“Do you know that guy?” she asked Corrine.
“Never seen him before. But even us married ladies can enjoy the view. Besides, you’re the one he’s coming for.”
He stopped shy of the table, standing there for long seconds, drinking her in with those midnight eyes that complemented brown hair so dark it verged on black. Jenna’s cheeks grew warm, a puzzling response. She never reacted this way to a man, especially to a man who was so not her type.
“At the risk of telling you something you’ve heard before, you, lady, can really wail.” He delivered the line in an understated southern accent with a charming half grin that softened the angular planes of his face.
“She has heard it,” Corrine interjected with a friendly smile. “From me. About thirty seconds ago.”
“Then you’re as smart as you are talented.” The man smiled back at Corrine. “You play a mean guitar.”
He wants something, Jenna thought. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the suspicion it might be her. She dated semiregularly, but usually she met the men through work or friends. She didn’t let herself get picked up in a bar.
“We appreciate the compliments.” Corrine included Jenna in her reply. “You know, with a tenor like yours, you can probably wail yourself.”
His half grin become full fledged. “You’d be the one wailing if you heard me sing. In pain, I’m afraid. I’m Clay Dillon.”
The name seemed vaguely familiar but Jenna would remember if she had ever encountered this man before. She was closer to him than Corrine so she was the one to whom he offered his hand.
“Jenna Wright.” She fought off her reluctance to touch him and shook. His skin was warm, his touch firm, the feeling it elicited uncomfortable. He might not be her type, but he’d managed to get her to notice him. “And this is Corrine Sweetland.”
He let go of Jenna’s hand, turning to shake Corrine’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You ladies mind if I join you?”
“If it’s okay with Jenna, it’s fine by me,” Corrine said, obviously charmed.
When her friend stated it that way, Jenna could hardly refuse his company without seeming rude. “Sure.”
He settled into his seat with long-limbed grace, aiming his dark gaze at Jenna. “I confess I have an ulterior motive for coming over here.”
“Oh?” Jenna had already made up her mind to refuse should he proposition her, but her pulse rate still rocketed. “And what is that?”
“I’d like to hire Two Gals to play at my bar in Memphis.”
CLAY KEPT HIS EYES fastened on Jenna Wright, refusing to feel guilty for not telling her they shared a half sister.
He could see nothing of Darcy in her, except a certain gentleness in her expression he might be imagining because he wanted it to be there.
She seemed to have gone through pains to play down her appearance. She’d rolled up the sleeves of a fawn-colored blouse more suited for the office than the stage. She hadn’t bothered to play up her appealing features with makeup, which rendered them ordinary from a distance. And she wore her auburn hair in a conservative shoulder-length cut instead of long and loose.
He’d been watching the entrance so had noticed her arrival but hadn’t pegged her as the singer until she took the stage. The transformation from inconspicuous to vibrant had been amazing, as though a different woman lived inside this button-down version.
Tracking her down had been surprisingly easy. He’d pumped his stepfather’s former law partner for information, yielding no clues about Jeff Wright but discovering his sister Jenna worked as an accountant at a firm called Morgan and Roe in Little Rock.
After the friendly secretary at Jenna’s office blabbed that Jenna would be singing tonight at the Blue Mockingbird, Clay had hopped in his car for the two-hour trip from Memphis to Little Rock. He’d turned over various ways to approach her as he drove but ruled them all out when she started to sing.
He would have disagreed the end justified the means before Darcy became ill, but he no longer believed that. Since Jenna hadn’t recognized his name, fate was on his side.
“I guarantee the offer’s on the level,” he said. “My bar is called Peyton’s Place.”
Corrine’s expression brightened. “Like that TV soap opera from the sixties? My mom used to talk about that.”
Clay didn’t bother to correct her, finding it smarter not to reveal the true inspiration for the name. “I bought the bar a year ago. Recently, I decided live entertainment would help business.”
Recently, as in about an hour ago.
Jenna’s eyes seemed to narrow, but Clay could be imagining her skepticism. Despite everything, his conscience panged.
“I’ve grown up listening to rhythm and blues. I can recognize talent, and you ladies have it,” he continued. “I couldn’t walk away tonight without making you an offer.”
A heavy dose of truth ran through his proposal. Jenna and Corrine had a rare chemistry, made extraordinary by the raw, sensual power of Jenna’s voice. Persuading the duo to perform at Peyton’s Place could help the bottom line—even if assuring Jenna had regular contact with the half sister she might come to love was his main objective.
Corrine placed her elbows on the table, as though readying herself to get down to business. A very good sign. “So where in Memphis is this bar of yours?”
“Beale Street.” The legendary Home of the Blues, Beale Street was the second most-visited street in the south, trailing only Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Musicians made reputations there. “It’s on the very end of the section of street blocked off to traffic, but it’s still a great location.”
“Anywhere on Beale’s a great location,” Corrine declared.
“How long are you under contract to the Blue Mockingbird?” Clay asked.
“Only until the end of the long weekend,” Corrine said. “The owner might want to extend our gig, but we’re free to entertain other offers.”
“Wait, Corrine.” Jenna placed a hand on the table. Clay noticed she’d painted her fingernails bright red, an interesting quirk in such a conservatively dressed woman. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Corrine looked beseechingly at Jenna, something unspoken passing between the two women. “What’s wrong with listening to what Clay has to say? C’mon, Jenna. This is Beale Street.”
Jenna hesitated, then conceded, “I guess it can’t hurt to just listen.”
Sensing resistance, Clay named a figure higher than what good sense dictated for an establishment that had just started to turn a profit. “If that’s not more than the Blue Mockingbird is paying, I’ll top their offer. I’ll also commit to a six-week engagement. How does Wednesday through Saturday nights sound?”
“Impossible.” Jenna emphasized
