There was a reason she didn’t play in front of a live audience—it terrified her. It always had.
Born into a musical family who’d followed the state fair circuit in a converted school bus for the majority of her formative and teen years, Layla had more experience with live crowds than she’d ever wanted. Contrary to her parents’ insistence that she would eventually “get comfortable” with being onstage, she never had. In truth, her stage fright had only gotten worse, and she couldn’t have been happier when her family finally settled in Ponder Hill, Tennessee, a sweet little town right outside Nashville with a single caution light and a small square.
Her father had gone to work teaching music at the local high school and her mother had started giving piano lessons. Layla and her sisters Rita and Alison had taken their respective places in public education for the first time in their lives, and while the family still occasionally sang at various festivals, fairs and Fourth of July picnics, their parents had finally surrendered their name-in-neon-lights dreams and bought a house. Her father still kept the bus in prime working order though, and had even built a special garage to house the damned thing. The thought made her smile.
“We’ll be landing in five minutes, Ms. Cole,” the pilot announced for her benefit.
Nerves attacked her again, making her wince as her belly tightened. She closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, imagining the twenty wooded acres she’d be able to finish paying off from the proceeds of this venture.
Two performances in front of thousands of people, that was all.
She could do it.
She would make herself do it.
Honestly, if anyone had told her she’d be flying to Atlanta the week before Christmas to play her mandolin for Clint Walker, who had called her himself to ask for her services, she would have never believed it. But Clint’s work ethic and talent were legendary on Music Row and he’d asked with just enough praise and charm to make her momentarily forget why she didn’t work onstage. Besides, she’d actually laid the tracks in the studio so it only made sense that he’d ask her to fill in. Then he’d casually mentioned what he was willing to pay her, throwing in a sizable bonus because of the time of year. She’d immediately imagined being able to break ground on her house after Christmas, and any thought of saying no had simply disappeared. She could say goodbye to apartment living.
True, she was terrified to perform in front of an audience. But she wanted her house more, a personal sanctuary, her own little piece of earth. She wanted to plant dogwood trees and wisteria and sip her tea on her front porch while she listened to the little creek burble in the distance. She wanted a cutting garden, herbs and tomatoes, lush ground covers and fruit trees. She wanted an arbor of climbing roses and bird feeders and hanging baskets loaded with blooms dripping from the eaves. And if a cartooned bluebird landed upon her shoulder and she was suddenly hit with the urge to break into song, then so be it. This was her dream, her fantasy, and if it had taken a few liberties with Walt Disney’s imagination, well…
Layla smiled and resisted the urge to pull her scrapbook from her carry-on bag. She’d been clipping pages from magazines for years, carefully filling in the white space with her dream home. She winced.
Lamentably, there was no man in any of the pictures at the moment—according to her sisters, she was too picky—but her floor plans called for his-and-her walk-in closets and she’d bought a king-size bed. She was willing to make room in her life for the right guy, but would be lying if she denied her faith in his existence was waning. Layla wanted a guy with an artist’s soul and a farmer’s attachment to the land, to a home and family.
Tall order.
In fact, she wasn’t altogether certain that the artist’s soul could inhabit the farmer’s body, in which case she might as well settle for one or the other, but was unwilling to do that either.
Picky? No. More like…particular.
She’d rather be alone than fill that slot with a man who would ultimately make her miserable. There wasn’t much point in putting in all this hard work and planning to build her dream home only to have it turn into the armpit of hell with a guy who didn’t fulfill her. Someone who didn’t want the same things she did. She’d spent the bulk of her childhood wandering. She wanted to settle. She wanted a fancy mailbox with her name on it and a yearly bill from the county courthouse for her property taxes.
She also wanted sex, but didn’t see that happening anytime in the near future. It had been more than a year since she’d broken up with her last boyfriend—nicknamed Bitter Disappointment #3—and while she was perfectly willing to consider the idea of a little casual sex, she hadn’t met a single guy in the interim who’d inspired her to do so.
Inspiration was important.
She felt the plane jolt as the wheels hit the ground and her fingers tightened around the armrests. Going up never bothered her. Coming down, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish.
As the plane taxied to a stop, Layla mentally girded her loins for the coming evening and gathered her things. She didn’t have much. Just an oversize overnight bag, a tote that housed her small purse and her mandolin, of course. Though she could play almost any stringed instrument, this was the one that owned her. True, you could get a more sustained sound from a guitar or violin, but there was something about the sound this particular instrument made that simply spoke to her soul. The mandolin was finicky, required a fast touch and being able to wind its melody through the other instruments gave her a high that no chemical could ever induce.
She loved it.
She took a deep, bracing breath and stepped off the plane.
And it was a good thing she’d just inhaled all that oxygen, because the ability to put air into her lungs promptly vanished when she saw the man standing on the tarmac.
Bryant Bishop. Ultimate inspiration. The inspiration to end all inspiration.
It had been years since she’d seen him. At least two, if not three. But she’d recognize the shape of those shoulders anywhere, and the head that rested upon them wasn’t too damned bad either.
He was the only man she’d ever dreamed about, and in those dreams, he was alternately rocking above her, gloriously naked, or parked in a chair beside her, rocking on her front porch.
Only an idiot would misinterpret the significance and Layla was no idiot.
Despite the freezing temperatures, her body felt as if it had suddenly landed in the Sahara. There wasn’t a molecule inside of her that wasn’t keenly aware of him, and her joints—particularly her knees—were undergoing some sort of chemical change that rendered them almost useless. Fire licked through her veins, concentrating in her nipples, and an inferno burned low in her belly. The sensation was so startling that it jolted the breath out of her lungs, making her gasp like a floundering fish. Gallingly, her cheeks blazed right along with the rest of her.
He smiled, almost knowingly, and her mortification was complete.
Bryant had a face that was more interesting than handsome, a series of planes and angles that held character rather than beauty. High cheekbones provided the perfect structure for the lean slope of his face and smooth angle of his jaw. An intriguing cleft bisected his chin and there was something overtly carnal about his mouth. His eyes were the color of smooth butterscotch and held a heavy-lidded quality that gave the illusion of either boredom or sleepiness, whichever he preferred.
Right now he looked bored.
Excellent.
The lightning bolt to her libido and alarming dreams aside, she couldn’t say she was overjoyed to see him either. According to her little sister, Rita, he’d once made a play for her and hadn’t reacted kindly when she’d rebuffed him. Layla had been disappointed on two counts, the first being that he’d preferred her sister, and the second that he’d behaved like a boor. Honestly, the latter was actually more of a letdown. Rita was pretty. Layla wasn’t surprised that he’d liked her. But she’d never taken him for an arrogant ass.
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.”
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 invite
d 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.
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.
It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... Page 8
