It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(31)

Bryant sighed. “Not particularly,” he said, effectively ending their conversation.

He only wished he could cut off his awareness of her just as easily. His smile was grim. Short of lopping off his balls, he didn’t see that happening.





3




“LAYLA!” CLINT ENTHUSED when he saw her. Tall and lean, Clint was the quintessential country star. He wore Wrangler jeans, a snowy white Stetson and a smile that was genuine. His voice had more character than any other in country music, in Layla’s opinion anyway, and she thought he was at his best when accompanied only by guitar. Considering she was here to play the mandolin for him, it would probably be to her advantage to keep that little opinion to herself.

She hugged him. “Clint. It’s good to see you.”

“You don’t know how much I appreciate you stepping in for Rusty.”

Oh, she thought she did, if the sizable check she was going to get out of this was any indication.

“Damned appendix,” he groused.

She’d known Rusty for years—the mandolin circle was pretty small, after all—and sincerely hoped that he’d be better soon. “How’s he doing?”

“Better,” Clint told her. “Should be out of the hospital in a few days, but by then the tour will be over. I’m ready to go home, be with my family, but I can’t let my fans down, and if we don’t play ‘Whiskey Dreams’ and ‘The Long Haul’ they’re gonna be mighty pissed off.”

“Whiskey Dreams” and “The Long Haul” had both been number one hits for Clint this year, so he wasn’t exaggerating. She loved that she’d had a part in both recordings, that her sound was there as well.

“You’re ready, right?”

She nodded, unwilling to lie aloud. Though she hadn’t practiced tonight with the band, she’d practiced all the same. She wasn’t worried about missing an intro or hitting the wrong note. She was more concerned with tossing her cookies onstage in front of everyone. Her gaze slid to Bryant, who was standing a few feet away, scanning the crowd from his vantage point offstage.

His uniform was simple—black boots, black jeans, black T-shirt. He wore several corded bracelets around his wrist and a single cord around his neck. She couldn’t make out the charm there, but wanted to get a better look at some point. He’d crossed his arms over his chest, making the muscles in his arms bulge in a mouthwatering display. He rested on the balls of his feet, ready for action, and though she knew he wouldn’t hurt her, there was something quite dangerous-looking about him at the moment. He was a predator, looking for prey, and any fool who made the mistake of crossing him would bitterly regret it.

She didn’t want to cross him, Layla thought, taking a shallow breath as her nipples beaded behind her bra. She wanted to slip and slide all over him, lick him from one end to the other—all points north, south and in between. She wanted his hot, carnal mouth suckling her breasts, those big, warm hands against her skin. It was a purely visceral reaction, one that she didn’t seem to be able to control.

Of all times for her libido to suddenly surge to life, Layla thought with furious despair. This reaction to him wasn’t uncommon—he’d always affected her like this, one of the few men who ever had, and his appeal was the most potent by far.

That’s what made him dangerous to her.

But now was neither the time nor the place and she unhappily suspected her sister Rita would consider her a traitor were she to form any sort of relationship with Bryant, even the fleeting hot-monkey-sex variety.

She sighed and, as though he’d heard that little exhalation, Bryant turned to look at her. He didn’t smile. Nothing in his expression changed. But those melting butterscotch eyes absolutely held her enthralled. She couldn’t look away, could scarcely breathe, and the desire that weighted her limbs in that moment should have brought her to her knees.

“So you know your cue,” Clint was saying. “You’ll need to slide into position as soon as we wrap up ‘Lead Me On,’ which is second in the lineup.”

With effort, she tore her gaze away from Bryant. “Right.”

“‘The Long Haul’ is fourteenth, immediately following ‘Right Where I Belong.’”

So songs number three and fourteen. There was a good break in between. What the hell was she supposed to do in the interim?

Clint smiled at her. “We’ve got an ongoing Super Scrabble game, and so far, Bryant is kicking all of our asses. It’d be nice if you could give him a run for his money.”

Bryant? Kicking their ass at Scrabble?

Having heard his name, he turned to face her. The corner of his mouth kicked up into a half grin that set her panties on fire. “You look surprised,” he said. “What? You didn’t think I could spell?”