It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(29)

What was he doing here? she wondered. What did he have to do with Clint Walker’s operation? Better still, how much time was she going to have to spend with him over the next few days?

Because every second put her that much closer to self-combustion, and the longing that suddenly welled inside of her made her desperately want to turn her dreams into reality.

Particularly the gloriously naked ones.

Desire was a pain in the ass.





2




WELL, HELL, BRYANT THOUGHT as the object of his fascination deplaned and made her way toward him. So much for hoping she’d gained weight and grown scales since the last time he’d seen her.

She was still hot.

He still wanted her.

Damn.

Layla wasn’t pretty in the traditional blond-haired, big-boobed 36-24-36 variety, but she had something much more potent and irritatingly less definable. He’d noticed it the first time he’d ever clapped eyes on her—that sensual otherness—and, while he’d managed to put her out of his head for the most part, there were times when her image would simply leap into his mind and rattle his cage all over again.

Bryant didn’t associate with women who could rattle his cage, which was why he’d forced himself to steer clear of her. He grimly suspected the woman walking toward him could blow his cage to smithereens if he let her get too close.

After watching his father fall in and out of love with more regularity than a revolving door and witnessing the subsequent euphoria and misery that came along with it, Bryant had sworn he’d never let that happen to him. Love was too mercurial, too unpredictable and, ultimately, too much trouble. He liked his sex straight up with no strings, and any woman who struck an emotional note of any kind was culled posthaste.

Just looking at Layla made his chest tighten uncomfortably, made his skin prickle along the nape of his neck.

In that instant he knew a moment of terrifying inevitability—knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would have her before the tour was out and he’d never be the same.

She’d ruin him.

“Layla,” he said, inclining his head, because a greeting of some sort was expected and he was nothing if not a gentleman.

Her dark green gaze was amusingly guarded. “Bryant. I didn’t realize you worked with Clint’s crew.”

And from the tone of her voice, she wasn’t all that happy about it either.

He smiled, pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. “I’m head of security when he’s touring,” he explained, taking her bag.

She grunted and he felt her gaze drift over his shoulders, down his back, and settle on his ass.

His grin widened.

“Why do I suspect there’s a story in that?” she asked, her mere voice music to his ears. It was husky but sweet. “I don’t remember you being in the security field when I met you the first time.”

He hadn’t been the first time, or the second or third, for that matter. He’d marveled over it before, but it was really bizarre the way they seemed to run into each other from time to time. Friends of friends, but never quite directly linked to any one source, as though they were being cast about in some giant cosmic pinball machine.

“There’s a bit of a tale,” he told her, a grin twitching on his lips. He stowed her gear in the back of his SUV, then opened the passenger door for her. Looking annoyingly shocked at this display of courtesy, she settled quite primly into the seat.

Layla was petite and curvy with a body more Gibson Girl than Vogue. She was small and lush, more soft than athletic and in the possession of an ass that didn’t require Apple Bottoms jeans to make a guy want to take a little bite out of it. She had the best ass he’d ever seen in person or in print, and just thinking about it made his dick give a little stir.

A tiny smile curled her lips. “Let me guess. There’s a barroom brawl involved, isn’t there?”

Bryant slipped the gearshift into Drive and made his way toward the exit. “It’s not that clichéd,” he said. “But almost. Substitute the barroom brawl for a front-row fracas and you’re right on the money.”

She shot him a look. “Front-row fracas? You were at a concert?”

Smiling, he nodded. “I was. I’m a fan. A guy in the front got a little rowdy, broke a beer bottle against the stage and thought about hurling it at Clint.”

“Thought about?”

“That’s all he got to do. I stopped him before he could follow through on the action.” He shrugged. “Clint was impressed with my efforts and the rest is history. I started out as part of the detail, and when Marshall retired, I took his spot as lead on the touring team.”