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“Who’s the new guy, Sam?” Ireland asked, unable to take her eyes off the stage.
“He’s a guest of the hotel.”
“No.” The man was accomplished, his performance masterful.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, boss. He’s been here a week. Came down a few days ago with his trumpet and talked to the band for a bit. They invited him to jam and now it’s a thing. Every night he comes down for an hour or so, plays and sings sometimes, too. The ladies love him.”
“I bet.” Ireland studied the man more closely. His clothes were clearly custom-made, tailored specifically for his tall, strong frame. The watch on his wrist with its cognac leather band was expensive, while the sharp, talon-like tips of a tribal tattoo crept from beneath the edge of his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He was savagely alluring masculinity wrapped in wealth. Assured in his posture and skilled with his instrument. The dichotomy of his vitally aggressive attractiveness and the melancholic way he played the jazz standard “Nature Boy” was a shock to the senses.
Abruptly, he looked up and caught her gaze. Held it without blinking for a heartbeat, then another. A frisson of awareness arced between them like an electric current.
She was aware of him in the most primal sense. Drawn to him so powerfully she fought taking a step toward him. It was a visceral attraction. And she didn’t like it at all.
