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"Then what are you doing here?"
Andrea looks at me with a challenge in her eyes. She’s much shorter than me, and her body has lines of defined curves that run down her like the shape of a guitar.
"I own it," I declare impassively.
She clicks her tongue. "And I'm your artist, so it‘s up to you to indulge me a little."
I could please you in more ways than you think...
"The show's about to start."
"Then we'd better hurry."
Ignoring me, Andrea begins to walk ahead of me. Her marked gait carries the rhythm of her hips, which move in sensual sync as the wind plays with her hair.
For some reason, I can't stop watching her.
What the hell is wrong with me? I wonder. I ignore the thought because I know I have to make sure the show tonight is a success.
The club's reputation depends on it, and as always, I can't let myself be seduced by the mysterious woman in front of me.
But there's something about her, a force of nature, a whirlwind that threatens to uproot the very foundations of my sanity.
CHAPTER TWO
ANDREA
Who is he?
His imposing man behind me moves like a panther stalking its prey in the middle of the night.
His body is lean, and his form is highlighted by his dark suit. He’s dressed in black from head to toe in a modern designer suit with just a hint of blood red printed on the handkerchief that is folded in his jacket pocket.
His hair is perfectly styled away from his face, dark blond amidst a stern, rugged face, and a perfectly trimmed beard. A strange sparkle shines in his eyes, like a spot of light in the midst of his dark gaze.
I turn to look at him, and that's when his eyes meet mine.
Every move he makes is measured, fluid, and precise.
I've never felt this way about a stranger before, not like this, deep in my gut. What hold does he have over me, after just a glance?
His eyes bore into mine like he knew my secrets. And the way he carries himself, so sure of himself, it's intoxicating.
I feel..._safe_.
It's absurd, but there it is.
What it would be like to know him? To unravel his mysteries?
But I quickly shake off the thought, reminding myself that men like him are trouble. Great for writing songs, awful for building something lasting.
I've sworn off that kind of trouble after Logan.
The stranger's gaze sweeps over, pierces, and melts me from the inside, causing my gut to flare up with nervousness.
My fingers itch to grab a pen, to capture this crackling energy between us on paper.
Lyrics are already forming in my mind, the words swirling together in a desperate attempt to define this overwhelming feeling.
