A note from the editor…

Well, this is it—the last month of Harlequin Temptation. We’ve had a good run, but everybody knows that all good things have to end sometime. And you have to admit, Temptation is very, very good….

When we celebrated our twentieth anniversary last year, we personified the series as a twenty-year-old woman. She was young, legal (well, almost) and old enough to get into trouble. Well, now that she’s twenty-one and officially legal, she’s leaving home. And she’s going to be missed.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the countless number of authors who have given me, and other Harlequin Temptation editors past and present, so many hours of enjoyable reading. They made working at Harlequin an absolute pleasure.

I’d also like to thank our loyal readers for all their support over the past twenty-one years. Never forget—you are the reason we all do what we do. (Check out the back autograph section if you don’t believe me.)

But this doesn’t have to be the end….

Next month Harlequin Blaze increases to six books, and will be bringing the best of Harlequin Temptation along with it. Look for more books in THE WRONG BED, 24 HOURS and THE MIGHTY QUINNS miniseries. And don’t miss Blazing new stories by your favorite Temptation authors. Drop in at tryblaze.com for details.

It’s going to be a lot of fun. I hope you can join us.

Brenda Chin

Associate Senior Editor

Temptation/Blaze

Cat had decided to seduce Dylan about one minute after she’d learned he was a drifter

Soon. Immediately. Tonight.

Actually, she’d been toying with the idea from the moment she’d met Dylan’s stare across the crowded bar. Something had happened—something electrifying and emotional and completely unexpected. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that this thing building between them was destined to happen. In that moment it had risen above the sexual want they’d been dancing around since Friday night and had suddenly become…more.

Thank heaven she hadn’t told anybody else about her new plans for herself and her life, because they’d think her crazy. The truth about Dylan’s situation might have made her run screaming in the opposite direction if she’d already succeeded in her transformation from the reckless Cat to the mature responsible one.

Luckily, that hadn’t happened yet. Besides, a girl could take on only so much at once, right? Saying goodbye to the family bar, Temptation, was quite enough all by itself, without throwing virtual celibacy into the mix.

So for now, Cat Sheehan was going to enjoy the hell out of Temptation…and temptation. With a man who epitomized the word.

Her Last Temptation
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I hate saying goodbye. Whether it’s hugging a loved one I seldom see after an all-too-brief visit or packing up my Christmas decorations wondering how the holidays could be over already—or even finishing a book populated by people I’ve come to care about—I find myself getting down with every farewell.

This one is especially tough. I love Harlequin Temptation, and knowing I won’t be seeing those sassy red-covered books on the store shelves every month makes me very sad.

As a reader, I stumbled onto Harlequin Temptation back in the early nineties and read them avidly. So selling my very first book to my favorite line was a dream come true. I never imagined that a short six years later I’d be writing the last Temptation novel to be published in North America.

This book was truly a work of love. I and the other authors in this last month wanted to create a suitable tribute to the line that has sparked the careers of so many popular romance writers of today—and the line that has forged such a tight bond of friendship between its authors. So as you read the books, you might stumble across some familiar names…and yes, there are definitely some inside jokes. After all, Harlequin Temptation has always been about having fun and being just a little bit naughty.

I sincerely hope Her Last Temptation is worthy of standing beside all the marvelous Temptation stories that preceded it. And on behalf of all the Temptresses, thank you very much for your support and your enthusiasm. It’s been a true pleasure entertaining you.

Best wishes always,

Leslie Kelly

To the Temptresses of the past who inspired me.

And to the Temptresses of today who have given me

some of the greatest friendships of my life.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Autographs

Prologue

IF SOMEBODY STARTED singing that Little Orphan Annie song about the sun coming out tomorrow, Cat Sheehan was gonna hurl. Or run screaming into the street, pulling her hair out and kicking every road construction worker she came across right where it counted. Or maybe just wail to the sky, let the tears she’d never let drip from her eyes fall where they may, and face what she did not want to face.

Her uncertain future. Worse…the negation of her past.

She, her sister and their two best friends were practically alone in their bar, Temptation, shell-shocked by the letter they’d received from the historical society. Their plea to have their building designated a historical landmark—saving it from demolition by the city—had been rejected.

There was no sun. No tomorrow. Sure as hell no Daddy Warbucks. Nobody was coming to save them from the bureaucratic crime that allowed the city to shut them down after twenty-one years just because some newer businesses in higher tax brackets had enough clout to demand an unnecessary road widening.

“It’s over,” she said, still not believing it herself. “I knew those biddies from the historical society would reject us.”

She hadn’t really been talking to the others. More to the world in general, if for no other reason than to distribute some of the pain that had landed on her shoulders with a bit more equity.

Seeing everyone else looking at her, Cat busied herself behind the bar, making their signature drink, the Cosmopolitan. Cat and Laine had chosen it as a joke three years ago when they’d taken over the bar from their mom, because Kendall was about as uncosmopolitan as any dusty little Texas town could be.

It was only after she realized she’d forgotten to put any liquid in the shaker—which contained only ice—that she acknowledged how shaken up she was. She quickly corrected the situation, going heavy on the vodka.

Then, because everybody seemed to be waiting for her to say something—or else explode—she added quite mildly, she thought—“The city wants a new road, so we’re out. Did you really think we’d change anything tonight?”

Passing out the drinks, she eyed the three other women, waiting for the “it’ll be okays” to start. Laine appeared on the verge of tearing up; Gracie sighed, looking depressed rather than sad; and Tess seemed more nervous than anything else.

None of them looked the way Cat felt about the loss of this last fight to cling to a way of life her family had held dear for two decades—absolutely furious and utterly heartbroken.

Laine appeared close, however, at least as far as the heartbreak went. The sheen of moisture in her eyes cut deeply into Cat. Her sister never cried. She was the rock—the steady foundation of the family—and the antithesis of Cat. Her older-by-six-years sister was solid, smart and reliable. The calm one. The good one. The angel.

Solid, smart and reliable were three words that had never been used to describe Cat, the younger Sheehan sister. And nobody in his right mind had ever thought of her as good. Her blond hair and green eyes might appear angelic at first glance. But her attitude and never-ending ability to get into trouble had made her seem much more destined for a pitchfork than a halo as a kid.

Her adult life hadn’t changed anybody’s opinion.

She’d been called the rebel, the bad girl. Her mother had dubbed her the wild child at the age of three when she’d tried climbing headfirst out of her bedroom window to run away from home so she wouldn’t have to start preschool. Laine had hauled her back inside by the laces of her Buster Browns that time.

But nothing was going to save Cat from falling now, especially not if Laine started showing emotion over this. Or worse, appearing helpless, as the slight tremble in her lip and the shakiness of the hand holding her martini glass indicated.

“How are we going to explain this to Mom?” Laine asked, sounding bewildered.

Laine at a loss? Unsure what to do? The sky was gonna start falling at any minute. And Cat just couldn’t take it, not on top of everything else. So she raised a brow and gave her sibling a challenging look. “Had faith in the system, Laine, dear?”

Bingo. Her sister immediately stiffened. As usual, when Cat went on the offensive, she inspired rapid mood changes, often involving anger. Or sometimes laughter. She’d used the technique all her life and it was a damn good defense mechanism, if she did say so herself. Including now.

Laine’s eyes darkened and her jaw tensed as she crumpled the letter in her hand. “Yes, I did. This isn’t right. How can they just take away everything we’ve worked for?”

Cat nearly sighed in relief. A teed-off Laine, she could handle; a bereft one, she couldn’t.

Everyone kept talking, but Cat couldn’t bring herself to listen. The others all had a sad stake in this, but they weren’t going to lose quite as much as she was. Her business, her job, her way of life. Even her home.

Okay, the three tiny rooms over the bar weren’t much of a home, but they were hers. She loved retreating into her private little world, listening to the late-night whispers and creaks of the aged oak paneling downstairs as the old building settled ever deeper into its foundation. A foundation that had, until the city’s road project, seemed incredibly sound.

The trill of birds in the lush walled garden right outside her window woke her every morning. And the tinkle of glasses and muted laughter of their regulars lulled her to sleep on her rare nights off. She loved those sounds. As much as she loved the smell of the lemony polish she used daily to bring back the lustrous shine to the surface of the old pitted bar.

She loved the hiss of a newly tapped keg. Loved the clink of glass on glass when she poured a neat whiskey. Even loved the whirr of the blender when she had to make girlie drinks for the froufrou crowd that occasionally wandered in for happy hour.

Mostly she loved sitting here, alone, late at night when the place was closed, picturing the faces and voices of everyone who had passed through here before her. Her grandparents. Her dad, who’d died so many years ago. She could still see his wide Irish smile as he slowly pulled a draft of Guinness for a customer, explaining that the nectar of Ireland was well worth the wait.

Gone. All the things she loved would be gone. Washed away, like sidewalk etchings in the rain, by city officials who had no idea they were washing Cat’s entire world away, as well.

No job. No business. No home. No future.

No identity.

Just who was she going to be when this was all over?

She sipped her drink, depressed and overwhelmed at the thought. She’d gotten so used to her place in the world, stepping in at the bar at such a young age because it was what the family always figured she—the so-so student but A+ party girl—would do. She’d dated poor excuses for men and never been serious about any of them. Worst of all, she’d put away any glimmer of an idea that she could do something different with her life. Like fulfill a long-secret dream to go to college and become a teacher.

She’d shoved all of those things aside, and for what? A business that was going under, a family who had drifted apart, and a life that seemed…empty.

You can change it. Change everything.

She couldn’t thrust the unexpected thought out of her mind…maybe she should take this as a sign to move on in a completely unexpected direction, to walk a new path.

She could change. Become somebody new.

The idea grew on her. Since she had no choice, maybe the time had come for her to try something else. To change some things about herself—from her attitude to her hairstyle. Her clothes to her social skills. She could work on her education—slowly—to see if she really would be as good at teaching English to teenagers as she thought she might be.

She could work on her notoriously bad language, her secret addiction to romance novels. Maybe she’d even break herself of her awful habit of getting involved with even-badder-than-herself bad boys, who were ever-so-safe to fall for since they never aroused any ridiculous expectations of happily-ever-after. Just happily-between-the-sheets.

Yeah. No bad boys.

“Who are you kidding?” she mumbled under her breath, doubting she was that frigging strong.

“Did you say something?” Tess asked.

Cat merely smiled, trying to tune back in on the animated conversation the others had been having. “Just talking to myself,” she admitted. “Making some plans.”

Plans. Yes, she definitely had to make plans. She had time—until the end of the month, at least. Her sister and two closest friends would be right here by her side for every minute of it, riding things out until the very end. They’d be like the string quartet on the Titanic, playing their instruments as the ship sank beneath their feet.

She’d use these last weeks to figure out how to become the new Cat Sheehan. Heck, maybe she’d even start going by Catherine. It was something, anyway, along with those other big changes, which she went over again in her mind.

Education. Check. Home. Check. Attitude. Check.

No dangerous men. Hmm…

But hey, stranger things had happened. All it would take was willpower. Well, that and the knowledge that no hot-enough-to-melt-a-polar-icecap man with trouble in his eyes and wickedness in his smile had wandered into her world in quite some time.

And one sure as hell wasn’t likely to now.

1

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.

2

IF TEMPTATION HAD HAD more nights like this, they might have had enough money to hire a better attorney for their fight to stay open. Cat couldn’t get over the people who’d squeezed in over the past couple of hours, all of them thirsty. And hungry, judging by the way Zeke, their cook, was whipping out everything on their limited menu just as fast as he could.

The Four G’s, music seemed to have had some kind of Pied Piper effect on the residents of Kendall, many of whom were former patrons who hadn’t wanted to deal with the hassles of road construction in recent months. Temptation hadn’t been this crowded since the spring, when an erroneous rumor had circulated that they were hosting a wet T-shirt contest.

If it would have saved the bar, Cat would have given it some serious consideration.

“I think I’m going to have to kill Tess when and if she ever comes back.”

Cat quickly swung two beers, a Sex on the Beach, and a mojito onto a serving tray and gave Dinah, their part-time waitress, a commiserating smile. “I don’t think any of us ever expected to have nights like these during the last few weeks we’re open. I’m sure Tess and Laine would both have stuck around if they’d thought we were going to actually be having crowds, rather than our usual quartets.”

Cat firmly believed that. She was still a bit upset with Laine for taking off on some daring, photographic wildfire adventure in California. Secretly, however, she had to concede she was glad Laine was there to help their Aunt Jen, whose house was being threatened by the fires engulfing the state. Besides, Laine had been talking for a long time about how much she wanted one of her photos on the cover of the magazine she worked for, Century. This might actually be her shot. So while she was peeved at her, Cat couldn’t be too upset.

As for Tess, their other waitress…well, with her, you never knew what to expect. Like the way she’d stumbled into the job at Temptation a few years back. She’d started waitressing to work off a bar tab she couldn’t pay and had never left.

Unpredictable. That described Tess. So her deciding to take off last Tuesday night to help distribute some old guy’s money was entirely understandable. Unlike Laine, at least Tess had asked Cat first if she minded, and had even offered her some of her newfound riches.

Cat hadn’t accepted the money—it was too late for that. But she had minded her friend leaving. Not so much because she needed Tess’s help—or Laine’s, for that matter—but because she’d had this whole sappy image of the four of them crying in each other’s arms during the last few weeks the bar was open.

She hadn’t told Tess or Laine that. In fact, she’d urged Tess to go. And Laine…well, after their argument, she hadn’t been surprised her sister had taken off.

She’d missed them both ever since, much more than she’d ever have expected. Which was silly, really, since she’d always known everybody was destined to leave. Her grandparents, her father. Her remarried mother. Her brilliant sister.

Cat ending up alone had been inevitable. But she’d always thought she’d at least have Temptation.

Dinah clucked her tongue and shook her head, making her poufed platinum blond hair teeter a bit to one side. “I still can’t get over the two of them bailing out of here. You sure you don’t want me to tell your mama…”

“Don’t even think about it,” Cat said, already grabbing two bottles of Bud for the guys waving to her from the end of the bar. “She’s upset enough about the pub closing. The last thing I need is to have her come down here to help out, because you know her helping out would mean me losing my mind.”

Dinah, who’d been one of her mother’s closest friends since their high school years, chuckled. “It’s just because she worries.”

“She worries, I snap. Without Laine here to referee, it’d be a nightmare.”

“You think it’ll be like this all weekend?” Dinah asked. “Because if so, we might need to call in some backup. Tess did say she was going to be as close as Austin…”

Cat shook her head. “It’s okay, I already took care of it. I called an old friend and tapped her to help out tomorrow night.”

Dinah, a fifty-something native Texan whose heart was bigger than most people’s minivans, sighed in visible relief. “Thank the Lord. I don’t think my knees could take another night like this one.”

Cat purposely looked at the beer mug she was holding under the tap and kept her voice casual as she asked, “How are Zeke’s knees holding up?”

Silence. Then Dinah squawked, “You bad girl…as if I know. The man’s more skittish than a virgin in a frathouse.”

Knowing Dinah had had her eye on Zeke for about two years, ever since Laine and Cat had hired the man to cook for their pub clientele, Cat frowned. “You’re running out of time, you know. If you’re going to make something happen, you’d better do it while you two are still working together every day.”

Dinah rolled her eyes. “Sugar, I could bathe naked in that man’s deep fryer and he wouldn’t look.”

“I dunno…warm oil, a hot kitchen, spicy smells. Sounds pretty sexy to me.”

“Me, too,” a male voice said. The hair standing on end all over her body told her exactly which male voice.

Crud. She’d gotten so distracted chatting with Dinah about the older woman’s romantic possibilities that she’d completely forgotten about her own.

No. He’s not a possibility.

She’d been telling herself that for two hours, every throaty, wickedly sexy song the band performed reminding her of just how dangerous getting involved with Spence would be. Even if he had made her almost melt into a puddle when he’d sung one song she hadn’t recognized, about making love in the moonlight on a windswept beach to a woman with fire in her eyes. Made her want to take a drive down to the Galveston coast. With him.

But no. It’d never happen. He was a long-haired musician playing tiny bars in Nowhereville, Texas, for heaven’s sake. The man probably didn’t even own a car. Spence was definitely not the steady, reliable type she’d been telling herself she needed to find. Far, far from it!

The flirting was over with. The guy was a hunk and a half, but so were a lot of other guys. And all of them were the type who walked away.

She’d had enough of those, dammit. From here on out, she was going to be strictly business with this particular one. So she offered him an impersonal smile. “Hey, I was afraid the crowd was never going to let you guys take a break.”

“Me, too,” he said.

Without being asked, she opened a bottle of icy cold water and slid it to him. He picked it up, giving her a grateful nod, and lifted it to his lips.

Lips. Don’t think of the lips. You never notice the lips of the guy at the bank or the post office.

She looked down, her gaze falling on his throat. Her breaths deepened as she watched the way his pulse pounded in his neck and the muscles leading to his shoulders rippled with his every movement. All glisteny with a sheen of sweat. Probably tasted salty.

She added more no-no words to her list. Neck. Shoulders. Muscles. Glisteny. Salty.

“Thanks,” he said as he lowered the nearly empty bottle. “Those lights are pretty hot. I was half wishing I’d worn less clothes.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, lighter clothes. Shorts or something.”

Less clothes? No pants? She might as well just give this up right now. Because no matter how hard she tried to keep her mind focused and professional, she kept sliding down this slippery slope of attraction to this man. She couldn’t possibly survive another round of sexual roulette with him.

But at least this time, Spence was looking uncomfortable, as well. Funny, the way he’d stammered over the words he’d said, about wearing less clothes. As if he, too, had recognized the naughty implication and had been slightly embarrassed about it.

It was cute, that sheepish look on his face. Not to mention completely unexpected. Embarrassment and this guy went together about as naturally as pork chops and a vegetarian.

“It is awfully hot in here, don’t you think?” he finally said, filling the thick silence. How bizarre, this feeling of being in a silent bubble, when all around them voices chattered and glasses tinkled. But, like before, all of that seemed very far away.

“Yeah, well, uh…I guess the crowd of naked bodies makes it feel even hotter,” Cat said.

Then she bit her tongue. Bodies. Another definite no-no word when Spence was around. If this kept up, she was going to have the vocabulary of a ten-month-old.

“Uh, Cat, did you say what I think you said?”

Sure, she’d said the crowd of bodies…oh, God, she hadn’t said naked, had she? Tell me I didn’t say naked.

“Because we’re pretty open to playing at unusual venues, but an entirely naked audience, well, that could get a little…sticky.” His lips twitched, and she knew he was trying to hold back his laughter.

Cat blushed. Literally felt hot blood rise in her face and flood her cheeks. No guy had ever made her blush.

“Slip of the tongue,” she muttered, grabbing for any halfway believable excuse she could find. “I mean, you know, the words, they sort of go together. Naked. And bodies. I might just as easily have said dead and bodies.”

Argh! Just stick a spike through your hand and get it over with, Cat. It’d be less painful than this.

“I think I’d prefer naked ones to dead ones,” he murmured.

She kept prattling on, like an out of control car careening toward a cliff. “You know what I mean, though, right? Some words are kind of a natural fit. Like fried and oysters.”

His lips twitched again. “Most people would say fried goes better with chicken…but if you prefer oysters…”

“I don’t. Prefer oysters, I mean, no matter what their, uh, reputation,” she said, wondering why she’d had to immediately latch on the sex food group when there were so many others available. Bacon and eggs. Hot and tamale.

Dead and duck.

“Me, neither. Nasty little things,” he said, obviously still talking about the oysters.

Cat nodded in agreement. “Shiny and slippery and wet.”

One of his brows shot up. “Shiny…slippery…wet?”

Cat pictured putting her mouth in front of a firing squad for continuing to bring both their minds to places they had no business being. She closed her eyes, unable to manage a single word. She could only shake her head in dismay. When, in the name of heaven, had Cat Sheehan turned into a babbling idiot?

Spence started to laugh—a low, husky laugh that made her tingle, all over. “I’d offer you a shovel, but I don’t have one on me. Besides, you’re doing a pretty good job digging yourself deeper into this hole all on your own.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go shoot myself now.”

“I just told you I don’t have a shovel, Cat.”

“So you can’t bury me?”

“Uh huh.”

She tapped the tip of her index finger on her cheek, thinking about it, even as she gave in and laughed a little with him. “Hmm, so how about backing up ten minutes and starting this whole thing over?”

Spence leaned over the bar, propping his chin on his fist. “Hi. Thanks for the water. What’d you think of the music?”

“You guys really are good,” she said, thrilled at the chance to keep the conversation neutral.

“Thanks.” He leaned closer, raising his voice as more people crowded close to the bar, waving at Cat to place their orders. “We have a lot of fun doing it.”

Getting back to work, she filled a few mugs, poured a few shots, blew off a few jerks, then returned her attention to the bass player in the corner. “I really liked that song you did about the girl with the fire in her eyes and the moonlight on her hair. Who sang it originally? I didn’t recognize it.”

Spence shrugged, lifted his bottle to his mouth and sipped more water. After sipping, he lowered the bottle and wiped the moisture off his lips with the back of his hand.

Cat just stared, acknowledging the truth: the man was poetry in motion. No small talk in the world was going to make her oblivious to that.

“You didn’t recognize it because I wrote it,” he said.

Wrote it. Wrote poetry? She blinked a couple of times, trying to backtrack and remember what the heck they’d been talking about before he’d gotten her all distracted with his water-drinking abilities. Then she remembered. “You wrote that song? The one about the hot night and the whispers in the dark?”

Wow. She never would have guessed. Not only because the music had been so good, but also because of the unbridled emotion of the words, juxtaposed against the raw, haunting power of the melody. It had sounded…hungry. That was the only word she could find to describe it. “I’m impressed. You must have had quite a lot of inspiration to write such a powerful song.”

She hadn’t been fishing for information. She hadn’t. It was none of her business what inspired him to write such a sensual, heated ballad. But she still held her breath, waiting for his response, hoping he wouldn’t say he’d written it for the love of his life. His longtime girlfriend.

God, please, not his wife!

When his answer came, she couldn’t help feeling a sharp stab of disappointment. Because a faraway look of longing and hunger accompanied his words. “I wrote it for a girl I was crazy about a long, long time ago.”

HE’D WRITTEN the song for her.

Staring at Cat, Dylan focused on those vivid green eyes of hers—those catlike green eyes. He silently willed her to read the truth that screamed loudly in his brain but didn’t cross his lips. It was you. It was always you.

The girl in the song, with moonlight shining on her hair, had been Cat Sheehan bathed in the glow of an enormous bonfire the night of a homecoming game many years ago. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her there, standing completely alone, staring at the flames. She’d been lost in thought, seeming separate and distinct from the rowdy teenagers all around her.

It was so easy even now to remember the way her eyes had glittered and her skin had taken on the golden sheen of the fire. Her hair had positively come alive, as brilliant and dazzling as the flames that leaped and crackled against the star-filled night sky. And even from several feet away, he’d seen the way her lips had moved, as if she were whispering something for her ears alone.

He’d wanted to be the one she whispered to.

Wondering why she looked so sad, so serious and so lonely, he’d even moved closer. He’d been driven to understand why she stood there by herself, as if a curtain had descended between her and everyone else. Everyone except him.

Then someone had taken her arm and she’d rejoined the living, laughter on her lips, as always.

And, as always, she hadn’t even noticed him standing there in the shadows. Apparently, she’d never really noticed him. Certainly not enough to make an impression. Because judging by tonight, Cat had absolutely no idea that they’d been classmates at Kendall High a mere nine years ago.

It wasn’t her fault. Cat had never shunned him; he’d just been too intimidated to make her notice him. Not intimidated by her…but by the intensity of his own feelings, which had simply overwhelmed him, particularly after the night of the bonfire.

Because that had been the night he’d realized there was so much more depth to the beautiful, vivacious Cat than she ever let the world see. The night he’d realized the two of them had something very deep and intrinsic in common.

Their solitude.

Things had changed, though. Because now, she definitely noticed him. For the past ten minutes, during her adorable, fumbling conversation—which was so unlike the self-assured Cat he remembered—she’d been staring at him with intensity, interest and pure, physical want.

He knew the look. Tonight, he almost certainly mirrored it.

Then again, if she’d ever really looked at him, she would have seen that look on his face throughout the entire year they’d gone to school together.

Not meeting his eyes as she rubbed the surface of the bar with a damp rag, Cat said, “You have a lot of talent.”

“Thanks. Music’s my passion.”

“Your only passion?”

“Not only. There’s also video games.”

One of her delicate brows lifted. “Rock and roll and video games. So are you just a mature-looking fifteen-year-old?”

“Smart-ass.” He didn’t elaborate on the video game thing, thinking she probably wasn’t ready to hear that he didn’t merely play them. He created and developed them. Very successfully.

“Goes with the territory,” she said with a shrug.

“Being a smart-ass?”

She looked past him, nodded at someone, then got busy making a couple of scotch and sodas. “Yeah. Can’t take things too seriously when perfect strangers are talking to you like they’re your best friend night after night. Telling you their troubles. It’d be too damned depressing, especially for someone like me.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. Then, curious, he asked, “Someone like you?”

Cat shrugged, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I mean, well, anyone who gets riled up a bit too easily, like I used to do.”

Riled up easily? Oh, yeah, Cat Sheehan had had a reputation for that. He didn’t know if the Kendall High football team had ever gotten over being told they were a bunch of spiteful, fatheaded kindergartners with big egos and little dicks.

She’d done it during a pep rally.

Over a loudspeaker.

In front of the whole school.

Cat had gotten suspended. She’d also earned the never-ending devotion of all the freshmen who’d been used as walking punching bags by some of the bullying members of the football team.

“So you still get riled up too easily?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not me. Miss Reasonable, Miss Calm, Cool and Collected, that’s me these days. I can handle anything.”

She tried to meet his eye, tried to maintain a sincere expression, but didn’t quite manage it. Dylan couldn’t help it. He started to laugh.

She shot him a dirty look, then dissolved into helpless laughter, too. “Okay, so maybe you are getting to know me. And the answer is yes, I probably do take things too personally and get myself in trouble on occasion. But I have handled things pretty well all on my own for a long time now. Despite what anyone in my family might say. And I’m determined to stay out of trouble, in spite of some of the things I’d really like to do.”

He wanted to ask if she’d told off any dumb jocks lately but didn’t want to tip his hand too soon. “For instance?”

Her smile faded, that tension returning to her slim body. “I fantasize about driving one of those bulldozers outside right onto the lawn of the courthouse and leaving a big Porta-John on the front steps. It’d have a big Welcome Home sign for the city officials who voted me out of business.”

Cat’s words gave him the opening he’d been waiting for…a chance to try to find out why she appeared so tense. “So, are you really closing the bar?”

Her mouth tightened. “End of the month. Demolition ball swings in July. Gotta make way for progress…how could we ever live without four lanes?”

“That blows.”

She nodded, blinking rapidly, and Dylan recognized her anguish. He now understood the slump in Cat’s shoulders, the unhappiness that had likely caused those dark circles under her beautiful eyes.

Cat was hurting.

Sure, she was playing tough girl—hadn’t she always? But the pain beneath the surface would be obvious to a blind man.

“Is there anything I can do?” He figured there wasn’t, but needed to ask, anyway.

“Just keep rocking the walls down this weekend so we can go out firmly in the black…and so I’ll have a little money to live on while I figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”

“I can’t picture you being unsure of yourself for long, Cat Sheehan,” he murmured, hearing the intensity in his voice.

She apparently heard it, too. Her eyes narrowed in skepticism. “You think you know me already, huh?”

Oh, yeah. He knew her. He’d known her for years. He’d watched her with simple devotion when he’d been a young, geeky kid to whom she’d never have given a second look. And he’d seen her in his dreams in the years that had followed.

“Yeah. I think I do know you.”

But not as well as he planned to.

LATE THAT NIGHT, as Dylan helped the rest of the guys load their equipment and instruments into Josh’s van, he tried to ignore Banks’s curious stares. Banks had been watching him, a knowing grin on his face, every time Dylan had wandered over to the bar to talk to Cat when they were on break. During their final set, he’d thought his friend was going to explode with curiosity. Only the fact that the crowd had been so responsive—not letting them wrap up the night until they’d played an hour longer than scheduled—had distracted the guy.

But now they were alone. Josh and Jeremy had gone back inside for the last of Jeremy’s drums. Banks made full use of the opportunity. “So, what happened? You going back in there for a late-night rendezvous?”

“Big words, Banks. Still working on being the smart one?”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to figure out I’ve got a 130 IQ just because I know how to pronounce the word rendezvous.”

“One-thirty, hmm? I’m so sorry.”

It was an old bone of contention and a constant source of baiting. Because Dylan’s was just a smidge higher.

His friend smirked. “Warning, warning, comparing IQs…your geek-o-meter is in the red zone.”

“F. You.” But Dylan was smiling as he said it. He finished storing the microphones and amps, then helped Banks load up his keyboard.

“So, seriously, man, what are you going to do about the Cat woman?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Right, ’cause, uh, she was much younger when you went nuts over her? So, it’s Cat girl, huh?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“You roomed with me in college, so you already know the answer to that question. Now stop stalling. Did she recognize you? Did she realize you were the same nerdy little nobody who used to practically wet your Dockers whenever she came around back in high school?”

Banks. Couldn’t live with him. Couldn’t kill him and throw his body off the Chrysler Building.

“She didn’t remember me.”

Banks had the courtesy not to laugh. In fact, he frowned a bit. “Well, you can’t be too surprised, can you? I found your high school yearbook one time in college. You look nothing like you did back then.”

High school. Seemed like a lifetime ago.

He’d only attended public school for one year—his senior year—and he’d been only fifteen years old the day he’d started. A skinny kid who’d been accepted into a dozen colleges before he’d even started shaving.

He’d wanted to be normal. Just…normal. Instead of the whiz kid who’d skipped a few grades in the exclusive private schools his parents insisted he attend. His one outlet—which had driven his parents nuts—was his nonstop devotion to his music. Even though his mom and dad had ranted about how he was burning his brain cells, betraying his intelligence and making a mockery of his brilliant musical gifts, he’d never stopped working out his teen angst with his stereo or his guitar.

Until that year. When he’d finally gotten them to agree to let him finish out school with regular kids for a change, in a public high school.

Their agreement had come at a cost. A high one.

His music. For the entire school year.

That’d been the price—he could spend his senior year at Kendall High if he agreed to let his father lock away his guitar and his entire CD collection.

God, it’d been hard. Particularly when he’d started school and realized a fifteen-year-old senior wasn’t going to fit in very well anywhere. He’d missed his music terribly. So badly he thought about giving up—about going back to his old school less than a week into the new year.

Then he’d seen her—Cat Sheehan, the high school sophomore who’d fired his imagination and awoken every angsty teenage hormone in his body. She’d been the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and her smile had literally made the breath leave his lungs.

So he’d stuck it out, somehow making it work, if only so he could catch glimpses of her throughout the day. Could feel his heart skip a beat when she smiled that smile. Could share, if only from a distance, in her delightfully wicked personality.

And after the night of the bonfire, he’d made it his personal mission to find out why there seemed to be another side to Cat that no one else in the world ever saw.

He never had. But maybe now, he’d have another chance.

Eventually, he’d found a way to fit in at Kendall High. He’d built his own group of friends. He’d done the brain thing—chess club, honor roll, debate team. He’d made his parents proud, devoting the entire year to more “appropriate” pursuits.

And he’d kept his promise, staying away from his guitar. But that hadn’t stopped him from writing songs in his head. Songs about the blond angel who barely even knew he existed.

“I mean, it’s not like you two had any classes together or anything, right?” Banks asked, still apparently thinking he needed to make Dylan feel better. “You were the same age, but you were a couple of years ahead of her.”

“Right.”

“So it’s not like she knew you and then forgot about you.”

“You don’t have to try to cheer me up,” Dylan said, surprised to realize it was the truth. “Like you said, I don’t look anything like I did then.”

Definitely not. Then he’d been a skinny runt, a geek and a freak. Nowhere near the realm of Cat Sheehan and her crowd.

Her crowd…well, actually, she hadn’t had one. She’d fit in everywhere. Not a stuck-up cheerleader, not a druggie, not a jock, not a brain. She’d just been this nice, smart, funny girl who happened to look like a goddess. One who had a caustic wit and a strong sense of justice that could either get her out of trouble or—probably more often—deeper into it.

She’d been the girl everyone wanted to be like. The girl who’d told off the football squad. Who’d organized a blood drive when one of their classmates had been in a serious car accident. And who, on one occasion, had come to the vocal defense of a nerdy kid who’d made the enormous mistake of sitting at the jocks’ table at lunchtime.

That’d been him.

She’d swooped in right before he’d gotten himself pounded. Taking him by the arm, she’d smiled brightly, saying, “You promised you’d sit with me, cutie.” Then she’d pulled him up and tugged him away, the determination in her eye and the firm set of her lips daring anyone to try to stop her. Beelining to another corner of the cafeteria—a safer corner—she’d pushed him into a seat and plopped down next to him, staying for a good three minutes, to keep up appearances.

He hadn’t been able to get a word out of his sawdust-dry mouth. But that’d been okay. She’d chatted nonstop about inane things—teachers, grades, the unfairness of the dress code.

Personally, Dylan had blessed the dress code. Because if her skirts had been any shorter, he’d have been unable to function at all in school.

Once the beefy crowd had left, she’d stood, saying, “Stay away from the fatheads, kid. Just remember, you’ll be buying and selling them a hundred times over in ten years.” Then, with a wink, she’d snagged his apple off his lunch tray and sauntered away. Leaving him sitting there, gaping, staring after her.

He’d loved her from that moment on, even knowing he’d probably never see her again after he graduated from high school. And he hadn’t.

Until tonight.

“So are you going back in there to make something happen?”

“Why the hell are you so interested in my love life?” Dylan asked with a frown. “Weren’t there a half-dozen women slipping you their phone numbers tonight?”

Banks shrugged. “A dozen, at least.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Which was nothing compared to the ones trying to slip you their phone numbers. By the way, thanks for the spillover.”

Dylan just shrugged, saved from replying when Josh and Jeremy returned from inside. They quickly finished loading the gear, then closed up the van.

“See ya tomorrow night,” Josh said as he got into the driver’s seat.

Dylan nodded, then glanced at Jeremy, who was climbing onto the enormous motorcycle he’d bought a few months back. Since Dylan cringed every time he saw Jeremy on the thing, he could only imagine what his parents thought. “Don’t kill yourself, kid,” he called as the younger man rode away.

“Now, go back in there and make your move,” Banks said as he unlocked his car.”

Dylan shook his head. He wasn’t ready yet. Wasn’t ready to deal with the repercussions of what would happen when Cat found out the truth. “It’s late. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

Face it, you want to enjoy it a little longer.

He did. He wanted just this weekend—tomorrow and Sunday night—of being the dark, dangerous stranger Cat Sheehan had been so attracted to. Then he’d tell her the truth. And go back to being the invisible guy.

But not now. Now it was time to go home and process everything.

Unfortunately, Banks, the bastard, had something else in mind. “By the way, Spence, are you missing something?”

Dylan raised a wary brow.

Banks’s expression screamed mischief. Dylan had seen the look enough in college to know his friend was up to something. Something he wasn’t going to like. Like the time he’d taken Dylan’s clothes out of the bathroom while he was showering in their coed dorm, stranding him there.

Of course, Banks’s plan had backfired. Wrapped in a towel and dripping with righteous anger—not to mention water—Dylan had gotten the attention of a lot of girls as he’d stalked down the hall toward his room. Including one Banks had been after throughout their junior year. Whenever his friend got too obnoxious, Dylan mentioned the name Karen Dennison and it shut him right up.

“What did you do?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“You forgetting you need something to get in your car?”

Patting the pocket of his ratty jean jacket, which was slung over his arm, he winced when he did not hear a familiar jingle. No keys. “You sack of…”

“She’ll be happy to let you in to look for them, I bet. She’s just all alone in the dark,” Banks said with a wave of his hand. Then he got into his own car, revved up the engine so he couldn’t hear the names Dylan was calling him, and took off.

Leaving Dylan stranded, with no way home and no keys. Not unless he entered into Temptation and found them.

3

EXHAUSTED AND CONFUSED about the amazing man who’d walked into her life tonight, Cat was about to flip the lock on the front door when she saw a large form appear right outside. The unexpectedness of it brought a startled gasp to her lips—until she recognized the face.

“Spence?” she said, opening the door.

“I forgot something,” he explained, looking uncomfortable.

Hmm…had he really forgotten something? Or was this a ruse to get her alone. More important—did she care?

Cat stepped back and ushered him in. “You just made it. Ten more minutes and I’d have been upstairs, sound asleep.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.