Читать книгу Her Last Temptation - Leslie Kelly - Страница 9

SIN HAD JUST WALKED INTO her bar and he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt.

Cat Sheehan paused midsentence, forgetting the conversation she’d been having with one of her customers. Forgetting everything. Because, Holy Mother Mary, a man who’d instantly set her heart pounding and her pulse racing was standing a few yards away, completely oblivious to her shocked stare.

He was tall. Very tall. And he had the kind of presence that immediately drew the attention of every person in the place—at least, every female person. Their gazes drifted over because of his size. They stayed because of his looks.

A strip of leather kept the man’s jet-black hair tied at the back of his neck in a short ponytail. A simple thing, that piece of leather, and she’d certainly seen men with longish hair and ponytails. But on him, well, the look was…rakish. That was the only word she could think of.

Cat liked rakes. Not that she’d ever met one for real, but she liked the ones she’d read about in her pirate romance novels.

A pirate. It fit. From the ponytail to the flash of silver glistening on the lobe of one ear to the aura of danger oozing from his body, this man had the pirate thing going in spades.

His classically handsome face was lean, a faint shadow of stubble adding a layer of ruggedness to his strong jaw. His lips briefly widened into a smile as he greeted someone. For a moment, Cat felt very sure the ground had trembled a bit under the power of his smile. Not to mention the mouth, which looked as if it had been created for the sole purpose of kissing.

His body was a living testament to the beauty of nature—broad at the shoulders, slim at the hips, with long legs covered in tight, faded jeans. His thick arms flexed, muscles bulging under the weight of the sizable guitar case he was carrying, though he hardly seemed to notice. Lifting it higher, he stepped deftly around tables and chairs, skirting the outstretched legs of the few patrons in the place.

He moved gracefully. Catlike.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. Cat definitely liked.

She never took her eyes off him as he approached. Then it sunk in. He was approaching her, Cat Sheehan, the woman standing here with her mouth only slightly less wide-open than her eyes.

Blinking, she gave her head a hard shake, then grabbed the nearest cloth she could reach and busied herself by wiping up some spilled beer.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

Cat barely registered the shrill words from somewhere nearby, because suddenly he was there. A thick, tanned forearm dropped to the surface of the bar, and she couldn’t help staring at his fingers. Long fingers. Artistic-looking. Perfect for a guitar player. Not to mention a lover.

“Wow,” the same female voice said, sounding subdued.

Swallowing hard, Cat slowly shifted her gaze, surveying his limb from fingertip to elbow, then the ninety-degree turn up the thick planes of his arm, the tight hem of the black cotton T-shirt. The broad shoulder. The hollow of his throat. The cords of his neck. Wow, indeed.

Then, oh, God, the face.

If Helen’s face had launched a thousand ships to the sea, surely this man’s could inspire ten thousand pairs of panties to drop to the floor.

Her legs wobbled, her knees knocking together loud enough to be heard over the sound of the jackhammer outside. But probably not loud enough to be heard over the pounding of her heart. Ordering herself to calm down, she slowed her breaths, mentally grabbing for control as she assessed the situation.

She was facing the most incredible man she’d ever seen—the kind of guy women fantasized about meeting for real, instead of on the pages of books or on giant screens in darkened movie theaters. One-hundred-percent pure sin.

Separating them were only the broad mahogany bar and Cat’s own resolution to change her ways and steer clear of sexy, dangerous men.

She should have known she didn’t have a snowball’s chance of keeping that resolution, though, honestly, she’d figured she could last a week. But no. It’d been only three days since they’d received the letter from the historical society and she’d made the stupid promise to herself. Of all the changes in her world since Tuesday—including the shockingly abrupt departure of Laine and Tess for far-flung adventures—she’d thought the ones she’d resolved to make in herself would be the easiest to deal with.

Uh, not.

A slow grin tilted the corners of the stranger’s lips up and he leaned closer. As he did so, his dark, intense eyes caught and reflected a reddish glimmer from one of the stained-glass light fixtures overhead.

Devilish. Dangerous. Off-limits.

Or so she tried to tell herself. But she suspected it was no use. Unless the guy had a hideous voice, he was altogether perfect. And since conversation wasn’t even on the top ten list of the things she’d been picturing doing with this man since the second she’d set eyes on him, she suspected it wouldn’t matter if he sounded like Roger Rabbit on speed.

“I think that’s her purse you’re using to clean up the spilled beer,” he said.

Velvet voice. Soft. Husky. As smooth and warm as their very best whiskey—the kind she kept hidden beneath the bar for special customers. She felt every word he spoke on each of the nerve endings in her body.

Doomed. The new, reformed Cat Sheehan was utterly doomed.

Then what he’d said sunk in and Cat looked down at her hand. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she said when she spied what she’d been using as a rag.

It was a small, cloth handbag belonging to a customer seated at the bar. Fortunately, the woman was one of their regulars, a bank teller named Julie. Even more fortunately, Julie was just as drooly-faced over the stranger as Cat, because she seemed to understand Cat’s lapse into hot-man-induced dementia.

“It’ll wash,” Julie mumbled.

The man plucked the damp purse from Cat’s limp fingers and handed it to its owner, giving her an intimate smile. “Maybe a drink on the house would help?”

Julie nodded dumbly. Cat was tempted to grab the woman’s left hand and flip it over to remind her of the big diamond ring she’d been flashing in here since her engagement to some salesman. But she couldn’t blame her. Engaged or not, any woman would look twice…or dozens of times…at a man like this one.

Then he turned his attention back to Cat. His full, unwavering attention. “Hi. I’m your entertainment,” he finally said, his voice low and intimate though she’d swear laughter danced behind his eyes.

“You’re very good,” she replied matter-of-factly.

A dimple flashed in one of his lean cheeks. “You haven’t seen what I can do yet.”

“Wild guess,” she mumbled, her mind filling with possibilities of just what he could do. She had to give herself credit—only half were X-rated. Well, maybe sixty percent.

“You won’t have to wait for long to find out,” he said, his tone as suggestive as her words had been.

Oh, boy, did that set her heart flip-flopping in her chest.

Her expression must have given away her thoughts. His brown eyes darkened to near black and he leaned closer, both elbows now resting on the bar. “You sure you’re gonna be able to handle it?”

She raised a challenging brow. “You think you’re that good? That you can’t be handled?”

“I’ve been known to shake the walls when I get going.”

Cat grabbed the edge of the bar to steady herself and took a deep breath. She should walk away, ignore the comment, pretend she’d misunderstood.

She did none of the above. Instead, even though she knew she shouldn’t step farther into the fire, she threw a spark right back at the solid stick of dynamite watching her with promise in his eyes. “I’ve been known to rattle a few walls myself.”

His cocky grin faded and his jaw tightened a bit. Tie game. She’d definitely gotten under his skin, just as he had hers. Then he managed, “So you play, too?”

“Not lately,” she admitted.

Nope, she hadn’t played with a man in a very long time. Not since last year, when she’d briefly dated a rodeo cowboy, whose lack of finesse in the saddle had been equaled only by his lack of staying power.

He’d lasted about three-and-a-half minutes. They’d lasted about three-and-a-half dates.

“What instrument?” he asked.

The words, “a thick, eight-inch one is my preference,” came to mind, but she bit back the reply. This game had gotten a bit too reckless for a woman who’d sworn off guys with trouble written all over them. This one was the absolute Yellow Pages of trouble. “Um…”

“I somehow see you as a sax woman.”

Her mouth dropped open. She was definitely a sex woman, which she was being reminded of with every passing second. But, lord, he’d skipped right past the subtle innuendo, hadn’t he?

“Or maybe clarinet?”

Her brow shot up. “You mean we were talking about musical instruments?”

“Of course.” He managed to pull off a look of such complete innocence that Cat began to believe she really had misread their conversation. “What else would we have been talking about?”

Feeling heat rise in her face, she opened her mouth, then closed it, wondering how to gracefully back out of this enormous foot-in-mouth moment. She was about to tell him she was a virtuoso on the kazoo when she saw his shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.

“Dog,” she muttered, laughing even as she shook her head in admiration of how well he’d played her.

“Cat,” he replied.

“Yes. Cat Sheehan.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Interesting. He knew who she was. Which left her at a disadvantage. “And you are…?”

He paused, a frown pulling at his brow so briefly she almost missed it. Then he admitted, “Call me Spence.”

She’d rather call him guy-destined-to-be-naked-in-her-bed-by-midnight.

Not happening, she reminded herself. This is supposed to be the new you.

The new her might be trying to call the shots in the brain. But the old Cat—the hungry one whose entire body was sparking in reaction to this stranger named Spence—had control of everything from the neck down. Especially the, uh, softest parts.

Still, even the old, reckless Cat had never done the one-night stand thing. Despite what her sister might imagine, Cat wasn’t that danger-loving. With a man like this one, however, she was beginning to understand the illicit allure of a bar hookup.

“Hi, Spence. Welcome to Temptation,” she finally said.

“I like that.”

“What?”

“Temptation.”

Ooooh…definitely her kinda guy.

“I also liked the sign over your front door.”

She instantly knew which one he meant—the hand-painted sign inviting those outside to Enter Into Temptation. She’d thought up the logo three years ago when she and Laine had taken over the bar from their mother, changing the name from Sheehan’s Pub to Temptation. “Thanks. Seemed appropriate.”

“I just didn’t realize it was going to be quite so prophetic,” he added, his tone husky.

She got his meaning instantly. He was every bit as tempted as she was. A long, shuddery breath escaped her lips. Unable to do much more than breathe and stand still, she stared at him. Right into those fathomless eyes.

He stared right back, just as intently, neither of them laughing or flirting any longer. They said nothing, yet exchanged a wealth of information. In twenty seconds they covered the basics—yes, they were both interested, and, yes, they were both aware of each other’s interest. But it went deeper…they each knew that they could play games or do away with them right now. Because the palpable attraction made something happening between them inevitable.

They all but named the time and place.

Then his lips—God, those lips—parted, and he drew in a long, slow breath of air. His lids lowered slightly, half closing over his eyes, drawing her attention to his long, spiky black lashes. Visceral pleasure accompanied his inhalation, and she realized what he was doing.

Smelling her perfume. Inhaling it. Savoring it. Gaining sensual pleasure from the aroma of her skin.

Dangerous. Oh, he was dangerous. Because he was so damned appealing. A man who appreciated a woman’s scent would appreciate so many other delightful things, wouldn’t he? Tastes, touches, sensations.

Her pulse raced as the thick, heady silence dragged on, in spite of the cacophony all around them. At some point, she noted Julie pushing away and getting off her stool, until Cat and Spence were the only two people in this small corner of the bar.

Surrounded by others, but completely alone.

Cat hesitated as a sensation of déjà vu washed over her. How many times had she stood in this room, filled with chattering people—customers, family, friends—and felt that exact sensation of being alone, separated? It felt as if the world was moving all around her but she was frozen for one moment in time, looking at her life and wondering if she really was traveling the same path as everyone else. Because she so rarely felt in step with anyone.

Only now, in this timeless instant when she wondered just where she belonged and where she was going, she wasn’t completely by herself. This dark-haired stranger was right there with her.

“Cat?” he asked, obviously sensing her confusion.

She blinked rapidly and shook her head, shaking off not only the strange sensation, but also the intensity of the moment. Forcing herself to focus, she shifted her gaze away, toward a customer who’d just taken a seat at the far end of the bar. She stepped over to him, trying to convince herself she had to get back to work when, in truth, she needed a chance to regain her sanity.

“The usual?” she said to the guy in the brown sport coat, a Friday night regular who liked his women easy and his martinis dirty.

He nodded. “If you can…spare the time,” he said with a truly amused grin, probably having heard the quiver in her voice.

Behind her, she heard a long, low chuckle. As throaty and sensuous as every word Spence had spoken.

She deserved the reaction. She’d looked away first, losing their silent game of chicken, shocking even herself. Cat didn’t remember the last time that had happened to her.

Being disconcerted around a man was something she had seldom experienced. Cat Sheehan had been able to hold her own with men since the tenth grade when she’d started busing tables at the family bar. She’d sassed the old-timers, ducked away from grabby strangers and eventually chosen her first lover from among the Saturday night regulars.

Never before had a man taken the upper hand from her—unless she’d wanted him to. This guy with his jet-black hair and his badass grin and his big, hard guitar had done it with a stare.

Which was why, after she’d served Mr. Sport Coat his martini, she was having such a hard time thinking of a single thing to say to the still-staring musician. How could she even try to explain away that silence as something other than what they both knew damn well it had been?

An invitation. A challenge. A promise. None of which she had any business accepting.

But oh, how tempting it was to consider it.

Good Lord, no wonder she was having a hard time coming up with any kind of response—much less a sassy comeback. Cat felt completely at a loss for words. Continuing the flirtation would be reinforcing her implied acceptance of every wicked thing he’d suggested with his eyes.

Ending it might just kill her.

He finally spared her by steering the conversation into neutral territory. “I do have the right place, don’t I? You’re expecting the Four G’s?”

The Four G’s…she instantly remembered the band from Tremont—the next town over—which she’d hired for this weekend’s live entertainment. Of course he’s with the band, idiot. Isn’t he carrying a guitar case? She cleared her throat and nodded. “Uh, yes, definitely the right place. I’m…we’re…glad to have you here.”

Oh, yeah, she’d be glad to have him all right. Upstairs in her apartment. On the swing in the back garden.

Hell, on top of the bar might be nice.

Cat thrust the mental picture out of her head, promising herself she’d lay off the romance novels. And the occasional late-night blue movies on cable. And the erotic fantasies during her middle-of-the-night bubble baths. Because she had obviously become a sex-starved maniac.

She did have to give herself a little bit of a break. After all, it’d been a year since she’d had even bad sex. As for good sex? Whew, she wasn’t sure she could remember when that had last happened. Which had to explain why she wanted this guy like a woman on the South Beach Diet wanted a baked potato. With fries on the side.

“Thanks. We were glad to get the call.” Spence smiled, a cocky half smile that said he knew what she’d been doing—trying to act nonchalant and not quite succeeding. “Though it looks like a small audience.”

“What, are you kidding?” she asked, glancing around the room, where at least twenty people sat at the usually empty tables. “This is a crowd for us, lately. As close to wall-to-wall as we’ve seen since they tore up the nearest intersection, banned on-street parking, and set up a horrendous detour.”

Obviously hearing her disgust, he said, “You sound like you definitely need some entertainment this weekend.”

Oh, he had no idea how much she needed entertainment. Or maybe he did. His tiny grin told her they were flirting again. This time—maybe because he’d let her regain her equilibrium with small talk about the bar—Cat felt more able to handle it. “I’m a little particular in how I get my…entertainment.”

“Oh? Anything you’d care to share?”

Licking her lips, she did a classic blond hair toss—which she’d learned around the age of three—and reached for a martini shaker. She splashed a generous amount of vodka into it, dirtied it up with a splash of olive juice, then poured it for the guy at the end of the bar, knowing by the look in his eye that he was ready for another.

“I don’t think so,” she said when she returned her attention to Spence.

He shook his head. “Too bad. So I guess I’ll just have to do my stuff for everyone else in the room.”

“I somehow suspect the women in this place are going to like seeing you do your stuff,” she replied, her tone dry.

“I somehow suspect I won’t care what any other woman thinks.”

Cat nibbled her bottom lip, seeing an expression that somehow resembled tenderness cross his face. As if he were no longer flirting, but being entirely serious. Which was ridiculous, considering they’d known each other all of a half hour.

She shook off the feeling. “They’ll be a good audience, since you’re here at their request. I asked the loyal regulars who’ve been sticking it out through the road construction to vote on what they wanted for the last few weekends we’re open. Two of the three are strictly country and western, but this weekend Temptation is all about rock and roll, and you guys came highly recommended.”

“Lucky me.” Straightening, he lifted his guitar case off the floor and looked toward the door, where another guitar-carrying musician was entering. “Guess I’d better go.”

He was going to be across the room, but for some silly reason she almost missed him. Maybe it was because she knew in a few minutes he would be the property of every on-the-make woman in the place. “Want me to send over a drink to keep your pipes wet?”

He nodded. “Just water, if you don’t mind.”

He started to walk away, then paused and looked back. Nodding toward something on the wall behind her, he lowered his voice and said, “By the way…not me. And hopefully not you.”

She was still puzzling over the remark after he’d reached the stage. Then, finally, she realized what he’d been talking about. Swiveling on her heel, she looked up at the sign above the bar. It had been hand-painted by the same artist who’d done the one out front, as well as the murals in the back hallway.

Though Spence’s answer had brought up a number of complications, the sign posed a simple question.

Who can resist Temptation?

DYLAN SPENCER HAD FALLEN madly in love twice in his life.

The first time had been at age seven when he’d been introduced to his ultimate destiny: the greatest form of music ever created. He’d been visiting his grandparents’ house in New England for the holidays and one of his older cousins had gotten a Van Halen album for Christmas. It had been love at first riff.

The year had been 1985 and the record had been 1984 and Dylan had decided then and there that bass player Michael Anthony had been touched by God.

Dylan had been completely enthralled. His parents—who never listened to anything that didn’t feature fat Italian opera singers—had not been. Particularly when they’d caught Dylan entertaining all the neighborhood kids with a rousing, nearly R-rated rendition of “Hot For Teacher.”

Thinking they could steer his love for music, and encourage his rather amazing natural musical abilities, they’d signed him up for piano lessons.

He’d been kicked out when he’d broken into Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” during an end-of-the-year recital.

By ten he was air guitaring his way through life. By twelve, after five years of relentless begging, he had his own real bass guitar and it had been practically glued to his hands ever since.

Yeah. Rock and roll had been his first experience with instant obsession.

Cat Sheehan had been his second.

Throughout the evening, while he stayed perfectly in sync with his bandmates, putting his all into the music, he kept at least part of his attention on her. The woman who’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.

Cat wasn’t hard to keep track of—she definitely stood out. From here, behind the glare of the small spotlights, her long golden hair looked almost silver. Occasionally, she’d smooth it back off her cheek with one graceful lift of her finger, so that it framed her perfect face.

He wasn’t close enough to focus on the deep, ocean-green of her eyes. But he definitely watched the graceful movements of her slim body, clad in tight-as-sin jeans and a sleeveless white tank top. Also tight. Also sinful.

Working the bar as if she’d been born behind it, Cat didn’t even have to look at the labels of the bottles from which she poured. Her hand never faltered as she made any drink ordered. She moved with a dancer’s grace, able to pull a draft of beer off the tap, circle around and set it down in front of a customer in one long, fluid movement a ballerina would envy.

Chatting easily with everyone, she smiled often—that dazzling smile taking his breath away from all the way across the room. At one point, he even thought he heard her throaty laugh over all the other noise in the place. The sound was distinct because of the reaction it caused in him—instant awareness. Instant hunger. Instant heat.

She affected him like the music affected him.

Deeply. Intimately. Physically.

But it wasn’t just that. He liked hearing the laugh and seeing the smile because they countered the weariness in her brow and the slight slump of her shoulders, which he’d noticed as soon as they’d started talking earlier. He didn’t know what was troubling Cat. But he planned to find out.

“This place is wild,” Josh Garrity yelled from the other side of the small stage. The crowd was roaring its approval at the end of their second set. If the walls weren’t still shaking from the Aerosmith song they’d just finished, they were from the applause. “You think they’ll let us take a real break this time, Spence?”

Dylan nodded as he carefully put his beloved Fender back into its case and turned off his Voodoo amp. Josh played guitar and sang lead most of the time; Dylan was on bass, doing some of the vocalizations, as well. But it seemed as if all the songs the crowd had been yelling for were Dylan’s and his throat was now almost raw. “If they don’t, neither one of us is going to have any voice left at all.”

Nodding, Josh waved at the audience, which had swelled in size over the past few hours until every table was taken. “Stay, drink, be patient. We’ll be back in twenty,” he shouted into the microphone, trying to be heard over the applause and whistles.

The audience cheered a bit more, but since the band members were already putting their instruments down, they gradually quieted. The typical mad race for the restrooms and fresh rounds quickly got underway. As did the pickup conversations going on between the hopeful single guys and their prospects.

“The place isn’t the only thing that’s wild,” their drummer Jeremy said as he lowered his drumsticks and rose from his stool. “The brunette in the jean miniskirt who was sitting at the table closest to the stage wasn’t wearing any underwear.” He shook his head. “It was like she wanted me to see…everything.”

Seeing the shock on Jeremy’s face, Dylan hid a jaded grin. Jeremy, Josh’s younger brother, was their newest member, a baby-faced nineteen-year-old. Jeremy hadn’t yet realized that rock-and-roll groupies didn’t always limit their adulation to the famous groups who were household names. Sometimes local bands—like theirs—had their own fan bases. The familiar faces in tonight’s crowd certainly bore that out.

That was one of the drawbacks to the business, as far as Dylan was concerned. He played for his own pleasure, his own release. He had never been interested in the fans or the lifestyle or any of the garbage that went along with it. He just liked to head-bang on occasion. Which was probably why he’d never gone any further with his music than to small places like this, in small Texas towns.

“So, you gonna go over and talk to her or just keep staring at her like some lovesick mutt?”

Dylan jerked his attention toward Billy Banks, the final member of their four-man group, who wailed like a madman on the keyboard. Banks was grinning that sardonic grin of his, brown eyes sparkling behind the wire-framed glasses he wore to give himself the appearance of an intellectual rock and roller. He liked to think of himself as the Lennon of their group.

The women seemed to like it, too. Between Banks’s brainy persona and deep-rooted mischievous streak, Jeremy’s fresh-faced innocence, Josh’s breezy surfer style and Dylan’s own long-haired rebel thing, they had a regular stream of females ready to keep them company whenever they desired it.

Dylan hadn’t desired it. Not in a long time.

But Banks sure had, which wasn’t surprising. Ever since they’d met at freshman orientation in college, where they’d been the two youngest people in the room, Billy Banks had proved himself to be two things: woman-crazy and the best, most loyal friend Dylan had ever had.

“Well? You going over? You’ve been eyeing her all night.”

“You’re seeing things,” Dylan mumbled, choosing to pretend he didn’t know what the guy was talking about.

“Oh, come on, man, I thought you were gonna short out the sound system because the mike was getting so wet with your drool every time you looked at that blond bartender.”

“Bite me.”

Banks smirked. “You oughtta save that line for her.”

Shooting Banks—who was as close to him as a brother—a look that threatened bodily injury, Dylan walked to the rear of the stage to amp everything down.

Banks soon crouched beside him to help. “She is totally hot,” he said, sounding contrite. Definitely out of character for Banks, who never regretted anything he did.

Dylan hesitated for one second, wondering how much to reveal. Finally, between clenched teeth, he admitted the truth. “She’s Cat Sheehan.”

Banks jerked so hard he almost fell on his ass. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. When Dylan confirmed the truth of his words with a nod, Banks emitted a long, low whistle. “The Cat woman herself, huh?”

Dylan nodded again, knowing he didn’t have to say anything more. Banks knew all about Cat. He was probably the only one who knew the entire truth about Dylan’s relationship with the blonde.

The one-sided relationship that had been going on for several years now.

“Did you know she’d be here?”

He shook his head. “I recognized the building when I pulled up outside. Her family used to own the place. But the name’s changed. I figured she was long gone.”

Banks nodded. “Did she know who you were?”

No. She hadn’t. Which still slightly burned him. But he didn’t want Banks to know that. So he shrugged in disinterest. “We’ve barely spoken.”

Banks merely smirked, the sorry son of a bitch, knowing Dylan much too well to be fooled by that. Then he looked over Dylan’s shoulder, toward the other side of the bar, nodding as he sought out Cat. “So you finally have your shot,” he murmured. “Your dream girl has been looking at you all night like she needs a sugar fix and you’re a giant Tootsie Roll.”

Banks’s words brought some intense images to mind and he had to busy his hands winding cable to keep them from shaking. “You’re imagining things,” he said. “She’s barely paid attention to us at all.”

Banks let out a bark of laughter that caused several people standing nearby to glance over in curiosity. “Man, you are losing it if you didn’t see the way that girl kept her eyes glued to you. Except every time you looked in her direction—then she turned away right quick.”

Okay, it was possible. He and Cat had shared a sexy, flirtatious conversation before the rest of the band had shown up. There had been some definite spark, a genuine intensity between them.

A lazy smile widened his lips at the memory. He had never fallen into such instant sync with anyone before. And he’d certainly never been so completely affected by a woman before—at least, not in his adult life. Even now, nearly two hours later, he could still smell the warm, sultry aroma of her perfume and hear her throaty laugh.

“She’s yours for the taking,” Banks added. “You can finally have what you always wanted.”

Dylan was shaking his head even before Banks finished his ridiculous statement. His friend was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Cat might be interested now. Judging by the heat-filled moments they’d shared earlier, he’d say she probably was.

Didn’t matter. Because the minute she found out his true identity, the spark would fade, the intensity would disappear and his chances along with it. He knew it. Knew it like he knew his own guitar.

She was interested in Spence, the bass-playing rock and roller with a strut and a sneer and a cocky-as-hell attitude. Which was pretty funny, come to think of it, in a you-poor-sorry-sucker way. Because the man she was attracted to didn’t exist. He was a phantom. A facade. A fictional character.

In truth, Dylan Spencer was a complete and utter fraud.