The Other Woman's Son. Darlene Gardner

a long nose, a sensuous mouth and eyes she could tell were coal-black even from this distance made it impossible to look away.

      Not until she tripped over a lyric she’d practiced a dozen times did she muster the will to wrench her gaze to the opposite side of the room.

      Who was he?

      Somebody distracting her from the song, an internal voice warned. A grave error for a singer. If she didn’t feel the music, how could she expect the audience to?

      Avoiding the man’s gaze, she finished the song, heartened by the applause. Now that she and Corrine had captured the audience’s attention, she recited the spiel she’d originally intended to open with.

      “Now that we know each other better, what do you say we get down to earth with some…” She paused, lowering her voice a full octave. “…‘Downhearted Blues.’”

      Despite her resolve not to look at him, a quarter of the way through the song her gaze swung to the dark-haired man. And found his eyes locked on her.

      She couldn’t say for certain why she’d picked him out of the crowd. Even though he was sitting down, she could tell he was a tall man. She preferred men who were less physically imposing and not so…intense.

      She didn’t need to look at him again to know he still regarded her with that same single-minded concentration. She drew energy from that knowledge, pouring it into her music, infusing it into her voice. By the end of the set, she’d thoroughly captured the crowd’s attention.

      “This is great. Did you hear the groan when you announced the break?” Corrine asked when they stepped off the stage.

      “I did,” Jenna said.

      “Keep it short. I like the idea of striking when the crowd is hot for us.”

      The adrenaline that had fueled Jenna through the performance dropped off, and she collapsed into a chair beside the wooden table nearest the stage. Corrine sat down next to her.

      “You knocked them dead.” Corrine reached for her hand, briefly squeezing it. “But next time, take pity on my nerves and show up on time.”

      “I couldn’t help it. I warned you it’s tough to get out of the office Friday nights. I have a job, remember?”

      “Don’t shoot the messenger, but I have to say this. Singing should be your job.”

      “Singing’s a guilty pleasure,” Jenna said. “Accounting pays the bills.”

      To bolster her position, Jenna could have pointed out the struggles Corrine endured to be a musician: Low pay, irregular bookings and zero job security. Before Corrine had married personal trainer Maurice Sweetland, her friend had worked on and off as a waitress to supplement her income.

      “So you keep saying,” Corrine said, but her attention wasn’t on Jenna.

      Following Corrine’s gaze, Jenna spotted the dark-haired man navigating the labyrinth of tables. She guessed his age at about thirty, his weight at maybe two hundred pounds, his height at six feet two. Too tall, she thought. His lean, hard body hinted that he worked out with weights. There was nothing soft about him except, perhaps, the texture of his thick hair, the ends of which nearly reached his collar. Too long. He wore jeans and a collarless, short-sleeved knit shirt in a deep shade of brown that hugged his chest. Too casual.

      It quickly became clear that the man was headed for their table. Jenna’s heart took a leap worthy of Dwyane Wade, her oldest nephew’s favorite NBA player.

      “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