He's a sexy suit who gets what he wants.
Kevan Landry is trying to keep her life on track and her brother in rehab. If her fledgling marketing firm can sign the hot new band, Manix Curse, it will make a world of difference. Mason Dillon heads the most successful music PR firm in Portland. He's desperate to breathe new life into the company by signing Manix Curse.
The last thing either one needs is a one-night stand with a smoldering stranger...
The stakes are high when a battle for the band-in the bedroom and the boardroom-becomes a battle of the heart. But if these two can set aside their differences, they may find they're the right mix of sexy savvy to conquer both their worlds.
Taking a deep breath, the warm air filling her lungs, Kevan smiled weakly at her reflection, ditching thoughts of loan payments, past-due rent, and rehab costs. Tonight was about finding a solution to her problems and calming the chaos swirling around in her life. Signing her first on-the-rise band would give her a chance, and she would fight like hell to save her fledgling business and keep her brother in rehab.
Kevan exited the restroom, intent on finding Joe. As she scanned the room for the older, gray-haired man, she stepped forward and looked down as her foot caught on a tear in the thinning carpet. She lurched forward, arms flailing and grasping for purchase.
Frickin’ shoes. They were too damn high. But so cute, and they made her legs and ass look amazing…or so she’d been told.
Her cheek collided with something solid. She lifted her chin and met the whiskey-colored eyes of Mr. Hot Businessman. Her heart raced, and her breath quickened. When he swept his tongue across his full bottom lip, it glistened the way his eyes did, and she nearly stopped breathing altogether. His large hand fanned across her lower back, a single finger resting above her waistband.
What a cliché. Only she would nearly fall into a mysterious stranger’s lap.
Kevan clutched the fine material of the man’s pressed shirt. His tailored suit looked like it easily cost more than the monthly rent on her tiny apartment. Her fingers rested on the hard muscle of his chest, reminding her more of a solid wall than a man’s body. Time suddenly felt frozen as his hot breath feathered against her cheek and she noticed the thick, dark lashes and soft crinkle of laugh lines around his eyes. The man was hot, definitely. But there was kindness mixed with the darkness in his calmly amused expression.
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I won’t let you fall.” His voice was a low drawl dripping honey and sex.
For a heartbeat, she wished his reassuring words meant more than they did. They were like sandpaper and silk smoothing her jagged nerves and carried over the thumping of the club’s music. All bass…matching her increasing heart rate from the reassuring grip of the breathtaking man’s hold on her. A woman could lose herself in those mesmerizing dark eyes. A woman could forget he wasn’t her type. For a minute, a woman could, but shouldn’t, imagine a white picket fence with a man like him.
Shifting her feet, Kevan cleared her mind of the fall-induced tunnel vision clouding her head. “Thanks for saving me from total embarrassment,” she said, her face heating to the point of fever. She hoped her words got lost in the loud club. But, of course, that wasn’t her luck, was it? Righting herself, she tugged her crinoline skirt straight and looked around.
They weren’t alone. They were in a crowded club surrounded by dancing bodies, pickup lines, and bleak desperation wrapped up in combat boots, skimpy clothes, and copious amounts of sweat. And the ridiculously handsome man with the angular chin and firm grip on her waist was not Kevan’s date, nor was he some kind of modern-day Prince Charming. He was a polite man who happened to catch her—a career klutz—before she fell on her face.
“My pleasure, Ms…?” His deep voice dragged out the words as if expecting her to offer her name. And still, he didn’t remove his hand from her waist. Instead, he brought her hand to his lips, almost delicately, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.
Oh. My. God. Who the hell does that anymore?
His soft lips caressed her hand in a simple, old-fashioned action, but jolts of desire shot from where his mouth lingered, down her arm, through taut nipples, and straight to her sad and lonely sex.
This man was not safe.
The man’s middle name has to be Sexgod. Holy mother.
“Kevan Landry,” she mumbled before her brain kicked in and had a chance to reconsider.
About Kasey Lane
Award-winning author Kasey Lane writes sexy romances featuring music, hot guys with ink, kick ass women, and always a happily ever after. A California transplant, she lives with her high school crush turned husband, two smart, but devilish kids, two dumb-as-rocks Papillons, and a bunch of bossy chickens in the lush Oregon forest. Visit her at www.kaseylane.com or on Twitter at @authorkaseylane where you’ll find her swearing too much and talking about the San Jose Sharks, tattoos, and Jack White.
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