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“No.”
She heard something brush against the carpet and then, “Golden brown.”
3
AS THE DEEP VOICE sounded in the doorway behind her, Lia jumped and banged her funny bone on the edge of the desk.
She rubbed her elbow as he sang, sans guitar, “I dream of Jeannie with the golden-brown hair…Your name wouldn’t happen to be Jeannie, would it?”
He grinned down at her, a living, breathing, I’m-oh-so-charming-and-I-know-it country-lite rocker cliché.
One by one, she mentally ticked off the type:
Longish hair carefully cut in a bazillion layers so it would always look just a little shaggy so he wouldn’t be accused of trying too hard—check. Bonus check for sun streaks.
Stubble—check.
Devilish half smile—check.
Optional one-sided dimple—check.
A few lines crinkling around his eyes to demonstrate that he’d been around—check.
Long nose and/or prominent nose that had once been broken or had a kink of some sort in it. The importance of an interesting nose on a man should never be underestimated. Perfect noses on men meant bland good looks. The noticeably imperfect nose meant intriguing good looks. Why was this? Lia had no idea, but he had a definite check in the nose department.
Blue eyes—check. Eye color had never mattered to Lia, but blue eyes seemed to always come with this type.
Ability to slouch attractively…She looked at him lounging against the door frame. An A+ slouch. Check.
Button-down shirt with cuffs rolled up—check.
Jeans carefully worn and faded in just the right places—she’d give him a check even though she hadn’t seen the rear view because any guy who fit the type this exactly was bound to be wearing a pair that hugged his butt to his best advantage.
Broken-in boots—check.
Voice…here he didn’t get a check because the template voice was usually a tenor. When he spoke, this man’s surprisingly deep, lush bass pulsed all the way through her like the vibrate setting on a bed in a cheap motel.
Oh, and the attitude. He definitely had the I-can-be-reformed-by-the-right-woman attitude, accompanied by the care-to-try? twist to his mouth. Double and triple check.
As though she was interested in wasting time reforming anyone. He was not her type, except that she hadn’t quite found anyone who was her type, and in the meantime parts of her had decided that he would do and were reacting accordingly.
Stupid parts.
“You said you were the assistant manager,” he said. “That must make you Lia.”
She braced herself against the unwanted vibrations from his voice and said nothing, although she’d never heard her name poured from a man’s mouth in quite that way.
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he offered.
“You can do better than that.”
“I can.” He smiled his one-dimpled half smile. “But you haven’t convinced me to try.”
And she wouldn’t. She had work to do. She had computers to dry and pinks to order and Chinese phrases to figure out.
And make no mistake, she was aware that she was alone, at night, in the back office of a closed bridal salon with a strange man. Just because she wasn’t getting any weird vibes—the ones caused by his voice didn’t count—didn’t mean all was well. “That’s because I want you to leave, Jimmy’s Cousin.”
“Call me J.C.”
For Jimmy’s Cousin? Oh, please. “How did you get in here, J.C.?”
Holding up his hand, he dangled a key. Both Tuxedo Park and the bridal salon had the same key, so that explained that. However…“How did you get the key?”
“From Jimmy.”
“And does Jimmy know you have his key?”
His smile faded for the first time. Straightening, he said, “Yes.” And held her gaze until something in hers told him she believed him.
Nodding to the computer propped next to the fan, he said, “Good luck with that,” and left.
Just left. Which was exactly what she wanted him to do.
She turned off the fan in time to hear him lock the front door and thought about checking to see if he’d actually gone out before locking it, but didn’t. Instinct told her that she didn’t have to worry about him. Instinct wasn’t much of a reason, but the way he’d held her gaze and seemed offended when she’d implied that he’d stolen Jimmy’s key worked for her.
There was a lot of psychology involved in selling bridal gowns and the most successful sales associates became shrewd judges of character and experts at figuring out subtexts. Lia’s instincts had served her well and she had no reason to think they wouldn’t this time.
Moments later, she heard J.C. in the Tuxedo Park dressing room. And that was that.
Except that wasn’t that. In spite of herself, she strained to hear what he was up to when she should have been concentrating on her computer disaster.
JORDAN CHRISTIAN UNROLLED his sleeping bag on the padded bench in the back fitting room. Going next door to see what Lia looked like had been a bad idea. Bad, bad idea.
Bad, because he liked what he saw. Bad, because she did, too. Bad, because she wasn’t going to admit it. Bad, because he was going to make her admit it.
Yeah, he was. Assistant Manager Lia had issued a challenge with her I’m-all-about-my-work attitude and her you-don’t-do-it-for-me expression. It had been a long time since Jordan had encountered a challenge he felt like accepting.
And Lia of the red cheeks, the slicked-back ponytail and the buttoned-up shirt all the sales associates wore was one heck of a challenge.
Jordan had used his best stuff on her, too. Little songs—women had fainted over his little songs—the smile, the drawl…none of it’d worked.
’Course, she was mad about frying her computer, but Jordan figured his best stuff wouldn’t have worked anyway. Either he was rusty, a very real possibility, or she’d convinced herself that men were a distraction from her career. Maybe both.
He lay back on the sleeping bag and crossed his arms behind his head. When he’d first seen Elizabeth Gray, the owner of the salon, he’d thought she was so tightly wound that when she finally did spring loose, he’d hear the twang wherever he happened to be at the time. As her assistant, Lia was trying to be exactly like her. That was just wrong.
Because he was spending nights here, he’d overheard them talking the past few days, long after the place had closed down and regular folks had gone home to their families. He’d learned that the wedding-dress business was deadly serious, when he figured it would be all smiles and giggles and happiness. That seemed wrong, too.
There had to be a song in there somewhere.
Jordan got his musical inspiration from traveling around the country, working odd jobs and observing people. It kept him grounded and connected to his audience.
He might spend a day or two somewhere, or he might spend a couple of months, depending on whether he was recognized or not. No timetable, except that he was due back in Nashville next week to start his new CD. If he had a relative to visit, as he did here in Rocky Falls, so much the better. Since he was performing on most holidays, he liked connecting with family when he could.
During his travels, he’d slept in barns, his truck, lots of bed-and-breakfasts, campgrounds and more than a few tacky motels, but he’d never before slept in the dressing room of a store. It was now one of his favorites. He could work on his music without bothering Jimmy in his apartment, and until everybody left, he enjoyed listening to the women talk.
Jordan liked women, but contrary to his ladies’-man image, he avoided the groupies and the singing hopefuls who wanted to latch on to him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted, but early in his career, he’d learned that one-night stands left him broody and hollow. Women were too often dazzled by Jordan Christian, the singer, and forgot about Jordan Christian, the man.
To be honest, part of Lia’s appeal was that she not only didn’t recognize him, it wouldn’t matter if she did. She wasn’t the dazzled type. She also wasn’t the type to pull up stakes and follow him back to Nashville thinking he had more time to give to a relationship than he did.
Which made her just about perfect.
Shoot. He wished he had more time here, but he’d have to work with what he had. Music helped him think and he needed to think about what he wanted to do and how he was going to do it. Reaching for his guitar, he propped it on his chest. China. Lia had mentioned China.
Jordan feathered his fingers in a chord and then altered a note that added a vaguely eastern sound. He liked it. As he plinked the strings one at a time, a word faded into his mind. Butterfly.
Butterfly
In a cocoon…
They were all about butterflies here. Girls would come, find their dream dress, and for most of them, it would be the most expensive, elaborate and just plain biggest dress they’d ever wear. And afterward, they’d be changed. They’d emerge beautiful, glowing women. Butterflies.
Jordan turned out the light and softly strummed in the dark.
LIA WAS ON HOLD, racking up international long-distance charges. Even worse, she’d stretched the phone base and receiver as far as she could so she could hear J.C.’s voice.
For international calls, she had to use the salon’s corded phone, or she would have been sitting in the dressing room instead of standing in the hall outside it.
But she could hear. He was only singing bits and pieces as he worked out his song, but that voice of his just wrapped itself around her and wouldn’t let go. She hadn’t thought she liked deep voices, but his had grown on her in what? A couple of hours?
And now that she had come to like his voice, she admitted that the rest of him wasn’t so bad, either.
Lia groaned. She was not going to get hung up on an itinerant musician. She wasn’t. She wasn’t going to think about the one-sided dimple or the large hands or the nose or the confidently amused gleam in his eye. She was not going to be attracted to him. Okay, she was going to be attracted to him, but she was going to ride it out, that’s what she was going to do.
He sang another phrase, a little louder this time. His voice sounded just like dark syrup and she wanted to lick it up, preferably off him.
She whimpered.
4
LIA WAS ONE determined woman. Jordan had listened to her spend the better part of an hour working her way through a frustrating maze of people to reach her contact, only to discover that her contact had been waiting at the main switchboard ever since she’d discovered they’d lost the computer connection.
He did love a determined woman, especially one who was about to bust with frustration.
Generally, he preferred that a woman was about to bust from another kind of frustration, but until then, he enjoyed hearing Lia talk sweet as anything and then cuss like a cartoon sailor when she was on hold.
He’d never heard someone say “Fudge brownies!” with such savagery before. That was his favorite—fudge brownies. It could make a good song title. Most of her silly curses could. He was keeping a list.
“Lily of the valley!”
A new one. That was a goodie. On his laptop, Jordan switched from his music-notation program to the word-processing file and added “lily of the valley” to such expletives as “dreamsicle” and “shantung.” She said “shantung” like two words with the emphasis on the second syllable. If she was really mad, she added “silk” to the phrase, starting quietly and building, “Silk shan-TUNG!”
Damn. He was lying here, writing a new song, and falling in serious like with Lia whateverherlastnamewas.
Serious like.
The last time he’d felt the L word in any form for a woman, it hadn’t gone well. The relationship had degenerated into a tug-of-war over whose career was more important and who was going to have to accommodate whom at any given time. And neither he nor Shanna had been willing to give up what they’d been doing to follow the other one. Shanna had real talent. As did he. So they’d called it quits. Lesson learned.
Lia didn’t have a band of her own and concerts booked two years in advance. Lia—
He was getting way ahead of himself. An hour ago, he’d just wanted her to admit she found him attractive. Rattle her cage a little. Now, he wanted more.
Jordan closed his eyes and listened to her speak with pleasantly firm professionalism. He’d bet she was smiling because she’d read that people could hear smiles in your voice. And that would be the only reason she was smiling, because she sure wasn’t happy.
He could make her happy. Real happy.
And he’d do it by freeing her inner Lia.
He’d start not at her neck, but by unfastening that straight black skirt at the waist. This woman needed to breathe, breathe deeply and feed her muscles with oxygen. Then he’d unbutton a button at her neck—just one—and the buttons at her wrist, because he wanted her to be able to stretch and move.
An image of Lia stretching, catlike, before raising her arms overhead, drifted into his thoughts. He saw her arms slowly rise and her wrists emerge from the long sleeves. The cuffs flapped open. Her fingers flexed. Her wrists rotated. It was like watching a slow-motion video of a growing flower, maturing and opening.
Good Lord Almighty, since when had a woman’s wrists turned him on?
In his mind, she lowered her arms and smiled at him. He saw his own hands touch her shoulders, kneading away kinks and awakening muscles. She exhaled a sigh and tilted her head back. His hand reached forward and unbuttoned another button on her blouse, allowing him to slip his fingers beneath the collar and touch her skin. Warm. Smooth. Soft. As his thumbs massaged the knots beneath her nape, his fingers slipped the bra straps off her shoulders.
Jordan smiled, because in his mind, they were sturdy, utilitarian straps, and then he frowned because they’d left grooves in her shoulders.
Ooooookay. He was fantasizing in way too much detail.
He cleared his throat—and his mind—turned the light back on and concentrated on his song.
Which was about her, naturally.
So. He was attracted. He was interested. He was intrigued. And he was most definitely having carnal thoughts.
“Fudge brownies, fudge brownies, fudge brownies!”
Jordan chuckled to himself. Definitely carnal thoughts. He leaned his head against the fitting-room wall and listened.
“I know. I know. Yes, I told you not to access the network. It’s totally my fault. Zhin! Chill! Your face is fine. And at least we got the pinks. How do they look?”
Silence.
“Yeah, I had doubts about Morning Frost. Go ahead and substitute Morning Blush. I trust you. Well…I’m honored that you’re honored.”
Silence.
“Really? So they like the idea that much? Wow. I’m…Hey, I’ve got an idea. Tell them—no, ask them…well, first tell them it would be an honor, and then ask them if they’d pose for a photo we can hang in our salon. We can call them the Chrysanthemum Wedding team.”
