Resisting the Musician (a Head Over Heels Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) Page 2

  She opened her mouth to agree that she was not Reg, but the man didn’t wait to be told. He merely shouldered his way past—a wall of heat knocking her out of his way before he even had to—opened the unlocked door and headed into the even deeper darkness of the entrance of the house. Once inside, he nudged off his huge muddy boots and shook of any raindrops that dared cling to him.

  Lori was somewhat mollified to see the weapon over his shoulder turn out to be a stick. A big stick, sure. The perfect kind to throw to a dog…or two.

  When he shot her a guarded glance through a pair of bedroom eyes she knew the sooner she got this over and done with the sooner she could get back to the real world.

  But when she opened her mouth for the second time she was once again stymied, as his eyes squeezed shut and he gave into a huge yawn, stretching his arms above his head, the muscles in his arms bulging.

  His rumpled T-shirt lifted at his belly to reveal a happy trail and the fact that the top two buttons of his jeans had been left undone, as if he’d rolled out of bed, tugged them on, and headed off into the wilderness.

  Also leaving her with the pretty sound impression that he wore nothing underneath.

  When Callie had mentioned meeting Jake’s elusive, reclusive ex-band-mate a few weeks before, Lori had briefly imagined an overweight, overly-tattooed guy who reeked of bourbon and past glory.

  Instead, she’d found Thor.

  “I’m Lori Hanover,” she said finally finding her voice.

  He slowly opened one eye. “I’m not buying.”

  “I’m not selling.”

  With a last expulsion of breath, the guy moved forward into the pale sunlight which flowed over a set of shoulders wide enough to give Atlas a run for his money, the nut brown skin of an arm with strings of rope and beads wrapping about a mighty wrist, a heavily shadowed jaw, and a nose that had taken a knock too many.

  The guy leaned his large form against the doorframe and crossed his arms; the picture of perfectly unperturbed. Except for the fact that he’d quite deliberately blocked the way in.

  “So, if you’re not selling anything,” he rumbled, “and you’re clearly not Reg, what compelled you to ignore the ‘No Trespassing Or My Vicious Dogs Will Eat Your Liver For Brunch’ sign?”

  In sentences three words and less his voice was riveting. Longer, it was rich and smooth, with a hint of an accent she couldn’t pick out.

  “The sign lied,” Lori prevaricated, as if she didn’t have a million things she ought to be doing with her time other than standing in this doorway in the middle of nowhere falling into the slumberous dark eyes of a hulking stranger.

  His wide mouth flickered up at one corner. She would have bet a mint the guy was well aware how a smile like that would play with any female within range.

  “If you want liver-eaters for dogs,” she said, standing taller to negate the urge to fan herself, “they need discipline.”

  One meaty shoulder lifted into a shrug. “Never been that keen on the stuff myself.”

  “Liver?”

  “Discipline.”

  He touched the side of his nose and she wondered how many times it had been broken. And how big the other guys must have been.

  “What is it I can do for you this beautiful day, Lori Hanover?”

  Beautiful? Lori glanced over her shoulder at the gray-green drizzle in the air. She caught sight of Mack watching her from the car, window down, big arm leaning on the ledge, his daughters’ social networking antics taking a back seat once the door had been answered by the God of Thunder. Good man.

  Yet, if her company continued its rate of decay, she’d have to let Mack go. He was in his sixties, and a father to four girls. Losing his job in this economy would put unbelievable strain on his family. Her own father had decamped with far less impetus to do so.

  Stomach twisting as it did more often than not these days, Lori slipped off her sunglasses and gave Mack an everything’s fine wave. She tucked the handle of her shades into the neckline of her dress as she turned. Thor’s gaze followed the movement and stayed. Unapologetically.

  When her insides curled tighter under the shameless attention, she remembered her mud-ravaged shoes, her concertinaing schedule, and his friendship with the man who was systematically ruining her life.

  “You’re a hard man to track down. My assistant’s been trying for days…” Lori stopped talking, because it was clear he wasn’t listening. His heavy gaze had moved past her sunglasses, down the edge of her dress, dipping in where she dipped, curving out where she curved, till it rested mid-thigh—right where the lace atop her black suspender stockings was hidden beneath her dress.

  “You are Dash Mills?” she asked, her voice husky. “The song writer?”

  He remained the picture of nonchalance, but as his slumberous eyes lifted back to hers they had sharpened, and like a cloud had passed over the sun, she felt the air around her chill.

  “Who did you say you were?” he said, this time a growl echoed at the end of each word.

  Lori pulled out her card, the raised font sliding under her thumb as he whipped it from her hand. Their fingers missed one another by millimeters, but she still felt the heat of him. An odd lingering aftereffect.

  He glanced at her Calliope Shoes business card, then shifted his gaze sideways to focus on her feet—caked in so much mud that they felt like they were made of it. His regard remained for a beat before moving up her legs.

  Slowly.

  When it hit the bottom of her dress, it felt like the thing actually curled under his dark gaze.

  “Hanover,” he repeated, his short square fingernails scratching at his rumpled T-shirt, stretching out a frayed hole over his heart. “As in Callie?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  He grunted, and the tension which had coiled about his big shoulders relaxed a tad. The sound—deep and primal as it was—scraped at something inside of her. Which was nuts. She liked men in suits and spit-shined shoes. Men who smelled even better than she did. Men who didn’t seem so at home in the woods, that was for damn sure.

  Her voice was a tad over loud—full-on bossy mode, Callie called it—as she got to the point. “I’m here to discuss the song Callie asked you to write.”

  He blinked in surprise, the first genuine reaction she’d seen in his bottomless brown eyes. “Then you braved the hounds for nothing.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Callie’s mistaken,” he said, moving back into the shadows. “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Despite the fact that she’d wasted half a day she couldn’t afford to waste, Lori knew she should have been thrilled the guy said no. The idea of Callie singing to Jake was akin to one of those flash mob proposals, jammed onto YouTube the instant it was done for all the world to see. It was the kind of love-sick, public declaration Lori had never understood.

  Then something flickered in the back of her mind like a little ray of sunshine. But whatever it was flittered away as Dash Mills began to shut his front door, his bulk swallowed by the darkness.

  Lori reached out, her hand slamming against the wood.

  She’d already decided not to be thrilled about anything this man did or said, so the fact that he was adamant not to be involved made her determined to make it happen.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said, pressing the door open. “Callie believes you agreed.” Possibly. “When you met at Jake’s.” Somehow she neglected to mention your likeness to Thor, though. “She’s made plans.” Vaguely. “To sing the song on stage. As a great romantic gesture. For your friend. But to make it happen she needs your help.”

  Dash frowned down at her from beneath a fringe of shadowy lashes, and Lori’s heart rate hastened. He had “bad boy” written all over him. And she’d taken too many hard knocks to ever be much of a good girl.

  “Come on,” she said, kicking out a hip, plucking a deliberate smile from her arsenal. “Say you’ll do it.”

  Instead he said, “You don’t look much like Cal
lie.”

  Lori mentally threw her hands out sideways. He was right—Lori had her mother’s calendar girl curves and fair hair, while Callie was whippet-lean and dark, like their father—not that she had any intention of letting him score a single point.

  Not him. Not today.

  “Well, you don’t look much like a has-been rocker.”

  The words had spilled out before she could stop them. But he had her feeling itchy, not quite in control of her faculties, and she didn’t like it. Didn’t like him. And not only because of Jake, and the drive, and her poor beautiful ruined shoes—he was getting on her nerves just fine on his own.

  Not that he cared. If anything the guy seemed to uncurl from his position in the doorway, shifting closer, a compelling glint lighting his dark eyes. “Sisters from another mother?”

  “What? No! Same father, too, thank you very much.” Not that he was anything to brag about.

  Sensing things were slipping and sliding everywhere but toward the topic, Lori held out her hands, holding the guy at bay even while she couldn’t rightly say he’d moved.

  “I have no desire to waste your time,” she said, “even less mine. If you want me to go back and tell Callie it’s a flat no, I can do that. But I’ll give you a moment to imagine that sweet face, the kind, lovely face of the fiancée of your very good friend, downcast as her dream to serenade the man she loves is turned to dust. By you.”

  One eyebrow lifted at such a languorous pace Lori’s right leg began to jiggle.

  “Hard ball,” he murmured, the sound pouring over her in his deep voice.

  “Only way I know how to play.”

  “Mmm.” He breathed deep through his nose, as if swallowing another yawn.

  But then he braced both hands in the doorframe till he was very much into her personal space. The crisp, green scent of the forest was pervasive, but beneath that she caught the scent of warm, musky man.

  The urge to step back was a strong one. Nearly as strong as the urge to step in. Lori and her mud-caked heels held firm.

  Not that it made any difference. Dash hadn’t missed a trick. Shadows poured into his dark eyes as they roved to her mouth. To her temple where she could feel a flickering pulse. To the curve of her jaw which was held so tight it ached. Then back to her mouth.

  “Want to come in?” he asked.

  To say she was surprised was an understatement.

  Lori glanced pointedly at her watch as it was safer than glancing at any one of the wholly compelling parts of him. “No thanks. I have somewhere else to be. If I could have your email address, then you and Callie can—”

  But he was already padding away, deep into his dark cave of a house. Leaving the door wide open. “Are you going to leave your boyfriend in the car, or will we make a party of it?”

  “My—what? Mack’s not my boyfriend,” she said, hovering in the doorway. “He’s my driver.”

  Dash turned to walk backward, a shadow amongst shadows, and yet she caught the flash of a smile. A real smile. Holy moly.

  “I get a lot of work done when I’m in the car. Especially when I have to drive somewhere as far away from anywhere as this. And back,” she added, knowing she didn’t have to explain herself to him. Or shout, which she was forced to do as he disappeared from view.

  Throwing out her hands—for real this time—Lori looked back longingly at her warm, dry car and Mack who’d apparently decided she was safe enough that he’d wound the window up against the drizzle.

  In getting herself—and Callie—out of the Shady Maple trailer park in Fairbanks, Montana, all the way to two floors of offices in the heart of San Francisco with their designs splashed across every glamour magazine, gracing every major department store, and cutting red carpets across the country, taking no for an answer had never been an option. When everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was crumbling, she certainly wasn’t about to start doing so now.

  Gripping the pink envelope, Lori stepped over the threshold, shutting the door—and the rest of the world—behind her.

  Chapter Two

  Long before they founded Calliope Shoes on the back of Callie’s glorious designs and Lori’s indomitable ambition, Lori’s mission in life had been to do whatever it took to keep her sweet little sister happy. Still was.

  Which was why she followed where Dash Mills led.

  Through the dark foyer with its canted roof and criss-crossed beams, walls of coarse beige, and floors of roughly-hewn wood, she passed muddy shoes stacked haphazardly beneath an old worn bench and a bike that seemed held together with rust and headed toward the only source of light.

  Several steps led down to a large open space lit by a massive sky light above. A ladder led to some kind of loft to the left under which hung a red, white, and blue hammock where a dining table ought to have been. A trio of pinball machines held pride of place against the far wall.

  Ahead lay a huge kitchen, home to slabs of blond wood and cool striped aluminum siding. And through an open doorway to the right, the house seemed to go on and on.

  But, so far as she could see, there were no platinum records. No photos of Dash’s time with the band. No guitars or picks or sheet music lying about on random surfaces. She’d never been to Jake’s place, but Callie had shown her photos and it was filled to the brim with the minutiae of a musician’s life.

  “Coffee?”

  Lori followed the voice to find Dash staring into a huge silver fridge, airborne condensation lit by florescent light pouring over him as he ran a hand through his shaggy hair, only making it more rumpled.

  “Not for me,” she said.

  “Water?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Beer?”

  “It’s ten in the morning.”

  With a shrug of his big shoulders his mouth curved into a smile. A smile that made Lori wonder what the hell she’d been thinking following this man into his lair instead of, you know, not.

  But she was here now, and the smart thing to do would be to act like it was another business transaction. To state her case and make him agree to do what she wanted.

  She moved with purpose and pulled up one of the mismatched barstools at the island counter. Trying to ignore the ticking of her watch, she said, “If you’re making one for yourself, coffee would be great.”

  “How?”

  “Black.”

  “Like your heart?” he asked, a glint in his eyes.

  “Precisely.”

  A soft rumbling laugh, then, “Done.”

  The fridge shut with a soft snick, and Dash ambled over to man an industrial-sized espresso machine. No dinky plug in kettle for this guy. He unhooked a pair of mismatched mugs from a row of hooks on the sconce above and twirled them around on his pointer fingers like some kind of urban gunslinger.

  Realizing she was staring—at the hills and valleys of muscle at his waist where his T-shirt had hooked itself, at the back pocket of his jeans where a patch had been worn in by the size of his wallet, the same jeans under which she was pretty sure the guy was going commando—she thought she’d better make her case and get the hell out of there before she did something stupid. Like drool.

  “So, what do I have to do to convince you to write Callie her song?”

  He glanced at her, giving her a moment to reword the question. She let it hang.

  “Jake never told me she could sing,” he said.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Maybe not, but it’d sure help.”

  The idea that had flickered into her mind a few moments earlier flared brighter.

  Callie singing, all besotted eyes and off notes. Maybe it wouldn’t be awful, maybe it would be utterly adorkable. Exactly the kind of foolish moment that would prove Jake and Callie weren’t simply the stars of some sordid scandal—they were a charismatic rock star and a goofy, sweet, funny It-Girl, in love. Add a famous yet reclusive song-writer into the mix and…

  YouTube. Public declaration. Viral.

  The simpl
e beauty of the idea coalesced into a beautiful whole with such clarity and perfection Lori had to grip the counter so as not to fall out of her chair.

  She’d been so caught up in trying to convince everyone the story didn’t matter, that no matter what the designer did in her private life she still made fantastic shoes. But Callie’s shoes would always be works of art—that had never been under contention.

  It was the conversation that needed changing.

  The only thing a mob liked to gossip about more than an overachiever taking a tumble was a real life love story. And the fact that Lori didn’t believe for a second that it would last was beside the point. Wasn’t it?

  Dash chose that moment to shove the glass cup with the stainless steel handle under the water heating nozzle making it impossible to think. But the buzz remained.

  He added three heaped spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee and a great dollop of cream curled on top. She’d hate to think what that said about his heart.

  “I’ll pay,” she said, needing to get this thing stuck down. “What’s your fee? Ballpark. One song. Music only.”

  Dry as toast, he said, “You couldn’t afford me.”

  “Try me. What would it set us back?”

  “More than you earn in a year.”

  She sat up so straight her shoulder blades twanged. “Pretty presumptuous of you to assume how much I earn in a year.”

  “I know how much I do.”

  Lori glanced pointedly at his décor. There couldn’t have been a new piece of furniture in the place. Maybe he gambled. Maybe he drank. Maybe he was loose with his money, careless, hopeless…

  She felt a little let down by the thought, even while she told herself it had nothing to do with her. As far as she could tell, he was a single man with no family to keep in mind. He could eat his cash for breakfast if that’s what floated his boat.

  “Dash—”

  “What Callie seems to have skipped over is the fact that I no longer play. Or write. That’s not my life anymore.”

  Okay, so that explained the lack of musical accoutrements. But she wondered how a person went from being so deeply into something it took them ten times around the world to…not. No longer being the CEO of Calliope Shoes would be like walking down the street without her skin.