Tim sidled up to him at the bar. ‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’
Rhys shook his head, not trusting his voice.
‘That is the hottest thing I’ve seen on two legs. Unbelievable.’ Even Tim knew to shut up after that and enjoy the view.
After a few minutes—they could have all happily watched for hours—she stopped. Sat still on the stool for a moment, head bowed. Rhys could see her panting.
She stood and handed the sticks back to Greg, the drummer. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’
‘Any time.’ Greg almost fell over the kit to take the sticks, his complete attention on her and not the obstacles in the way.
Tim walked up to the stage, looked up to where she stood now at the front of it. ‘I’m Tim. You have to come and watch tonight. As payment, you know.’
‘Sure.’ She smiled and jumped down from the stage. Rhys clenched his fists even tighter at the view of her legs in action. ‘I really appreciate that, guys. I feel a lot better now.’
She must have known they were all watching, tongues practically hanging out of their mouths like rabid dogs. But she walked casually as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if no one was looking, not least five full-grown, deeply red-blooded men.
She felt a lot better? Rhys’ blood was pumping through his body to a far faster beat than she’d been playing on the drums. More alive than he’d been in months—yep, he felt better too. And he knew what would make him feel marvellous.
It had been so long.
He tracked her progress down the room. She was looking down and ahead of her, seemingly forgetting the band onstage behind her. Coolly ignoring the four sets of eyes trained on her back. Then she turned her head just as she passed where he was ‘resting’ against the bar.
Five tables stood between them as she walked down the centre aisle, but they could have been millimetres apart, such was the clarity with which he could see her eyes, almost feel their laser-like intensity. She didn’t smile as she looked him over—one killer inspection. He didn’t smile either, didn’t move a muscle in fact—couldn’t.
Unspoken communication. Unstoppable contact. That screaming lust again. Every sinew and muscle in his body tightened to the point of pain, his body wanting him to take action—to reach out and grab. At three in the afternoon with a bunch of his best mates watching?
Then she looked away and walked out of the bar. Rhys jerked his attention back to the band. Finally remembered to breathe.
‘Hot damn, that was some chick,’ Tim called over to Rhys. ‘Gave you the look.’
Rhys stood locked in position against the bar and managed another shrug. Yep. The look. He was still in recovery. Her eyes were haunting. Those brilliant blues had burned right through him and that message had passed again. Magnetic. Rhys was no stranger to ‘the look’—the one a woman flicked a man to say she’d noticed him and was interested. That maybe he and she were a possibility.
Maybe a possibility?
She was a dead certainty. Right now he wanted her as he’d never before wanted a woman. Instant, inescapable, intense. His body was still coiled. He wanted to reach for her, wrap her around him and make her his. Restraining that urge made him ache.
Per capita Sydney had an excess of beautiful, glamorous women and Rhys was on familiar terms with several of them. But suddenly a slip of a girl in a casual tee and quick-dry skirt had nearly rendered him catatonic with need.
‘The minute she finds out who you are, she’s yours,’ Tim said, sizing up the situation.
Rhys frowned. Wrong. She hadn’t known who he was. And he didn’t want her to find out. Didn’t want to see that suggestion of raw physical attraction in her face replaced with attraction to something else—like dollar signs. He wanted to explore the desire without the hindrance and hang-ups that came of history and prejudice and preconceptions.
She was foreign. Had the vowel sounds of a New Zealander. Was wearing the garb of a girl who had nothing but a pack on her back. Kiwi girl on holiday. He was out of his native habitat too—in a part of the city he rarely came to. It was almost like being in a foreign country, one where he, blessedly, wasn’t known. Thus far their interaction was pretty much a blank slate. He didn’t need it to be filled in. What he wanted was physical—his body sought a connection with hers and had from the second he saw her. She’d felt the pull too and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving this bar again until she walked back in.
CHAPTER TWO
SIENNA dressed with more than usual care and way more than usual excitement. If ever there was a man to help her achieve number one on her list, he was that man. She’d gone back to the hostel and lain in wait for Julia and Brooke, the two South Africans she’d met on arrival last night. No sooner had she mentioned the words ‘band’ and ‘bar’ than they’d agreed to go with her. Sienna was pleased. Total party girls those two—and they’d ensure she had a good time no matter what might or might not happen with the gorgeous guy. And that was the purpose of this overseas jaunt, wasn’t it? To have fun. Be normal. Seize the day.
Sienna emerged last from the bathroom, clutching her top to her. ‘Can you tie these ribbons for me?’
Julia wolf-whistled. ‘That is some top!’
It was. She’d only brought it with her on the spur-of-the-moment last-minute mad decision. It rolled up really small and she’d stuffed it at the bottom of her pack, never really dreaming she’d put it on. Midnight-blue satin with a matching sequin trim. The material clung from her neck to her abdomen. Three sets of long ribbons trailed. One for her neck, one for her chest and one for her stomach. Julia artfully wound them round for her. The fabric covered her from neck to belly at the front but left her back bare—other than the ribbon ties.
She twisted her head, trying to see how Julia was getting on, while ensuring the fabric was held tight to her skin. ‘Quadruple knot them.’
‘Are you sure? You’ll need scissors to get out of it.’
‘I’m sure.’ That was the whole point. It was sexy and revealing but no way could anyone get underneath to discover what was below. The ribbon across her lower abdomen stopped a hand sliding up, the ribbon at the neck stopped fingers sliding south. Perfect.
She teamed it with a short black A-line skirt and high-heeled sandals. Her legs were her best feature and she intended to make the most of them. If dreams were going to come true, then she had to help them out a bit. She massaged moisturiser down the length of them. Then discreetly adjusted the strap of her underwear—a teeny, tiny lace-fronted G-string. Knickers like she never usually wore. But she was reinventing herself. And tonight she’d be as in-your-face frisky as she could get. Ribbons reached halfway down her skirt. She was covered far more than the bikini woman on the beach but was as naked as she’d ever been.
‘That’s a vamp outfit.’ Julia stood back and surveyed her before sharply turning to her pack which had its contents spilling over the dorm floor. ‘I gotta find me something to compete with that. Time to get ready and glamorise.’
As Julia’s ample breasts provided more than enough competition, Sienna wasn’t letting the comment go to her head. She’d never be page-three pin-up but with her legs emphasised, and her back drawing attention from her front, she might do OK.
Brooke’s voice came distantly through the top she was squeezing into. ‘Is the lead singer cute? You want the singer, right?’
‘The singer is all yours. In fact the entire band is all yours.’
Brooke’s head popped through the neck of her top. ‘So who is it you’re after? The bartender?’
Was it so obvious she was after someone? ‘No.’ She came clean. ‘The band has a guy helping out.’
‘You’re going for the roadie?’ Brooke shrieked.
‘God, don’t tell me he’s the technical guy? Not the sound and lighting geek?’
Julia sounded appalled.
Sienna giggled. ‘I’m not sure what he does. He was helping with their equipment.’
The others sent her pitying looks
. ‘OK, if you’re sure. We’ll leave him to you.’
They sat on the beds, stared into tiny compact mirrors and worked hair and make-up. Sienna twisted her hair up. Put on her mascara and gloss with a slightly heavier hand than usual and wished the hostel allowed drink in the bedrooms.
This was ridiculous. She was getting worked up—and dollied up—over nothing. He probably wouldn’t even be there. She almost succumbed to the urge to cancel there and then. Time for a mental slap on the cheek. This didn’t matter. She was in a foreign city, free to do as she pleased. If he was there, then she’d have a great time; if he wasn’t, she’d still have a great time.