9781618854674DonovansBluesWaitsNC
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DONOVAN'S BLUES
Chloe Waits
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
Donovan's Blues
Copyright © 2012 Chloe Waits
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-467-4
First E-book Publication: December 2012
Cover design by Dawne Dominique
Edited by Stephanie Ballestreri
Proofread by Mahalia Levey
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
To all the special people that support me, particularly my family, and all the wonderful help at Secret Cravings Publishing
The Cravings e-book Club
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Marla isn't looking for love or anything else from a man. Can Marla put aside her distrust of men for a younger man? Can Chris convince her he's not like other guys?
*Hunting Jaguar, paranormal erotic romance:
Rachel Hayes' father set out to prove the existence of the Miloni temple and the Jaguar people. Tumi is a descendant of the Miloni race and is sworn to protect their secret with his life. Will he be forced to uphold his vow at the cost of his heart and Rachel's life?
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DONOVAN'S BLUES
Chloe Waits
Copyright © 2012
Smoke curled blue through the dim lights as Amanda Turner took another sip of her wine, savoring its crisp flavor. She played self-consciously with the fragile stem of her glass, glancing at the time on her watch. Almost two o’clock. Her friends abandoned her at The Blue Bird hours before, leaving her to sit in the dark club by herself, feeling strange and out of place. Yet she wasn’t alone. Other patrons packed the tables too, all of them waiting, just like her. Waiting for Donovan Strait.
Amanda first heard him play two weeks ago. And fell in love.
That her friends dragged her here initially was an irony not lost on Amanda. Blues and jazz never appealed to her. Some of it sounded too busy, the blaring of the trumpets clashing with clang of cymbals, like a cacophony of jarring instruments. Yet Donovan’s music sounded different. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. When he played, his music seared right through her, branding her soul with each lingering, tremulous note.
Donovan’s saxophone sang mournfully, even sweetly at times, just as he did. After a haunting instrumental solo he switched just as easily to vocals. Drawing a breath in the middle of the song, he’d pause, and in a voice that sounded both old and young, jaded and full of hope, his words washed right over the crowd, carrying them along with a mixture of joy and pain. Amanda’s friends were an eager part of that crowd before, but refused to wait the long hours to see him on a weekday. The ringing of her own alarm in a few short hours would be the price of this decadence, but one she’d willingly pay.
Her spine straightened in expectation as the musicians took the stage, setting up. Craning her neck, Amanda spotted him. Donovan. People parted respectfully for him as he took the stage last, entering slowly with movements measured and careful, as though aware all eyes were on him. Long black hair curled against the dark sunglasses he always wore. With a face too strong and severe for generic good looks, his full lips always curled sensually in a half-smile like he was ready to share a private joke. Amanda flushed. Or knew your darkest secret, your hidden longings. Charisma, like a compelling force, shone from him, luring her as helplessly as iron to a magnet. Perhaps just as important as his physical appeal, his words seduced her. His music spoke to her directly.
Amanda smiled at the silly idea of his music existing for her alone. More and more, she felt like a love-struck teenager, but she didn’t care. Tonight, she’d speak with Donovan, letting him know how talented he was, and how much his songs meant to her. Th
e desire to get close to him gnawed at her. Amanda stifled a groan at the thought. Even her friends urged her to stay, winking and encouraging her plans. They were right to laugh. She sounded like a groupie, all right. And looked it. Her outfit was pure come hither—a low cut silver blouse and fitted short skirt—certainly not what she usually wore, but she wanted to speak to him, to get noticed. To get—
Donovan’s sax suddenly reverberated through the air, silencing the direction of her thoughts. Amanda closed her eyes, vibrating on the single drawn out note. That sweet tone expanded and grew, making her body taut with anticipation. And then his voice, mellow as whiskey, carried over the band like a caress. She responded to him, to the sensuous rhythm that wrapped around her and insinuated erotic images in her mind. The song rolled over her, rippling through her skin with a steady, building beat. Like making love. Her pelvis flexed involuntarily as though moving to a phantom lover. She imagined Donovan’s hands running over her as their bodies moved to the tempo in her mind, and abandoned herself to the music.
Amanda’s eyes snapped open suddenly. Lost in her reverie, the musicians had already exited the stage at the end of the set and now spilled into the crowd. She gulped the remainder of her wine and slipped through the packed bodies. Donovan sat at a table speaking with the guitar player briefly, who then turned around and made his way to the bar. She approached slowly, heart beating erratically as she neared the table. She cleared her throat shyly. “Hello? Mr. Strait?” His head turned toward her. “I just wanted to say I think you’re—great, I love your music,” she finished quickly in a rush.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. Would you like to sit down?” He moved a chair out, and a flash of white caught her eye. Amanda stopped. It was a cane. That meant—
“Did you wish to sit down?” he asked again.
He was blind. Amanda cursed her stupidity as she sat. Her air of expectation deflated. His black wraparound sunglasses suited him. But his shades and his slow measured ascent up the stage weren’t a part of some cool musician persona. Donovan was protecting his eyes and counting steps. Maybe if she wasn’t so lost in the music, she might have noticed. Worse, a sneaking suspicion grew as she replayed the shared looks and giggles of her friends as they urged her to make a play for him. Her cheeks burned. So, they knew and she didn’t. They probably thought it was funny setting her up to make a pass at a blind man, who couldn’t see her efforts.
“My name is Amanda.” She looked at him carefully, covertly even though she didn’t have to. He didn’t look disabled or helpless. His black T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. He looked strong, not like the bouncers at the club, but with an athletic swimmer’s build. His pale skin suggested he spent a lot of late nights inside. The presence of that generous, curving mouth saved his features from being too sharp.
“Call me Donovan. What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Um, just some white wine.”
He signaled his hand through the air for the bartender.
“I should be buying you a drink,” said Amanda. He nursed a glass of scotch in front of him.
“Then you can do the next round if you want.” That same half-smile appeared again. A frisson of electricity shot through her.
All her fantasies leading up to this moment of actually speaking to him. Being close to him. And yet all her preconceived notions about him were wrong and so not based on reality. She was way out of her depth here, out of her comfort zone. Maybe she would just have a drink and leave.
“So you’ve been checking out the show. Isn’t it a little late for a weeknight for you? Or do you keep musician hours?”
“Yes, I guess it is,” Amanda confessed, “I work during the week as a graphic designer. But maybe I will play hooky tomorrow.”
“Well I won’t tell,” he said slowly, leaning in to her. His tone implied they shared a special secret. Amanda’s stomach tightened as she changed the subject.
“How do you come up with all of that? It’s amazing.”
He scratched his chin. “Well I’ve been doing it for a long time. Practice I guess. Maybe before you were born.” He laughed.
“I am not that young,” Amanda informed him. Donovan looked like he had maybe ten years on her.
“No, I guess not. But your voice sounds young. Sweet. May I?”
His hand reached out toward hers and gripped it gently. “I can tell a lot by a voice, by sounds…and by touch.” A strong, callused palm enveloped hers. Her heart quickened as he stroked her left hand with his roughened fingers, and her breath drew in sharply. He smiled as he passed over her bare ring finger, lingering there. “Your hands are soft. Not too soft though.” He didn’t let go, leaving her body buzzing with the contact.
“So, here you are by yourself in a little beat down blues club. Is it too late for your friends? You must be the night owl of the group.”
Intrigued, Amanda couldn’t help giving him a curious once over. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
He straightened. “You’re about twenty-five,” he replied with a slight smile. “About five foot five. How am I doing?”
“I’m twenty-seven. And five foot four. How do you do that?”
“A lot of people think I don’t know anything because I can’t see,” he answered.
Amanda flushed at his astuteness. She had to resist the urge to tug her hand away in embarrassment.
“Yes, I am blind. But I still see by picking up information with my other senses. From talking to you I can tell where your voice is coming from, that gives me an idea of your height. Of your body. Your reaction to me guessing your age can give me a clue to it, also the words you use…”
He leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t like to tell most people how I do it. I like to leave them confused—a bit off balance.”
At this, Amanda felt ashamed at her initial reaction. So, Donovan Strait couldn’t see. He was exactly as he was before. This new knowledge shouldn’t change anything.
“So, what else do you know?” Amanda asked playfully.
Donovan paused thoughtfully. “You play by the rules—since you’re not sure you’re playing hooky tomorrow. That’s an expression I haven’t heard in a while.”
“Not always,” answered Amanda softly, startled to realize she was flirting openly with him. Trepidation about his blindness dampened her desire at first, but now her attraction flickered stronger than ever.
“Oh? So you are going to play hooky tomorrow?”
His voice grew smoky, full of sexual promise. Amanda swallowed hard. Coming to a bar late at night, boldly approaching a man she didn’t know, was certainly breaking the rules.
It was exhilarating.
“So what do you think of when you hear the music?”
A devilish smile lit his face when she took too long to answer.
“You’re holding something back,” he probed.
“I—uh feel the music coming over me, rolling over me.”
“Caressing you?” asked Donovan.
Amanda’s face burned as all her images earlier in the night came back.
He didn’t wait for her reply. “Touch, like sound, is very powerful. It’s one of the most powerful senses.” Donovan traced his fingertips over Amanda’s wrist, over the pulse thrumming there.
“Are you excited Amanda?”
“Yes,” she whispered. In truth, she was very excited, more so than she could remember being by any man. Any remaining reservations vanished under his expert seduction.
“By me?”
He smiled, already knowing the answer. His voice dropped a few octaves. “You’re wondering what it would be like to be made love to by a man that knows things other men
don’t…who can see you with his hands. Who could touch you in ways other men cannot.”
Amanda didn’t answer. She drew shallow breaths as graphic images flitted through her mind. His grip tightened reflexively on her wrist. Sensual awareness flooded Amanda. Her heightened pulse, her uneven respirations told him ev
erything he needed to know, and he read her like an open book, as though her body was braille.
“A lot of men are only interested in what they see in women. What they narrowly define as beauty. With one, lone sense. They don’t appreciate a woman’s voice. The way her breath quickens as her excitement grows. The scent of her arousal. The smell of her perfume when she’s gone. People are meant to be tactile. Do you know the softest part of a woman’s body? Most men would say her thighs. What about the inside of her wrist? The area behind her knee? The underside of her upper arm? The webbing between her fingers and toes…?”
Donovan raised Amanda’s hand, pressing her delicate wrist against his full lips as his fingers laced briefly with hers.
Her skin burned with his touch and sparks lit up along her spine.
“Her lips, the area behind the ear…”
His hand touched her hair, trailing over the earlobe underneath and moving behind the shell of her ear, to Amanda’s sigh. She swore the whorl of his thumb left an imprint on the tender area, scoring it with heat. He withdrew his fingers from her pulse point, raising the tips to his nostrils.
“What scent are you wearing?”
“White Orchid.”
“It’s beautiful, but you should never wear scents with me. I’d rather smell you, your skin. Would you wash your perfume off for me, Amanda?” The request hung in the air for a moment, but she felt like an automaton under command.
Lightheaded, Amanda pushed away from the table and made her way to the dingy bathroom. She rinsed several times to remove the smell of the cheap soap she used as best she could and dried her neck off with paper towel.