Her Last Temptation. Leslie Kelly

my preference,” came to mind, but she bit back the reply. This game had gotten a bit too reckless for a woman who’d sworn off guys with trouble written all over them. This one was the absolute Yellow Pages of trouble. “Um…”

      “I somehow see you as a sax woman.”

      Her mouth dropped open. She was definitely a sex woman, which she was being reminded of with every passing second. But, lord, he’d skipped right past the subtle innuendo, hadn’t he?

      “Or maybe clarinet?”

      Her brow shot up. “You mean we were talking about musical instruments?”

      “Of course.” He managed to pull off a look of such complete innocence that Cat began to believe she really had misread their conversation. “What else would we have been talking about?”

      Feeling heat rise in her face, she opened her mouth, then closed it, wondering how to gracefully back out of this enormous foot-in-mouth moment. She was about to tell him she was a virtuoso on the kazoo when she saw his shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.

      “Dog,” she muttered, laughing even as she shook her head in admiration of how well he’d played her.

      “Cat,” he replied.

      “Yes. Cat Sheehan.”

      He nodded. “I know.”

      Interesting. He knew who she was. Which left her at a disadvantage. “And you are…?”

      He paused, a frown pulling at his brow so briefly she almost missed it. Then he admitted, “Call me Spence.”

      She’d rather call him guy-destined-to-be-naked-in-her-bed-by-midnight.

      Not happening, she reminded herself. This is supposed to be the new you.

      The new her might be trying to call the shots in the brain. But the old Cat—the hungry one whose entire body was sparking in reaction to this stranger named Spence—had control of everything from the neck down. Especially the, uh, softest parts.

      Still, even the old, reckless Cat had never done the one-night stand thing. Despite what her sister might imagine, Cat wasn’t that danger-loving. With a man like this one, however, she was beginning to understand the illicit allure of a bar hookup.

      “Hi, Spence. Welcome to Temptation,” she finally said.

      “I like that.”

      “What?”

      “Temptation.”

      Ooooh…definitely her kinda guy.

      “I also liked the sign over your front door.”

      She instantly knew which one he meant—the hand-painted sign inviting those outside to Enter Into Temptation. She’d thought up the logo three years ago when she and Laine had taken over the bar from their mother, changing the name from Sheehan’s Pub to Temptation. “Thanks. Seemed appropriate.”

      “I just didn’t realize it was going to be quite so prophetic,” he added, his tone husky.

      She got his meaning instantly. He was every bit as tempted as she was. A long, shuddery breath escaped her lips. Unable to do much more than breathe and stand still, she stared at him. Right into those fathomless eyes.

      He stared right back, just as intently, neither of them laughing or flirting any longer. They said nothing, yet exchanged a wealth of information. In twenty seconds they covered the basics—yes, they were both interested, and, yes, they were both aware of each other’s interest. But it went deeper…they each knew that they could play games or do away with them right now. Because the palpable attraction made something happening between them inevitable.

      They all but named the time and place.

      Then his lips—God, those lips—parted, and he drew in a long, slow breath of air. His lids lowered slightly, half closing over his eyes, drawing her attention to his long, spiky black lashes. Visceral pleasure accompanied his inhalation, and she realized what he was doing.

      Smelling her perfume. Inhaling it. Savoring it. Gaining sensual pleasure from the aroma of her skin.

      Dangerous. Oh, he was dangerous. Because he was so damned appealing. A man who appreciated a woman’s scent would appreciate so many other delightful things, wouldn’t he? Tastes, touches, sensations.

      Her pulse raced as the thick, heady silence dragged on, in spite of the cacophony all around them. At some point, she noted Julie pushing away and getting off her stool, until Cat and Spence were the only two people in this small corner of the bar.

      Surrounded by others, but completely alone.

      Cat hesitated as a sensation of déjà vu washed over her. How many times had she stood in this room, filled with chattering people—customers, family, friends—and felt that exact sensation of being alone, separated? It felt as if the world was moving all around her but she was frozen for one moment in time, looking at her life and wondering if she really was traveling the same path as everyone else. Because she so rarely felt in step with anyone.

      Only now, in this timeless instant when she wondered just where she belonged and where she was going, she wasn’t completely by herself. This dark-haired stranger was right there with her.

      “Cat?” he asked, obviously sensing her confusion.

      She blinked rapidly and shook her head, shaking off not only the strange sensation, but also the intensity of the moment. Forcing herself to focus, she shifted her gaze away, toward a customer who’d just taken a seat at the far end of the bar. She stepped over to him, trying to convince herself she had to get back to work when, in truth, she needed a chance to regain her sanity.

      “The usual?” she said to the guy in the brown sport coat, a Friday night regular who liked his women easy and his martinis dirty.

      He nodded. “If you can…spare the time,” he said with a truly amused grin, probably having heard the quiver in her voice.

      Behind her, she heard a long, low chuckle. As throaty and sensuous as every word Spence had spoken.

      She deserved the reaction. She’d looked away first, losing their silent game of chicken, shocking even herself. Cat didn’t remember the last time that had happened to her.

      Being disconcerted around a man was something she had seldom experienced. Cat Sheehan had been able to hold her own with men since the tenth grade when she’d started busing tables at the family bar. She’d sassed the old-timers, ducked away from grabby strangers and eventually chosen her first lover from among the Saturday night regulars.

      Never before had a man taken the upper hand from her—unless she’d wanted him to. This guy with his jet-black hair and his badass grin and his big, hard guitar had done it with a stare.

      Which was why, after she’d served Mr. Sport Coat his martini, she was having such a hard time thinking of a single thing to say to the still-staring musician. How could she even try to explain away that silence as something other than what they both knew damn well it had been?

      An invitation. A challenge. A promise. None of which she had any business accepting.

      But oh, how tempting it was to consider it.

      Good Lord, no wonder she was having a hard time coming up with any kind of response—much less a sassy comeback. Cat felt completely at a loss for words. Continuing the flirtation would be reinforcing her implied acceptance of every wicked thing he’d suggested with his eyes.

      Ending it might just kill her.

      He finally spared her by steering the conversation into neutral territory. “I do have the right place, don’t I? You’re expecting the Four G’s?”

      The Four G’s…she instantly remembered the band from Tremont—the next town over—which she’d hired for this weekend’s live entertainment. Of course he’s with the band, idiot. Isn’t he carrying a guitar case? She cleared her throat