Jace (Kings of Country 1)

She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”

“You let me know when you figure it out.” Once they reached the jacked-up rental truck Luke had saddled him with, he opened the passenger door for her. The truck had a hydraulic lift, making that first step a doozy—especially for someone wearing a short, skin-tight miniskirt.

“A gentleman?” she said, taking his hand to step up into the large four-wheel drive.

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks to my grandmother.”

Try as she might, there was no way she was going to get into the truck cab without showing a lot of skin. Considering his grandmother wouldn’t take kindly to how much he was already appreciating the view of her long legs as she attempted to climb into his truck, he did what any gentleman would do.

He’d intended to lift her up and into the truck. That was the plan. But her scent slammed into him with dizzying impact. And once his hands settled on her waist, his brain short-circuited. Her fringed costume hid the fact that her midriff was exposed. Now, her skin, smooth as silk, electrified the tips of his fingers and had him seriously rethinking the gentleman thing.

She stared up at him, all emerald fire and pure temptation. A temptation he’d do well to resist. Getting caught up in Krystal King would be the stupidest thing he could do. He wasn’t stupid. With a heavy sigh, he lifted her, set her on the truck seat, and released her before he did something he’d regret. Regret washed over him the minute he let her go.

“You are a gentleman. I’ll have to thank your grandmother,” she said, smiling. “The gentleman is a dying breed.”

“I’m sure she hears you.” He winked, pushed the passenger door shut, and made his way around the front of his rental truck.

“I’m sorry,” Krystal said when he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. Good to talk about her, keeps the memories alive.” He started the truck, his gaze sweeping the parking lot. No sign of Mickey Graham or Luke.

“They’re gone?” she asked, her voice rough.

“Looks like it.” He glanced at her. “You okay?”

“Fine. I’m tough, don’t you know?” She looked at him, an edge to her voice. “Hard and cold and…unfaithful and irrational. I’m sure, somehow, tonight is—will be—all my fault.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window.

“I was there.” He assured her. “His fault.”

She didn’t respond, but he thought he saw a glimpse of a smile on her face reflected in the truck side-view mirror. She had every right to be upset; he was fired up and it wasn’t even his problem. But if he could distract her, he would. “How’d the VIP thing go?” he asked. “Anything exciting?”

“That was it.” She shuddered. “He was there, hanging on Momma’s arm, smiling that sleazy smile.”

There was so much wrong with that statement he didn’t know where to start. No matter how hard she denied it, she was hurting. So changing the subject might be the best option. “You always play acoustic guitar?”

She looked his way then. “Yes.”

“You use it when you’re composing?”

“It’s what I learned to play on.” She nodded. “One of Daddy’s old ones, all scratched up and faded teal. But when he gave it to me, it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. And it’s still the best present I ever got.”

He respected Hank King. Anyone who knew country music knew about the man’s humble roots, his determination to succeed, and his independence. His marriage to oil-princess CiCi Beaumont didn’t slow his drive or sway his ambition—he’d turned his career into a family affair. And, clearly, it had worked well for the family. “He knew what you had inside.”

“What do I have inside?” The tone of her voice changed, softening.

“Music.” He glanced at her then. “Your sister and brother can sing, but you…channel it, you create it. It lives inside of you. And when you sing, people feel it. Anyone who watches you would say the same thing.”

She stared at him, her gaze sweeping over his face before locking onto his mouth. The longer she stared, the harder it was to concentrate on his driving. When she bit the red fullness of her lower lip, he was damn near breathless.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“I’m trying to decide what you want?” The question was soft and thin.

He frowned, unsure how to proceed. Right now, with her looking at him, he wanted something. Her. Not as Krystal King from the music videos, TV interviews, or songs that filled his truck to and from work. But this Krystal King, sitting here in the dark with him, staring at his mouth, wanting him. Like he wanted her. Badly. “Right now? Directions to where I’m going.”

There was that smile and her husky laugh. When she looked at him again, he pretended not to notice. “My bus.” She shook her head. “Back the other way. Through the security gate.”

He turned around and followed her directions to one of the large black buses waiting.