“Maybe you are exactly what I want,” I argued. “And for the record, I’m quite pleased at this turn of events.”
She sighed, tucking another stray curl behind her ear. A nervous tell perhaps? My fingers twitched, wanting to do it for her.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Mr. Logan?”
“Jace. And as long as the chase ends with you agreeing to have dinner with me tonight, then yes, let’s.”
Her lips quirked again, but her facial expression remained otherwise impassive. Except for her eyes. Dark and expressive, they flashed with something I hadn’t yet learned to decipher.
She spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “I’m not your type. I’m well past the nubile rock-chick stage.”
I chuckled at her soft dig. Yes, she definitely was all woman. “I like mature women.”
She snorted, an unexpected and strangely attractive noise. “I am not mature. Just ask my kids. I’m middle-aged. There’s a difference.”
I leaned forward in a slight bow. “I stand corrected.”
My words were more tongue-in-cheek, spoken only with the intention of playing along. She didn’t look remotely close to what I considered middle-aged. In fact, I’d guess she was younger than me, and I did not think of myself as middle-aged, thank you very much.
I’d never had a woman so intent on building a case for why I shouldn’t go out with her. The idea that she had kids niggled though. Not because I didn’t love kids—I did—but because it suggested a man in her life.
Was she married? I didn’t think so. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and a quick perusal of her tastefully decorated office displayed pictures of two very handsome boys, identical twins by the look of it, at different ages and engaged in various activities. But no men.
I exhaled quietly, unaware that I’d been holding my breath, and focused on her again.
She had lovely hair, luminescent gold on top and deep cherry red underneath. It was probably the only thing about her that wasn’t one hundred percent natural, but the effect was striking. It cascaded in loose, billowy curls down her back, held in place by a large clip at the base of her neck, except for those rebellious strands she kept tucking back.
I stuck my hands into my jean pockets when they began to twitch again. I wondered if her hair was as silky as it looked or what it would feel like while splayed across my naked chest. Or better yet, my thighs ...
Now my cock throbbed, reminding me of its vested interest. She was loosening up, and unfortunately for her, I found playful Eva even more attractive than professional Eva. A new lightness took up in my chest. She was playing with me. Christ, I liked this woman.
And I was going to kiss her. I knew that for a fact.
“So ... dinner?”
“You are persistent, Mr. Logan; I’ll give you that.”
“Jace. Is it working?”
“No.”
“Damn. Looks like I’m going to have to bring out the big guns.”
She cocked an eyebrow and waited.
“Please.”
She smiled, really smiled, and it lit up her entire face. “That’s it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t usually have to resort to such extreme measures.”
I’d meant it as a joke, but her smile faded as quickly as it’d come. She turned her attention away from me again. It was as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun, darkening my world.
When she turned sideways like that, it was right there, that fleeting flicker of recognition on the edge of my memory. I had seen her before. The delicate features were so familiar; I felt it spark deep in my chest. Yet I was quite sure we had never met before this morning.
“Don’t you feel it?” I asked.
“Feel what, Mr. Logan? Annoyed?”
“No. This connection between us. I felt it the moment I saw you. We’ve just met, but I feel like I know you.” I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but this woman, she was eliciting all sorts of atypical behavior from me.
Feeling a diversion was in order, I stepped over to the side and poured myself a glass of fruit-infused ice water from the tabletop dispenser.
I thought I was in the clear until she dismissively waved her hand and said, “You’re just horny. You’ll say anything to get laid.”
I choked mid-swallow. “What makes you think I’m horny?”
“Aren’t you?” She pinned me with an accusatory glance that dared me to contradict her.
“Well, yes, but that’s beside the point,” I admitted, ignoring the triumphant flash in her eyes. How quickly the tables had turned. “Why do you think I am?”
I resisted the urge to look down and see if my hard-on—the one she had inspired—was visible. I didn’t think so, but it had been an issue since I met her. One whiff of that delicious feminine scent, and I had been done for.
She ticked off the reasons on her slim, elegant fingers. “Because, one, you’re a male in your prime. And two, because you’re a rock star. Everyone knows male rock stars are like rutting bucks in heat. No offense,” she added afterward, only then seeming to realize she might have said something she shouldn’t have.
“None taken,” I mumbled.
I supposed I should have taken some offense, but the bald truth was that she was right—about most famous musicians, that was. Not me. Sure, I had an image, one that sold a lot of music and kept the venues packed, but that was all it was—an image, and one that she and Backstage Pass enthusiastically promoted. The downside was, she had no way of knowing that wasn’t the real me.
What bothered me more than the words was the way she’d said them, without the heat or judgment that should have accompanied them. Instead of sounding angry, she’d spoken matter-of-factly, as if she were reciting facts about the Constitution or explaining the way a kitchen appliance worked to a moron.
In a flash of insight, I realized that such acceptance usually came from life experience. I wondered who the dickhead was that had done a number on her. Probably a musician, like me. It would explain a lot, including why she preferred hiding in the shadows and letting Ross take all the credit.
“Of course,” she continued, “I suppose it would be hard not to be when you have women throwing themselves at you all the time. You’d have to have the will of a saint to resist all that temptation.” She paused, doing that adorable head-tilt thing again. “I bet you’ve slept with thousands of women, haven’t you?”
I blinked, taken aback by the direct boldness of her question. Thousands? No, not likely. Flattering though.
She nodded, interpreting my lack of immediate denial as confirmation. As if that was exactly what she’d expected, she turned and went back to pulling papers from neatly stacked boxes atop her desk.
Her easy dismissal bothered me. Sure, at one time, I’d been blinded by the fame and the money and the women, but I’d been young. Things were different now. It wasn’t like I got it up for just anybody. I’d become quite discerning in the last decade or so.
If she knew that she was the first woman I’d wanted to take out in years, she might be flattered. No way she’d believe me if I told her that now though. She’d already lumped me in with all the other stereotypical rock front men. That was something I was going to rectify.