Chapter 1

“I hope you’re ready to celebrate!” Ireland Vidal tapped her pen against her desktop and grinned at the woman on her left monitor. On the right, the music video she’d just watched was frozen on the last frame. She resisted the urge to replay it for a third time. “You’ve outdone yourself again!”

Alina Rurik beamed with pleasure. She was a striking woman. Her hair draped her slim shoulders in soft brown waves, framing a face boasting luminous, makeup-free skin. “I’m glad you love it, too,” she said. “I’m especially proud of this one.”

“As you should be!”

A true bohemian soul, Alina’s easygoing and drama-free nature appealed to Ireland when they’d met as students at Columbia. They’d been best friends ever since and were now a powerhouse production team. There were some things Ireland loved about her job; working with Alina was one of them.

“Thanks, Ireland.”

A text message appeared above Alina’s head, and Ireland immediately glanced at it. Only family messages appeared on her work monitors because they were always her priority.

Gideon never wasted words or time, and she straightened at the sight of his name and photo. As usual, she’d kicked off her spiked, towering Rockstud heels because she worked better barefoot, but she slid her feet into them again. Gideon Cross might be her eldest brother, but that didn’t negate his standing as one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world.

“What’s wrong?” Alina frowned. “Did I miss something?”

“You never miss anything,” Ireland reassured her. “It’s just that my brother’s driving over to see me.” Being chauffeured over, rather.

You can get a lot of work done in Manhattan traffic.

Alina’s dark eyes lit with excitement. “Well, since Christopher’s office shares a wall with yours, you must be talking about the sinfully delectable Mr. Cross.” She gave an exaggerated sigh.

Ireland shook her head. She’d spent too many of her twenty-nine years hearing about how good-looking her brother was. She got it. She saw it. Didn’t mean she wasn’t over it.

“Since Gideon happens to live next door to me,” she pointed out, “it’s weird for him to stop by my office. Especially” —she glanced at the time— “at three in the afternoon. And considering how rigidly he maintains his ridiculously packed schedule, taking the time instead of calling or waiting until I get home probably isn’t good.”

Even when Gideon had managed her and their mother’s shares in Vidal Records, he seldom came by the Music Row headquarters. He’d worked on Vidal matters from the top of the Crossfire Building, where he oversaw his global conglomerate, Cross Industries. In a few weeks, he’d be turning the Big 4-0, and media outlets far and wide would laud what he’d accomplished in that relatively short time.

“Well, it can’t be bad.” Alina gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He coddles you.”

“Coddles? That’s a weird word. Anyway, let me know when you’re settled at home on Monday, and I’ll come by with champagne.”

“Of course. Can’t wait to see you.” Alina blew a kiss and ended the call.

Standing, Ireland walked to her coatrack. Gideon saw her nearly every day because she lived in his penthouse’s adjacent guest apartment, but he rarely saw her at work, in her element, and she strove to make him proud. Not that he ever wasn’t. But was his pride rooted in his love for her or because she’d earned it? The metalized records framed on the walls of her office proved she had. Still, she struggled with doubts.

She grabbed the buttery black leather blazer that matched her shorts and pulled it on over her blue silk bandeau. Having an ownership stake in a recording company was a headache more than anything, but there were a few benefits. She listened to the hottest and freshest music, worked with extraordinarily talented creatives, and could take her sartorial choices to the edge and beyond.

Before she sat again, she did a quick check in the ornate oversized mirror leaning against the wall. She was the one member of her family who looked like a music exec. Her father, Christopher Vidal, Sr., preferred cardigans over blazers and quirky brass glasses. Gideon’s wife, Eva, once said he looked more like a college professor, and Ireland could see that, even though none of her professors at Columbia had dressed like her dad. Her brother, Christopher Vidal, Jr., fell somewhere in the middle. And while Gideon no longer held a stake in the company, he practically invented quiet luxury. Everything he wore was bespoke.

When he arrived, Gideon filled her office’s open doorway in an expertly tailored pinstriped three-piece suit, his Berluti oxfords polished to a high shine, and subtle cufflinks at his wrists. As usual, he commanded the expansive space the moment he walked into it, a tall and dominating presence with unmistakable authority who always struck awe and a little fear into her.

But she played it off, rocking back in her seat and grinning. “Hey, bro. How many people have you managed to scare the shit out of today?”

His brow arched. “Not enough, but there’s still time.”

He moved to one of the two gray velvet visitors’ chairs in front of her desk. In a choreography of deft and practiced moves, he tugged up his slacks and unbuttoned his jacket while sinking gracefully into the seat.

She’d actually seen TikTok tutorials of women dissecting how he sat so other men could learn how to up their game.

In many ways, looking at him was like looking at a masculine version of herself. They both had their mother’s aqua eyes and inky hair, although Gideon cut his glossy locks off at the collarbone while she wore hers to the hip. She marveled that he didn’t have a single strand of silver in his hair yet, although she had seen more than a few in his morning stubble the few times she’d caught him before he shaved. They had the same aquiline nose and full mouth, the same cheekbones and sculpted jaws.

It was strange how genetics worked. Gideon’s father was their mother’s first husband. Christopher shared both of Ireland’s parents, but they looked nothing alike.

“To what do I owe the immense pleasure?” She leaned forward and linked her hands on her smoked glass desktop so she didn’t fidget. “Did you piss off Eva again?” she teased, appreciating that his petite wife’s fiery temper was the one thing on earth that could make him change course. “Is Mom acting up? Want me to shoot another campaign for ECRA+?”

“None of the above. I’m here about Graham Teller,” he said with deceptive mildness while studying her with that unnervingly focused gaze.

She stiffened, shocked at hearing her brother say a name she’d never expected to hear again and certainly never from anyone in her family. “Graham? What about him?”

“How do you know him?”

“How do you know him?” she countered.

Leaning back, he crossed one ankle atop the opposite knee. “He dropped by the Crossfire on Wednesday, and when he couldn’t get past security, he left a proposed legal filing behind.”

Her entire body absorbed the blow. “What?”

“How do you know him, Ireland?” he repeated patiently.

She squirmed inwardly, hating having to discuss any of her failures with him. “He was a fling that didn’t end up amounting to anything important.”

“He’s a musician.” It wasn’t a question, and there was no censure in his tone, but she felt it anyway.

“He sings and plays guitar. Gideon, wherever this is going, can you get there quicker? What legal filing?”

“He’s alleging you and he had a verbal agreement to produce an album, and he turned down other work because of it, which has had a negative career and financial impact for him.”

What the ever-loving fuck?!

“What career?” she scoffed. “He was playing in random bars. And I never promised him anything. I told him before we hooked up that my work and personal life are totally separate. I was very clear. I always am.”

She’d also made it clear that there would be no introductions to her brothers, but she didn’t include that caveat now because it was obvious by her actions. There hadn’t been anyone yet whom she’d taken to meet the family.

Closing his eyes, Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do not ever mention hooking up in my presence again.”

Her breath came swift and fast as the icy knot in her gut tightened painfully. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. It wasn’t because a man she’d once been intimate with betrayed her trust so callously because they all did.

They all wanted something but never her.

What was truly horrific was the targeting of her eldest brother. She did everything within her power to cause him no difficulties, ever. “I’m so sorry, Gideon. This isn’t your problem. I’ll fix it. You won’t hear about this again.”

Gideon’s voice softened from its usual clipped command. “Don’t apologize, and don’t worry. I’ve got it handled.”

“No!” Words rushed out of her mouth in near panic. “Please don’t give this another thought. I understand why he would try to serve you the paperwork but forget about this. I can deal with him. He won’t be an issue.”

“I wasn’t served—he hasn’t filed anything yet. He wants a settlement, not a lawsuit.”

Her nostrils flared. “I’m not caving to extortion. He’s not getting a fucking cent.”

Turning her head, she winced at how curt her tone was. It was a side of herself she never wanted Gideon to see.

“His lawyer heard exactly that from Arash yesterday,” he informed her.

Gideon’s attorney was also one of his closest friends, one of Ireland’s favorites. Arash Madani was fun and funny, not to mention extremely attractive, but when he did his job, he went straight for the jugular. If anyone could nip this in the bud, it was Arash. Hearing that the lawyer was involved wasn’t what upset her further.

Standing, Ireland turned to face the window and crossed her arms. Vidal Records was one of the last few holdouts on historic Music Row in the heart of Midtown. Situated on 48th between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, Music Row had once been a vibrant community of music shops selling a wide variety of instruments. Most were gone now, torn down to build ever higher, more modern buildings. New York City never stopped evolving, too often to the point of destroying its storied history.

“You’ve known about this for two days,” she noted faintly, “and I’m only just hearing about it.”

“I would never bring you a problem without a solution.”

She blinked hard against the sudden sting of tears. “Does everyone else know?”

“Your father and Christopher do. Vidal Records was named as a co-defendant.”

“You’ve all known since Wednesday? Am I the last to know? Did you tell Eva before me?”

“I tell Eva everything,” he said simply. “I wasn’t about to upset you unduly. Now, I can tell you it’s been settled, and you won’t hear from Teller again. That’s what I want you to know and all you need to know.”

He was so unbothered by the whole thing. Mildly annoyed and nothing more. It wasn’t the threat to him that it was to her.

She took a deep, bracing breath and then faced him with a sunny smile—even while feeling like she was vibrating violently on the inside. “Well, that’s a relief. How was it resolved, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Her tone was light. Studiously unconcerned. Which took colossal effort. Her dismay began to shift into icy rage toward the man who’d brought his bullshit to her family and laid it at their feet.

Gideon waved it all off in the most casual of gestures. “Your father will distribute Teller’s demo to three people he requested specifically. What happens from there isn’t our business, and we’ve got that in writing.”

She hid her fisted hands in the crooks of her elbows, her entire being rebelling against the thought of Graham Teller benefitting in any way from putting her in this position.

You’ve got a broken picker, Alina often said. You should stick to guys you’re not attracted to.

“You’re being more generous than he deserves,” she told him, careful to keep any resentment from her voice.

Her brother shrugged. “He’s not getting a check, and he’s not slandering you in the press. It’s a win all around.”

Ireland would’ve preferred tearing Graham’s lies to shreds, getting the threatened suit dismissed, and watching him leave the courthouse humiliated and empty-handed, but her opinion hadn’t been factored in, so she didn’t offer it now. Doing so wasn’t worth antagonizing her family.

“Thanks for coming over and telling me personally.”

Standing, Gideon rounded the desk and lifted his hands to rest on her shoulders. She could see the fondness in his gaze—they were nearly eye-level when she wore heels. She basked in that warmth, even though it didn’t touch the chilling fury building within her.

His eyes give him away, Eva once told her. I always know where he’s at if I look into his eyes.

Gideon had been estranged from the family the entirety of Ireland’s childhood. It wasn’t until Eva came into their lives that they formed a relationship. Ireland cherished his involvement in her life now.

She would do whatever she must to protect it.

Gideon stopped in the doorway to his wife’s office, taking a minute to absorb the sight of her lost in concentration. Eva stood at her mirrored desk, intently studying whatever was atop it. Her blond hair was shorter than his own, grazing her jaw in soft waves. It obscured her breathtaking face from his view, but since it was always front of his mind regardless, that freed him to take in the rest of her. Petite and voluptuously curved, she was more than a handful in every way possible, and he wouldn’t change a single thing about her.

“You coming in?” she queried without glancing up. “Or are you just going to stand there and stare?”

“Both. In good time.” With its profusion of pastel colors and mirrored accents, her office was decidedly feminine. But she alone was what made any room sparkle.

Behind him, the main floor and its sea of cubicles was thrumming with activity. His office was on the other side, with the same dividing wall of glass so he could look across at his wife whenever the mood struck him.

Turning her head, Eva hit him with the full force of her attention. Her gaze raked him from head to toe, heating as it slid over him in a near-tangible caress. Time hadn’t lessened the attraction between them. It was primal and deeply rooted, two halves of a whole drawn inexorably together.

“So, which of us was right?” she asked, returning her attention to her work. She’d sworn Ireland would lose her mind if not told about Teller sooner rather than later, while he’d known his sister would take the news in stride.

“You’ll note that I’m in one piece.”

She flipped a page over to read the one beneath it. “And Ireland? How would you say she is?”

“She was surprised at first, then brushed it off. You know how easygoing she is.”

“I know you think that,” she retorted.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset it went well.”

Straightening, Eva faced him with her stormy gray eyes narrowed. “However well it went, you did what you always do: you went ahead and fixed the problem without consulting her.”

“My understanding is that’s what older brothers are for.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been telling you the same thing for years, ace, and you still don’t get it.”

“This was going to be the resolution, period.” He leaned casually against the jamb and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “Why waste time convincing her that taking this to court wouldn’t be worth the win? I, too, would prefer to legally annihilate this douchebag, but not at the cost of Ireland’s private life becoming fodder for Page Six and TMZ.”

“It’s not about whether you’re right,” Eva argued, half-sitting on the edge of her desk. “It’s about respecting Ireland enough to value her opinion.”

“If I didn’t respect her, I wouldn’t have pressed her to start taking the reins at Vidal,” he reminded. And his sister had paid him full market value to repurchase her shares from him, insisting he’d earned it because he’d brought Vidal Records back from the brink and turned it around. Unfortunately, while her father had the heart and soul for music, Chris didn’t have the head for business.

Eva glared at him. “That’s work stuff. And I know you’ve categorized this situation as solely that, but it has to be very personal for your sister.”

“Because of that moron Teller?” he scoffed. “No way.”

“In part. But mostly because you’re you.”

His mouth curved. “The love of your life? The man of your dreams?”

“You’re baiting me on purpose!” she complained.

Releasing a deep breath, Gideon said evenly, “She still has a lot to learn about playing the game.”

“Then take the opportunity to teach her. She’s not a child! She’s the same age you were when we got married.”

“But she’s still dating losers. She needs to stop wasting her time on idiots.” He’d been saying so for years. If there was a guy on the planet worthy of dating his sister, he’d yet to meet him, and he met a lot of people all the time.

Eva sighed. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a decent guy.”

Standing, his wife approached him on towering stilettos with needle-thin heels. He had no idea how she walked in shoes like that, but he certainly loved how her full hips rocked back and forth with every step. She’d elected to wear a dress in soft gray that matched her eyes. It was a garment that would be modest on most women. Long sleeves, a neckline that reached her collarbone, and a hemline that brushed the tops of her knees. But it clung to her lush body like a second skin, taunting him with reminders of how good she felt in his arms.

She reached up and began to fuss over the knot of his tie and the point of the handkerchief in his breast pocket. It was something she did often, not because he wasn’t pristine, but because it gave her a socially acceptable reason to run her hands over him. “Ireland has a right to participate in decisions concerning her.”

“No one is saying she doesn’t.” He caught her wrist and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ll argue, however, that since Teller approached me with the matter, it’s my problem to solve.”

“My god, you’re infuriating!”

Eva watched her husband straighten away from the jamb in an elegant unfolding of powerful muscle and steely-eyed determination. Butting heads with him was an exercise in patience—and arousal. He was a man who knew what he wanted and how to achieve it, and that level of supreme confidence turned her on as much as his devastating handsomeness.

It also exasperated the hell out of her sometimes.

As Gideon’s hands slid around to cup her buttocks and pull her close, Eva’s head tilted back to look up at him. A dozen blissful years together, yet the impact of his strikingly gorgeous face hadn’t lessened even a little. There were lines now. Faintly in his forehead and around the wickedly sensual mouth she’d felt over every inch of her body. They were also around his eyes. She loved them all but especially the crow’s-feet because they were laugh lines. Permanent echoes of joy. She’d helped to put them there, and it was what she was most proud of.

A pervasive and all-too-familiar frustration agitated her. There was so much she wanted to give him, so much more they deserved to have. But he never complained or even mentioned it.

Tension entered the space between them. Had he followed the direction of her thoughts as he so often did?

“I’ll concede that I could’ve handled things differently,” he murmured, studying her intently with those magnificently blue eyes.

“But not that you should have,” she countered, her voice husky. “I know both Chris and Christopher were on board with the way you handled it, but still…”

“I went to her office based solely on your input. So, I did at least take a step in the right direction.”

His body was so hard and warm, Eva couldn’t help but feel protected and safe. It was intrinsically crucial to her husband to provide a shield for those he loved because he hadn’t been protected or kept safe as a child. If he believed that delaying a response would give a bad actor an opening, Gideon wouldn’t wait. He simply couldn’t.

She pressed her lips sweetly to his. “You see a problem and handle it, and I love you for that. I really do. I’m just saying that sometimes you overlook the human component.”

“That’s not true. I factor it in, I just don’t give it the same weight you would.” He bent and nuzzled her cheek.

“She’s your sister. You’ve got to weigh her feelings with a different scale.”

“Angel, you’re way more upset about this than she is, I promise you. It’s fine. She’s fine. So fine, in fact, that I have a free hour because I carved out more time to meet with her than was needed.”

Reaching up, Eva ran her fingers through his luxuriously sexy hair. He lifted her feet from the floor and walked toward the pink velvet sofa in the seating area.

“Lauren,” he called out, using the wake word for the office’s latent artificial intelligence. “Privacy.”

The glass wall that divided her office from the main floor instantly turned opaque, and the door swung shut and locked.

She laughed softly. “I don’t have an hour, Mr. Cross. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I do love a challenge, Mrs. Cross.”

Ireland strode through the revolving lobby door of the Vidal Hotel in Midtown, her heels clicking across the brightly hued crushed glass floor. Her fury was ice cold. That Graham had dared to come here was another level of insult she couldn’t and wouldn’t stand for.

The immense space, with its mirrored walls and massive chandeliers, was packed with people. Guests and tourists alike. When she’d first envisioned a Vidal Records-themed hotel, Ireland had pictured something much smaller than the tower she was presently cutting through. Gideon had expanded her idea into majestic proportions.

Suites at the Midtown flagship sold out months before opening, and now, a half dozen Vidal Hotels were scattered across the country. All were part of Cross Industries’ hospitality portfolio, with a licensing fee paid to Vidal for the brand and access to memorabilia.

There were numerous musically themed bars and restaurants on the property, but the one Graham had posted a selfie from an hour ago would’ve been her last choice for him. He must have chosen the opulent jazz club because it was one of her favorites. And he’d been posting from there every day since Wednesday just to needle her and rub salt in her wounds.

Graham didn’t know her well enough to understand that the more wounded she was, the more dangerous she became.

Her steps didn’t slow until she reached the hostess stand at Jazzie’s, then she stopped walking altogether. Friday nights were always busy, but the place seemed more packed than usual. The band was in full swing with a rendition of “Blue Train,” and all eyes were on the stage.

With a nod to the hostess, Ireland walked past the throng of guests waiting for tables and went to the bar, where three bartenders were moving nonstop to fill orders. One of them, an older gentleman with a voluminous white pompadour and precisely trimmed salt and pepper goatee, gave her a nod of acknowledgment. She went to the service bar and settled in to wait, her gaze scanning the crowded space for the man she was hunting down.

It didn’t take long to find him. Graham stuck out in a jarring way with his spiked leather accessories and faded Megadeth T-shirt. He had a pretty blonde with him, her hair tousled and eyes thickly lined. They both looked bored as they scrolled through their phones.

The music faded into silence, and applause swelled. Ireland stared daggers at Graham until the trumpeter broke through with a series of plaintive notes that almost immediately lowered the volume of voices in the room. Her gaze cut to the stage.

She froze in place. Her breath left her in a rush.

A broad-shouldered man half-sat on a barstool with a trumpet to his lips. His hair was thick, a deep dark gold, and worn longer than Gideon’s in a luxuriant lion’s mane. If he’d sported a tie earlier, he had removed it and opened his collar, revealing a tanned throat that worked reflexively as he played. His powerful thighs and biceps strained against his gray slacks and white dress shirt in a spectacular display of potent virility.

Something stirred low and deep inside her, unfurling with luxuriant heat.

The bartender’s voice pulled her attention, if not her gaze. “What can I get you?”

“Who’s the new guy, Sam?” Ireland asked, unable to take her eyes off the stage.

“He’s a guest of the hotel.”

“No.” The man was accomplished, his performance masterful.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, boss. He’s been here a week. Came down a few days ago with his trumpet and talked to the band for a bit. They invited him to jam, and now it’s a thing. Every night, he comes down for an hour or so. Plays and sings sometimes, too. The ladies love him.”

“I bet.” Ireland studied the man more closely. His clothes were clearly tailored expressly for his tall, strong frame. His rolled-up cuffs revealed a full-sleeve tribal tattoo, and the sharp, talon-like tips crept beneath the cognac leather band of the expensive watch on his wrist. He was savagely alluring masculinity wrapped in wealth; assured in his posture, and skilled with his instrument. The dichotomy of his vitally aggressive attractiveness and the melancholic way he played the jazz standard “Nature Boy” shocked the senses.

Abruptly, he looked up and caught her gaze, held it without blinking for a heartbeat, then another. A frisson of awareness arced between them like an electric current.

She was aware of him in the most elemental sense. Drawn to him so powerfully, she fought taking a step toward him. It was a visceral attraction. And she didn’t like it at all.

“I’ll take my usual,” she said, forcing herself to turn away. “Send the trumpeter a drink when he’s done. Tell him it’s on the house. And call security, would you, please?”

Sam didn’t question the nature of her requests. “You got it.”

Pushing away from the bar, Ireland weaved through the crowd, skirting club chairs and candlelit tables to reach Graham, who sat near the stage. She’d entered the club in a high rage but unexpectedly found herself in a different mood entirely. The trumpet’s slow, drawn-out notes felt like a requiem, which aligned with Ireland’s realization that Graham was dead to her, and she didn’t care to waste her rage on him. There was no point after all. The man had dug his own grave.

Graham happened to glance up then and see her. She watched him flinch and schooled her expression into something more pleasant. It worked because he recovered and flashed her a cocky grin. It was that mischievous smile that first attracted her to him. He had the rockstar aesthetic down to a science and a face so handsome it bordered on pretty.

Musically inclined bad boys were her downfall. She really needed to find a new type.

“Well, hello,” she greeted with a bright smile, coming to a halt at his table. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Graham smirked. “You’re following me.”

“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 you are dumber 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. A Reserved sign 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, she had to 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 all his urbanity, the man inside the custom-made clothing was not to be taken lightly.

When he merely watched her, she narrowed her eyes. “Which part of what I said did you not understand?”

“It’s my table.” His gaze shifted to where a previously unnoticed jacket matching his slacks draped a trumpet case.

She stood in a rush, her face hot with embarrassment. He stood with her, and she saw he was an inch or two taller than Gideon’s 6’2” height, putting her at eye level with that wickedly alluring mouth. She turned to move somewhere else.

“Behind,” Sam warned, skirting her to set two beautifully presented Old Fashioneds on cork coasters. “One for the lady and one she bought for you.”

Ireland scowled at the bartender. He waggled his brows in response.

“If you want him to enjoy that,” he told her, “you should sit back down and keep his fan club at bay.”

Sam headed back to the bar.

Her unwanted companion collected his drink but remained standing. “Thank you.”

Ireland’s attention went to his forearm. Golden skin coursed with veins over flexing muscle. It shouldn’t be sexy. It was just an arm for chrissakes.

“The place is packed,” he pointed out casually. “You’re leaving the only open seat, and you’ve got a drink it’ll take a while to enjoy. You’re welcome to stay, but let me be clear: while I very much enjoy an exchange of harmless flirting with a beautiful woman—and you are, without question, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—I’m not looking for a hookup.”

It wasn’t remotely fair that a man who looked like a golden god had that voice, too. The combo was a one-two punch to her common sense.

She stood there, staring at him for a long moment, refusing to be disappointed or flattered by what he said.

But she was more than a little curious. And too reckless for her own good.

Ireland sat.

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