact, it looks exactly like something on a piece of art I bought recently. Here, in San Francisco.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. No. It couldn’t be. Ash had promised to never sell any of the photographs he’d taken of her. He was a narcissistic, chronically late, tortured artist who, on occasion, cheated on his girlfriend. But he wasn’t evil.
Was he?
Mark went on. “The thing is, this piece I bought? It’s of a woman, bound in rope. It was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.” Still watching her, he took another casual swig from his beer. “Until now.”
She met his gaze, silent for a minute. Then she started laughing. High-pitched hysterical giggles that had him looking at her with an expression of confusion.
Finally, her laugh died out. “So that’s what this is about.”
“What ‘what’ is about?”
She flapped her hand between them. “This. You talking to me. You think I’m easy because I posed—past tense—naked in erotic photographs. You think I’ll tie you up, let you worship my shoes or something.” She pushed herself to her feet. “And this is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know it was me in those pictures. You let someone take a few nude photographs, and the next thing you know, guys are begging you to spank them—”
A firm grip on her wrist stopped her midturn, midsentence. He was standing now and she jerked her chin up, confronting his stare.
“Ruby, I’m never the one begging to be spanked. Trust me on that.”
He used two fingers to tilt her chin up just a fraction, and the scent of his leather bracelets assaulted her. His brown eyes told her everything: There was nothing submissive about Mark St. Crow.