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I headed toward the thumping beat and knocked on the door to Mr. Lewis’s room.
A raw energy pulsed through the door, so I wasn’t surprised that Dontrel didn’t hear my knock.
I swiped my access card and strode into the room.
Chapter Thirteen
My first sight of the Jamaican hottie had my heart pounding out its own beat. Dontrel Lewis was Captain Jack Sparrow meets Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. His dark-caramel-colored skin was shiny and taut over bulging muscles.
He was mesmerizing.
Dontrel had three drums at his feet. The one he leaned over was decorated in red, yellow, and green, with an intricate spray-painted woman with long dreadlocks flying out as if she were caught in a tornado.
Dontrel’s eyes were closed as his fingers turned the cowhide stretched tight across the drum into a beat that had my hips moving. A tattoo of red and yellow flames danced with each bulge and flex of his bicep. The words that rolled off his lips were from a lover’s song, full of depth and emotion.
I hated to interrupt him, but I was torn between doing my job and falling into his lover’s spell. The music filled me with energy, sadness, joy, and longing. I was trapped and loved every second of it.
Dontrel’s eyes flicked open, and he jerked back.
Busted!
Silence filled the room like an empty void. He tugged iPod buds that I hadn’t noticed from his ears. “Hello,” he said with such a casual inflection that I imagined he’d had this exact same scenario dozens of times before. Maybe he had.
I shook myself into action. “Mr. Lewis?—”
“Dontrel,” he interrupted.
“Right. I’m sorry, Dontrel, but a guest has complained about your drumming.”
“How did you get in here?” His Jamaican accent was divine.
“I knocked, but”—I indicated to his ears— “you didn’t hear.”
“Oh. Yeah, no worries.” He pushed back on his stool and stood. I would’ve taken a sneaky photograph if I could. Dontrel was holy hotness on a lickable stick. The muscles on his torso were perfectly sculpted as if someone had chiseled them from a slab of gold. Each line, each dip, every bulge was exquisite. I was in voyeur heaven.
“I’m sorry, Miss?—”
“Oh, ummm . . .” I swallowed hard, clearing the dryness from my throat. “I’m Jane Nichols. The night manager.”
A trickle of sweat rolled down his rippling abs, and it took all my restraint not to thumb it away.
“I was just getting into the groove.” His voice was a deep baritone. He sighed, and the weight of disaster fell on my shoulders.
“What were you playing? It was beautiful.”
He smiled. “Did ya like it?”
Oh my. . . it was that smile. The smile that made my knees wobble.
“It was truly beautiful.” Was beautiful the right word to describe music?
“It’s my own piece. I’m playing it at my audition night.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. What are you auditioning for?”
“The casino has a stage show they’re settin’ up next year. All top secret.” He touched his nose. “Could be my big break.” His smile became even more glorious, threatening to lure me into a trance.
Mr. Holy Hotness didn’t know it yet, but he would be my next adventure. In the meantime, I couldn’t be the dark cloud on his musical masterpiece. I needed to help him.
