A totally stupid warmth melted over her as Adam ushered her to a table. He had never brought a woman here before. True, he hadn’t exactly chosen to bring her, either, but that wasn’t the point. She wasn’t 100 per cent sure what the point actually was, but right now she didn’t care.
Olivia watched as Adam strode to the stage and seated himself behind a pair of bongo drums. He stroked the top and drummed his fingers in a gentle experimental tattoo. Saru leapt up next to him and they had a quick whispered confab with Marley before the strains of one of the world’s best-known reggae songs strummed from his guitar, the drums in perfect accompaniment as Marley started to sing.
He had a magnificent voice, but Olivia’s eyes were riveted to Adam and a whole different level of desire swathed her. Utterly relaxed, lost in the moment and the music, he looked in his element. His large hands moved as if he and the instrument were one—as if he’d been born playing the bongos. When he and Saru chimed in for the chorus, Olivia picked out Adam’s deep melodious voice and a shiver trembled over her spine.
Envy touched her. The idea of losing herself in something, really believing there was nothing to worry about, was alluring in the extreme. Maybe for a couple of hours tonight, though, she could do that. Be Olivia on holiday—actually be the Queen of Chill for real.
She drank another glug of beer and allowed her sandal-clad toes to tap the wooden floor. Like the rest of the clientele she found her body swaying as the set progressed. Her heart beat faster and faster as she watched Adam, his hands a blur now, his muscular forearms sheened with sweat, thick thighs pressed against the drums. He was so damn hot her insides twisted with the sheer wanting of him.
Marley bowed at the close of the song even as the clientele called for more.
Saru stood up. ‘Anyone else want a go?’
A Thai man at an adjoining table jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll sing,’ he said.
Saru plucked a guitar down from the selection hanging behind the stage. ‘Elvis takes the stage,’ he announced as he passed the instrument over. ‘Olivia? You want to try the drums?’
It took Olivia a second to understand the question. ‘Me?’ she said. ‘Um...I’m fine watching...but thanks all the same. I’m not really very musical.’
Then Adam looked up from the drums and made a come hither movement with his hand, and of their own volition her feet propelled her upward and onward. Nooooooo! This was the world’s very worst idea. The last drum she’d played she’d been aged two and it had been saucepan-shaped. Yet she kept right on going to where Adam waited at the edge of the stage, his hand outstretched.
As his fingers clasped hers Olivia bit back a gasp even as she cursed her own imagination. Because that was all it could be. Electric currents could not be generated by desire; it was a scientific impossibility.
Once on stage Olivia looked around the bar, lit up by a scattering of red-, yellow-, and green-coloured paper lanterns, its relaxed patrons all chatting as ‘Elvis’ limbered up on the guitar. Saru drummed an impromptu solo, the haunting beat carrying on the night breeze wafting in through the open windows.
‘I’m really not sure about this,’ Olivia said.
‘It’ll be fun,’ Adam said. ‘Give it a go. Come on. The Queen of Chill would.’
‘Ha ha!’ Olivia hesitated for a moment and then pinned her shoulders back. What the hell? If she stepped off this stage now she’d regret it. After all, when would she ever get the chance to do something like this again?
It would be an experience, and it was worth the headiness provoked by Adam’s proximity. He was buzzing; she could feel the vibe jumping off him. His scent assaulted her senses, the pure masculine tang of salt and his underlying woodsy scent sending her dizzy with longing.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
She followed him to the bongos, dropped down onto the low stool behind them, and pulled the drums forward between her thighs. The leather was warm from Adam’s body heat and Olivia shuddered.
And then she melted as he slid onto the stool behind her, the rock-solid wall of his chest against her back. A strange noise emerged from her mouth, half mewl, half groan, as his arms slipped round her waist and his big hands covered hers.
‘Meep.’
‘You need to sit on the edge of the seat,’ he said softly, his breath tickling her ear. ‘And position your legs at a ninety-degree angle.’
‘Meep.’
Get a grip. He is positioning you to play the drums. Nothing else. This is not the time to channel Roadrunner.
‘You OK?’ Adam’s voice held amusement and sin; the combination was lethal.