4 Play

by Quinn, Cari

  She lifted the glass and took a long, slow swallow, her topaz eyes sharp and intelligent above the rim. “You’re bringing me unending pain, Logan King,” she said into the glass. She took another sip, then lowered the glass to the counter.

  He skirted the edge, careful not to touch her. Not even to come into her oxygen space. If he wrote—when he wrote—a song about her, he already knew the title. Temptation. “I seriously doubt that.” He turned on the oven to preheat, then lit the gas burner to heat the pan. He pulled out the salad fixings. “How are you with a knife?”

  She washed her hands, then moved to the cutting board. “Sous chef of champions.”

  “My kinda girl.”

  Knife in hand, she started dicing the heirloom tomatoes he’d left out. “Why am I here?”

  “We’re going to be working pretty closely for the next few days. I figured we could get back on even ground.”

  She scooped the red and yellow tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce. With effortless skill, she hacked off the crunchy skin of the red onion until its hearty scent filled the space. “Even ground includes chicken and a telephoto lens?”

  He sighed. “They’re still out there, huh?”

  “They didn’t exactly play the incognito card. Especially when a guy with improbable black hair jumped in front of my car as I was coming up your street.”

  “Fucking hell.” He gripped the counter for a count of five, then blew out a breath. The more press, the more chances that she’d show her face sooner.

  There was no changing the situation, and in turn there was no way he was going to let that woman ruin the evening. He set the chicken breasts into the pan. The hiss of meat on cast iron filled the silence as she chopped. He finished his glass of wine and went for another.

  “I’m not sure how you stop yourself from hitting them with your truck.”

  He choked on his sip. “Jail time.”

  She looked up from her slicing with a half grin. “Bet you’d be just as famous behind bars.”

  At least the reaming he got in jail would be honest. Between the concert promoters, fanclub responsibilities, and reporters he lost track of the different flavors of lube. “I look good in orange, actually.”

  Her grin slid into a wide smile that chipped away at his resolve. Asking her here had not been one of his finer moves, especially if he was trying to keep it platonic.

  She fanned slices of onion over the top of the spinach and leafy green mix. “No other veggies?”

  “No. I need to go to the store.”

  “Like you go yourself.”

  “Mrs. Nelson knows I like salad stuff.” He patted his stomach. “Not as easy to keep the gut at bay these days.” He glanced at his watch and turned back to the chicken, flipping them to sear the other side.

  When he turned back around, her glass was at her mouth again and her eyes were on him.

  “What?”

  She put her glass down. “Not sure how I started off the day with a Pop Tart and ended it with wine and one of the richest men in the northern hemisphere cooking me chicken.”

  “I’m just a guy, Izzy.”

  She made a low humming sound and took the salad bowl to the fridge. She peeked around the door. “Having kabobs on the grill tomorrow, huh?”

  “Angling for an invite?”

  She tucked the salad bowl on a shelf and shut the door. “Nope. Two dinners and I usually end up on at least third base.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  She shrugged. “You already said there would be no sex and I’ve said the same. We’re just two people working, right?” She arched a brow and picked up her wine glass again before wandering off into his living room.

  He stared up at the ceiling. Big mistake to invite her over.

  Huge.

  After he checked the chicken he loaded the pan into the oven to finish cooking. He set the timer on his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. Too keyed up to entertain without a little liquid encouragement, he opened his own bottle of wine and brought both bottles to the living room. She wasn’t there.

  The rolling hiss of a needle on vinyl lured him into his music room. She was sitting cross legged with her dress pooling around her on his purple herringbone rug. The sad strains of Gary Allan’s latest soared out of his hidden speakers. The rich layer of organ keys and sandpaper voice melded with a guitar that spoke to him on a level that pop music never would.

  All of them had their place, but Izzy had chosen the perfect soundtrack for the heavy night. She looked over at him. “Not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this room, or a wall of records.” She nodded to the unending bookcases filled with vinyl, both new and old.

  He sat down beside her. “Nothing quite sounds the same as a record.”

  She closed her eyes. “That hiss and pop of the needle is pure magic.”

  It took everything inside of him to sit there and not lean over because, God, he wanted to taste the wine on her lips and tongue. Especially her tongue. Because Izzy was long, slow kisses with unending tongue—in so many places.

  He pulled the little box player away from her bare foot. He lifted the needle and skipped to the third to last song.

  Her heavily lashed eyes fluttered open. She lifted her glass. “You wouldn’t be trying to seduce me would you, Logan?”

  In a fucking heartbeat.

  Seven

  Bella set her wine glass on the slice of hardwood peeking from the crazy patterned rug. No way could she be on the floor with this man. Another inch or two and she’d be climbing into his lap. A—not a good idea and b—she’d worn her granny panties on purpose.

  All good for the lines under her dress, not to mention her lack of impulse control for a man with stupid green eyes. Everything about him made her want to be Bad Bella all over again. Because with him it would be a laundry list of decadent, insanely stupendous, and likely illegal sex acts.

  He stood and followed her to the wall of records. “You can’t ask a man that kind of question then walk away.”

  “We’re not doing this. I’m tired and have had way too much wine.” Falling back on bad habits. Cripes, it had been a mistake to come here tonight. Not five hours ago she’d convinced herself that being around him was a dumb idea. One almost dare on a telephone call and she’d caved.

  Not good.

  “Barely a glass? You don’t strike me as a lightweight.”

  She dragged the tips of her fingers over the thin spines of the record covers. “You would be right. I’m just in a mood. One that has repercussions that reach far and wide. Well, at least as wide as my store and the square footage of this ridiculous house.”

  “Six thousand square feet.”

  “My God.”

  He leaned against the bookcase. “I have a big studio that takes up all of the lower floor.”

  Oh to have that kind of far reaching wealth. His record collection alone could pay off her mortgage for three years. She randomly pulled out a record and smiled. “Bel Biv DeVoe?”

  “That girl is poiiiiison. Never trust a big butt and a smile.”

  She choked out a laugh and slid the record back in. “Can you quote lyrics from all of these?”

  He shrugged. “Am I doomed to be your party trick if I say yes?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then no.”

  She huffed out a half laugh. “So this is just an honest to God music room?” She dragged her fingers over the trio of guitars in a spinning stand, then across the glossy finish of the baby grand in the corner.

  “We do the heavy lifting in the studio, but Zeke and I have been known to write in here.” Logan swiped his thumb over the strings of a Wicked Witch of the West green guitar. But it wasn’t a strum. Instead, he went up the fret board, leaving no sound behind. He picked up his wine glass and took two large swallows before refilling.

  She walked over to him, teased the edge of her nail over his knuckles where a bloom of freckles lay. She looked up at him and couldn’t quite get o
ver just how many freckles dotted his face. She took his glass and sipped his wine.

  Good Isabella was shrieking in her head, but she took a longer swallow. The Riesling was sweet and cold, leaving a slightly dry flavor in its wake. She wrinkled her nose. “Mine’s better.” She handed it back to him. “It’s a shame.”

  “That comment covers so many things.”

  Bold with enough wine swimming in her veins to allow for a bit of reckless behavior, she brushed the pad of her finger over the shallow dent in his chin. The ginger bristles weren’t quite as soft as she’d been expecting.

  His Adam’s apple bounced with a swallow. Every part of her wanted to trace her way down his neck to the little notch that showed in the V of his Henley t-shirt. She wanted to see what was at the end of the silver chain that peeked from his collar. She wanted to see if his skin was really as smooth as it looked.

  So she went up instead.

  Because down was such an incredibly dangerous idea. At least his lips were the gateway drug to Logan King. His neck was a surefire path to overdose. Because once she started peeling off layers, she simply wouldn’t stop unless he said no.

  And the wild heat living in his eyes said nothing but naked. The kind of naked that left inhibitions behind with the clothes that landed on the floor.

  All she had to do was give the go ahead. Whether it was smart or not, there was enough between them right now to end up with her skirt up and at least one solid orgasm in her future.

  She traced the patch of hair just under the center of his lower lip. A trio of faint freckles burned through the tempting flesh. “It’s a shame they Photoshop these out.”

  He rolled his lower lip behind his teeth. In the process her finger went too. He put just enough pressure on the pad of her finger to make her gasp. He grasped her wrist and dragged it down so it was trapped between them. He leaned into her until their lips were barely a breath apart. “Don’t play with me tonight, Izzy.”

  If she just rose up onto her toes—or if she hadn’t flipped her heels off—she’d be able to reach him. She dug her fingertips into his belly. “I thought you didn’t play in the Winchester Falls sandbox.”

  “Exceptions can be made.” God, his breath was hot against her lips. She tilted her head, lining them up. He lightly brushed his lower lip against hers. Just a tiny taste. “You sure you want to travel down this road?”

  She swallowed. Yes. A thousand times yes. Even if it was just a kiss, but she heard herself say, “No.”

  “So you came here with the express purpose of playing with me?” He didn’t sound pissed. He just seemed resigned.

  She dragged her gaze away from his mouth and searched his eyes. There was a flash of pain there, but it was gone so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not. “No.”

  “Then why did you come?” She tried to break free of him, but he held her hand tight to his belly, slowly sliding it lower. “All signs point to here.”

  The snap of his khaki shorts dug into the back of her hand. She closed her eyes at the obvious curve of the head of his cock under the material.

  Granny panties.

  No sex.

  Be strong.

  She dragged her knuckle down the length of him. Fuck the granny panties. She could slide them off and toss them under the piano before he saw what they looked like. And all of that would be inside her. She opened her eyes and absorbed the flex of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils as he sucked in a deep breath, and the ever changing green of his eyes. A face that had graced hundreds of magazines, dozens of billboards, and ten album covers. All of it was too much.

  Too much wine, too much want, too much stupidity.

  She dropped her chin to her chest, resting the top of her head against his muscular pecs. She brought her hand back up to his rock hard belly. “You have no idea how much I want to say yes. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the fact that you’re you, or if it’s more than that—and I can’t afford to figure it out.”

  He laid his palm over the back of her neck, then slowly sifted his fingers through the shorter hairs layered there. After a moment, he took a step back and his touch was gone.

  She kept her gaze on the carpet until the pattern blurred with the intensity of her stare. When she finally looked up he was across the room, his palms flat on the piano and the last of the bottle of his wine in his glass.

  “Gotta admit, this is the first time I’d rather be used.”

  Before she could say something else, church bells trilled out of Logan’s pocket. He took his glass and strode out of the room. She followed him and stopped in the center of his kitchen as he did normal things, like pull out the chicken and check it with a meat thermometer. A moment ago, she was ready to throw away a year’s worth of work for a chance to get her mouth on him.

  With a little space between them and the raspy music a mere whisper on the air, she was able to see just how dumb that would have been. Logan was the unattainable. And she would have been just another woman that warmed his bed for a few hours.

  As fun as those hours would be, she’d have to live with them. Work with him as the memory lingered between them, making for an awkward relationship. Even more awkward than right now.

  And that was unacceptable.

  She marched to the fridge and took out the salad and some sort of homemade dressing in a bottle on the shelf above it. He hit a few buttons on the overhead microwave to cook something.

  Needing a task to keep her occupied, she took the salad to the table in the little cove off the kitchen. She fetched her glass from the music room and put her shoes back on. Heels made her feel more in control. Barefoot was way too intimate. And she was way too short to go around in her stocking feet with him anyway.

  On the second trip, she gathered the dishes he’d left on the counter for her. Setting the table was domestic and a little odd considering they’d only met each other that morning. Another quick shot of intimacy. But it was too late to back out now. And she’d had way too much wine to jump into her car and leave. Suck it up buttercup. You can have chicken and a salad with a world renowned rock star.

  Just because she’d had his posters on her walls as a teen didn’t mean a damn thing. He’d been a lanky twenty-something in one of the hottest alternative bands when she’d been in high school. All the King’s Men had soared to the top of the charts with one of her favorites to this day.

  “Tipping Mark” had been on every radio through that summer. That song had been her entry into music. She’d enjoyed music with her friends, but she’d never been obsessed with a band until that song and that album.

  But that boy had been a far cry from the man that was bustling around in his kitchen. Angry and full of heat, he’d blown her world apart with his darkly passionate lyrics. Twenty-three to her seventeen, he’d been the perfect conduit for her blooming sexuality.

  She lived in a household of academics who thought Mozart was too wild. She’d been dark poetry and angsty Brontë stories. By the time college started she’d grown away from All the King’s Men. Gone had been the angry kid with the achingly dark lyrics. In his place had been the newest poster boy for alternative rock. He’d kept the sexy guitars and band, but the lyrics changed.

  They became more of a broad strokes subject matter.

  Gone, were the intimate lyrics that ripped her heart out.

  Oh, she still sung along with his songs on the radio. She had no choice. He was everywhere and the songs were like little earworms. His voice was raspy sandpaper with velvet edges. Oddly similar to his speaking voice.

  A toe-curling bass with a gentleness that made her want to do stupid things. Like find out how his beard would feel against her inner thighs. Discover if his freckled lips were as creative as she imaged they were. Or to have those clear green eyes watch her as she went onto her knees for him.

  Dangerous thoughts.

  Was it because she could still see that twenty-three year old boy under the facade of the world weary man? Or was it becaus
e the man seemed to have all that anger and loss in his eyes again? The way he’d looked at her in the music room would haunt her for a long time.

  Like he was starving.

  Like he was a wrecking ball.

  Like he hated her.

  The dull clunk of plates being placed on the table dragged her back into the moment.

  Wow. Definitely no more wine tonight.

  “It looks amazing.” She turned on her best smile. She’d eat whatever he cooked her if it killed her. Anything could be masked with enough salad dressing.

  “Mrs. Nelson, my housekeeper, taught me how to cook. She told me I needed marketable skills in case the music thing didn’t work out.”

  Bella laughed. “Isn’t that usually just to impress a lady?”

  “The ladies I know don’t eat.”

  She sat down and lifted her plate. “This lady does.”

  “Good to know.” He served her a large portion of chicken and something that looked like a sweet potato under all the brown sugar and butter. So many calories.

  There are all sorts of ways to burn them off.

  She was going to need to roll Bad Bella in a rug, wrap her in duct tape and toss her into the river. Because that wasn’t happening. Her calories were going to just going to have to be worked off the hard way. With her evil Pi-Yo videos.

  She lifted her silverware and took the plunge. A moment later the smoky oriental flavor and perfectly cooked chicken made her look up at him. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?” He lifted his wine glass. “To Mrs. Nelson.”

  She clinked her glass with his. “To Mrs. Nelson.” She took another bite, then moved onto the sweet potato of carb death—which was just as divine—and swished her wine glass as she chewed and swallowed. “Okay, tell me about this plan of yours.”

  His shoulders relaxed as he sliced and ate with all the grace and manners of an embassy table. She hadn’t exactly been expecting him to hunch over his plate and use his hands, but the impeccable table skills actually gave her a few flashbacks to dinners at home.

  “I’ve been calling in a few favors. Friends that are willing to come in and sing or play. Lindsey York and Johnny Cage already agreed to come in early and do the extra shows. Lindz will be here for rehearsals tomorrow night.”