It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... (8 page)

W
ELL, HELL
, B
RYANT 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.”

She nodded, seeming to mull that over. “And what do you do when he's not touring?”

Frankly, given his salary with Clint, he didn't have to
do
anything. He could do whatever he wanted. But that had never been his style. Bryant liked to be busy. Idle hands, the devil's playground and all of that. Even on the bus, he had to have something to do.

While touring he liked to whittle, loved the feel of wood beneath his fingers, watching it take form, then worked on his bigger metal sculptures when he was at home. Nothing
gave him more satisfaction than firing up his blowtorch and getting to work, making something beautiful out of old parts and discarded metals. Gratifyingly, he'd sold several pieces and was beginning to make a name for himself. He'd also cast a few personal pieces of jewelry, most notably a pewter tree set he was quite proud of.

“I've got a studio at home and do a little sculpting,” he told her.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her expression go from bored disinterest to surprised astonishment. “What?” he asked, chuckling low under his breath. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Not hard to believe,” she said. “Just hard to reconcile. Badass security agent turned sculptor is a bit of a stretch. What's your medium?”

“Metal.”

She aahed knowingly and inclined her head. “Not so much of a stretch then.”

Badass? Bryant thought, secretly pleased with her assessment, then berated himself. It didn't matter what she thought, dammit. She was off-limits. She was trouble. Layla Cole wasn't someone he could fool around with and walk away unscathed. He'd known that since the first moment he'd wandered into her orbit and had been fighting her emotional gravity ever since.

The monstrous physical attraction only complicated things further.

He could
feel
her, was keenly aware of every breath that traveled in and out of her lungs, every minuscule shift of her body. The scent of her invaded the car and twined around his senses. It was something vaguely floral with warm undertones, reminiscent of lotus petals and sandalwood. It made him want to slide his nose along her shoulder and up her neck, bury his hands in her hair and taste the plum softness of her mouth.
His hands and balls tightened simultaneously, making him shift in his seat.

“Clint didn't elaborate about the schedule when he called. Will we be traveling by bus on to the next location tonight, or will we spend the night in Atlanta?”

“We always build enough time into the schedule for overnight stops. Clint doesn't like to sleep on the bus. We're booked into a hotel downtown this evening, then we'll start making our way down to Fort Lauderdale. A day on the road, then a day to set up. You'll do the final show, then we'll fly home.”

“Just in time for Christmas,” she said, a wistful note in her voice.

Christmas. Woo-hoo, Bryant thought. Another holiday spent alone. An only child with his father and grandparents gone—who knew where his mother was?—Bryant was officially an orphan. He hated the holidays. Everything closed on Christmas, even Wal-Mart. He'd be eating takeout from a truck stop, parked in front of the television with a nice bottle of wine and his ritual Christmas gift to himself.

On the plus side, he never had to return anything.

Still, there was something quite pathetic about being alone on Christmas, and though he had plenty of friends who pitied him and routinely invited him to their houses for the festivities, Bryant always declined. He didn't want to intrude and he'd rather be home and alone than surrounded by other people and feeling awkwardly out of place.

In the spirit of Charlie Brown, Bryant didn't have a Christmas tree, but a Christmas
branch,
and he roasted chestnuts in his fireplace. It was the one thing his father used to do and was the only “family tradition” he could recall. In honor of that, he'd planted a small grove of chestnut trees on his place and looked forward to harvesting them in a few years.

Bryant had never known his mother. She'd split when he was barely six months old and he hadn't seen or heard from
her since. To his knowledge, his father never had either. For reasons he didn't care to examine, he carried a frayed photo of her in his wallet. She was pretty, his mother. Long blond hair, big pansy-blue eyes. She looked like your average girl-next-door, not at all like the type of person who would abandon her child.

But she had.

“Are you looking forward to Christmas?” Layla asked when the silence between them lengthened past comfortable. Her pale buttery-blond hair glowed silver in the dash lights and there was something strangely endearing about the profile of her small, up-turned nose.

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.

“L
AYLA
!” C
LINT 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?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I just didn't know you could win with four-letter words.”

Clint's eyes widened, then he guffawed. “I think she's going to give you a run for your money, Bryant.”

Bryant stared at her. “I'm up for a challenge.”

Fiery chills raced up the backs of her suddenly wobbly
legs. Any more innuendo in that sentence and she'd have an immaculate orgasm, Layla thought.

And if anyone could give her one, it was Bryant Bishop.

 

“D
AMN, SHE'S HOT
,” G
US
Winston said, eyeballing Layla with the kind of prurient interest that made Bryant want to cleave his skull in two. “Not exactly pretty, but sexy as hell.” He looked over at Bryant. “Does that make sense?”

“Only if you're writing poetry for her,” Bryant told him, tipping a bottle of water into his mouth. He desperately needed to cool off.

“She married?” Gus wanted to know.

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Gus grunted, then smiled. “Sweet.”

“But you are,” he reminded him.

“I know that, dammit,” Gus retorted, shooting him a scowl. “I was thinking about you.”

Bullshit, but Bryant wasn't going to call him on it. Though the majority of these guys were faithful to their wives, some of them simply couldn't resist the relentless temptation and, sadly, there were too many women in the audience who didn't give a damn if the guys in the band were wearing rings or not. Clint had no less than twenty women a night throw themselves into his path with the express purpose of wanting to polish his knob and he always refused. He was committed to his wife, to his family. He was an admirable man, and nothing Clint had managed to do professionally had impressed Bryant as much as that fact.

Frankly, because of his own proximity to Clint, the band and the roadies, Bryant was propositioned almost as much as they were.

He'd never indulged.

In the first place, any woman who simply wanted to lay a musician wasn't a woman he had any interest in, and secondly, there was something quite degrading about being the
runner-up. When he made it with a woman, he wanted to know that she'd wanted him
first,
not that he was just a damned consolation prize when she couldn't land the drummer.

“There's my cue,” Gus announced, then strolled onstage. In honor of the holiday season he'd put a big red bow on the brim of his hat.

Bryant hung back, carefully watching Clint and the guys he'd put on the floor. It was nice to be able to monitor from the sidelines, to avoid the crush of the crowd. He tapped his earpiece. “How's it looking down there, Austin?”

“The usual, boss. Screaming girls in skimpy tops, rowdy guys in cowboy hats.”

He spied a big redneck in the front row. “Keep an eye on the hoss in the wife-beater, left of center stage. John Deere hat, soul patch. He looks like he's had one too many already.”

“I've been watching him,” Austin relayed. “He's sippin' from a flask. He could be trouble.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

Satisfied that everyone was doing their jobs, Bryant finally allowed himself to glance over at Layla. He'd known exactly where she was—could feel her presence pinging him like sonar—but he'd been trying to avoid looking at her because…Hell, he didn't know. To test himself? To see if he could avoid her?

Because he was an idiot was a better answer.

What he saw made his eyes widen and a hot expletive slip between his lips.

She'd set the mandolin aside, was bent at the waist, taking deep, gulping breaths into her lungs.

Shit.

Not altogether convinced he could help her, Bryant nevertheless couldn't make himself not try. He hurried over. “Layla?”

“What the hell was I thinking?” she gasped, her hands
on her knees. Her voice was thin and shrill. “Have I lost my
freaking
mind? I know my limitations. I know what I am capable of and what I am not, and going out there—” she gasped again, wheezed and choked on more air “—is so far out of my comfort zone I might as well not even have one.”

They were halfway through “Lead Me On.” It was a four-and-a-half minute track. He had two minutes to get her to pull it together and go onstage.

“Layla, what the hell is the problem? If you knew you couldn't do this, then why did you agree to it?”

She looked up at him as though
he
was the one who'd lost his mind. “For the money, fool! Why else? Do you know what he's paying me? I'd have been an idiot to turn that down! I wanted to pay off my land and start my house. I wanted to plant fruit trees and sweet peas. I'd forgotten about the sweet peas,” she said absently, then looked up at him. “Don't you just love those flowers? Aren't they the most beautiful little flowers in the world? Wholesome and sweet. Oh, God,” she wailed, her face crumpling. “I can't do this. I—”

He'd often wondered why she was forever in the studio and never touring with a specific band. Mystery solved. “Layla, I don't give a damn about fruit trees and sweet peas,” he said, giving her a small shake. “You've got to pull it together. You've got less than a minute and a half to be ready to walk out there and play. Straighten up,” he told her, grasping her shoulders.

She resisted. “I can't breathe if I straighten up!”

“Yes, you can.” He gave her another little shake and tugged. “Did you tell Clint you'd do this?”

She gave him a wild-eyed, indignant stare. “Of course I did! I'm here, aren't I?”

“Then you have to do it. You gave your word.”

Her anguished expression became even more pained and her frantic gaze darted out toward the stage. Her mouth turned
white around the edges and for one horrifying instant he was afraid she might actually faint.

His gaze dropped back to her lips.

Clearly a distraction was in order.

“You have the sexiest mouth I've ever seen,” he remarked, sliding his thumb over her bottom lip.

She blinked, startled.
“What?”

“I've wanted to kiss you for years.” And because that was the truth and she needed a distraction and he wasn't accustomed to denying himself, he did just that.

He kissed her, and while the earth didn't tilt on its axis, his own world did. Her lips were soft and warm and she tasted like chocolate and mint. He'd expected her to be a bit jarred by his preemptive attack, to be hesitant before fully settling in.

He'd been wrong.

The instant his mouth touched hers, she melted against him like a taper candle too close to a flame. She sighed as though she'd been waiting, too, and then her arms wound around his neck, her hands tunneled into his hair, and she tangled her tongue around his own, sucking it into her mouth.

Layla Cole flat knew how to kiss.

She knew when to slide, knew when to suckle, knew when to lick and knew how to keep the perfect balance of moisture between their mouths.

He could literally eat her up.

His heart kicked into an irregular rhythm, the balls of his feet tingled and a distant ringing sounded in his head—a warning bell he resolutely ignored—as he filled his hands with her ass. She made a little mewling sound and licked a slow path over his bottom lip. Incredibly, he felt that caress along the head of his straining dick and instinctively rocked against her. She was tiny, he realized as his hands slipped over her waist and up her back. He'd never realized how small, how petite she was.

In the dimmest recesses of his mind he registered the final strands of “Lead Me On” and, breathing heavily, wrenched his mouth from hers.

“You'd better go,” he said.

Her lids fluttered drunkenly. “Go where?”

He smiled and handed her the mandolin. “Onstage.”

She gasped as comprehension dawned, then hurried out.

Well, that had worked brilliantly, Bryant thought, still reeling from the kiss. Maybe she'd need more distraction before her next performance.

One could hope, anyway.