Chapter One

New Orleans

“A drink, Miss d’Ville?”

The question, asked by a distinctly male voice, a very deep, very quiet voice, sent a ripple of unease through Joelle. Voices like that only came from years of power.

Positions of authority, the kind of authority she’d left behind in Europe. Joelle turned reluctantly, more than reluctantly, knowing by his voice that it was him.

Him.

The one who’d sat in the front row tonight, just left of stage center.

The one who’d distracted her all night with his intense gaze, a gaze that never seemed to leave her.

Twice she’d lost her place in the middle of a song. Twice she’d stood there on stage in the purple and blue gel lights utterly blank-losing all thought, all memory, all words. She’d never forgotten lyrics like that. She’d never stared out at a dark sea of audience and wondered what she was doing with a microphone before.

But it hadn’t been an entirely dark sea. She’d seen one face, one man the entire time, and his intense focus had trapped her, called her, just as he did now.

Up close, barely a foot away, he made her feel bare, exposed. She’d never minded dressing sexy on stage but somehow with his dark gaze scrutinizing her, a slow inspection from head to toe, she knew he disapproved.

His censure was nearly as heavy as her guitar case hanging from her shoulder.

“A drink?” she repeated, trying to force her brain to function despite the rather mad thought that if she ever belonged to a man, it wouldn’t be to someone like this, someone so overwhelmingly male, so fiercely controlled.

She wanted ease. Charm. She wanted comfortable.

He wasn’t comfortable.

“As in a beverage,” he answered almost gently, smiling a little and yet the smile remained at his lips, failed to warm his eyes. Instead his dark eyes burned, his dark eyes owned her, possessed her, a hard sexual possession that had nothing to do with civilized behavior and everything to do with bodies. Skin.

Her skin.

She felt a cool silvery shiver shoot down her spine, and her body reacted-hair at her nape lifting, goose bumps prickling her arms, even her breasts firmed, nipples peaking.

Classic Romance

Joelle pressed her guitar case closer to her hip, making it the latest in body armor. “I understand the concept. We have beverages in America, too,” she said, letting him know she understood he was foreign, and yet he couldn’t intimidate her.

But she was wary. Not because he posed a physical threat, but because he was different, and she’d always been intrigued by that which was unusual. Intriguing. And he was certainly intriguing.

Tall, darkly handsome and probably very Italian. His accent sounded Italian.

“Then you’ll join me,” he said, indicating his table.

His stunning confidence dazzled her. “I…I’ve…plans.” Laundry. And packing. She needed to get ready to return home.

“Change them.”