by her glimpse of vulnerability, he followed, stopping only to turn out the lights and close the double doors. He found her slumped on the piano stool, eyeing him with open speculation.
‘I have it on good authority you’re the best at what you do.’
While he didn’t need the validation these days, it was always nice to get praise. ‘My company only takes on a limited number of boutique jobs, meaning we focus on one at a time per city, ensuring quality and attention to detail.’ He shrugged. ‘When you’re the best, word gets around.’
‘So I heard.’ She pinned him with an astute stare. ‘And you charge accordingly, so it seems.’
‘That’s right. Supply and demand.’
Though in this case he was quadrupling his profit margins because he’d been a smart-ass trying to get a rise out of her and it didn’t sit well with him. Too late to back down now.
When she continued to stare at him as if she could see right through his BS, he distracted her by pointing at the instruments. ‘You play and teach all these?’
‘Yes. Viola and double bass too.’
‘Wow, talented.’ The only thing he played was the fool. ‘My music tastes extend to good old country and western, that’s it.’
‘I’m an indie girl myself, hence the recording studio dream.’ She pointed at the closed doors, managing to surprise him once again with her eclectic taste in music.
‘I picked you for classical.’
The corners of her mouth drooped. ‘I’m not some cliché. The indie scene is huge in Melbourne, which is why I want to record my own songs and then branch out into recording other artists.’
Damn, he’d trod on a minefield without meaning to. ‘Sounds admirable.’
‘Are you mocking me?’
Fuck, she really was testy about her music. ‘Not at all.’ He held up his hands. ‘Hey, the only musical talent I have is playing the washboard back in Rally-Doo and even then I was only ever mediocre.’
Her forehead crinkled in confusion. ‘Washboard? Rally-Doo?’
‘It’s a tiny town near Swan Hill, in the middle of nowhere, really, where I grew up.’
Even saying the name made him clear his throat like he’d done as a kid when the summer dust grew so thick it clogged in his nose and the back of his mouth. ‘As for the washboard, how can you call yourself a musician if you don’t know the finer points of dragging a metal brush against a piece of corrugated iron, redolent of the old washboards used in years gone by?’
Her forehead cleared and a small smile played about her mouth. Good. He much preferred her like this rather than in the maudlin mood that had been hanging over her the last few minutes. ‘You Aussies are inventive, I’ll give you that.’
‘That we are.’
They locked gazes and in that moment something in the air between them shifted and shimmered, a hint of the forbidden, straining to drag them together.
Logan should resist. He never got involved with clients. But there was something about this woman that begged to see how far he could delve into this subtle attraction.
‘Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll play you some time?’
Her eyes widened at his innuendo as he mock-slapped his head. ‘Sorry, play for you some time.’
She continued to stare at him with those big, expressive eyes and he waited to see if she’d change the subject or spar for the sheer hell of it.
‘Playing any kind of instrument takes concentration, you know.’ She patted the space on the stool next to her and he found his feet moving towards her. ‘Precision. Timing. Talent.’
He sat and her smile was pure devilry. ‘But the most important is practice. Hours and hours of practice. Listening to your instrument. Feeling your instrument. Stroking your instrument. Caressing your instrument—’
He kissed her. He couldn’t fucking help it. All that talk of feeling and stroking and caressing had got to him.
Her mouth opened to him and her tongue sought his, teasing his, taunting, demanding to give whatever he could. And fuck, did he want to give her everything and then some.
She clutched at him, her hands pawing his chest, and when her fingers slid between the buttons of his shirt and grazed his chest he felt as if he’d stuck a sander into a tub full of water.
She moaned as he palmed her ass and dragged her onto his lap, grinding her against the fly of his jeans, leaving her in no doubt how far he wanted this to go.
When she started to writhe against him, as if she wanted to get closer, he slid his hands under her kaftan, encountering the soft, smooth skin of her thighs, then slid higher to her...bare ass.
Hot damn. The prim princess went commando.
‘Fuck, you’re full of surprises,’ he said, squeezing the perfect handful of ass.
‘I’m not who you think I am,’ she murmured, nipping his ear with a sharp bite that bordered on pain, until her tongue darted out and licked it all better. The touch of her tongue lapping at his earlobe sent a jolt straight to his rock-hard cock.
Eager to feel her wetness, he slipped a hand over her hip and between their bodies, when the blast of a trumpet made him jump.
‘Shit, that’s the entry bell, which means my next student is here,’ she said, scrambling off him and tugging down her kaftan. ‘You have to go.’
He stared at her standing in front of him, wild-eyed, flushed and dishevelled, and thought he’d never seen anything sexier.
‘Hey, calm down—’
‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do.’ Her lips pursed in disapproval as he watched the woman who’d been willing and wanton on his lap a moment ago morph from warmth to cold disdain.
‘Fine.’
But it wasn’t, and as he stood and readjusted himself so he could actually walk out he shot her a curious glance. How could someone change like that so quickly? He was an open book. Upfront to the point of bluntness, people knew what to expect from him. It pissed him off when people said one thing and did another, or vice versa.
When she turned her back on him and started flipping through a music book, he said, ‘For the record, you came onto me.’
She spun around to face him, that spark back in her eyes. ‘Go. Please.’
She almost whimpered the last word and rather than push the issue he took pity on her. She had a student waiting and, by the way she vacillated between poised and uncertain, she needed time to pull herself together.
‘I’ll email you the formalised quote.’ He headed for the door leading to the front of the shop and paused. ‘And I’ll be here Tuesday morning to get the boys
