hidden or denied.
And she had answered him.
The possibilities were as dazzling as they were terrifying. If she didn’t get off the stage soon, her knees would finish turning to jelly and her confusion would be obvious to anyone with eyes.
As though Bobby sensed Nicole’s need for time to gather herself, he walked out onstage, taking the attention from her. With a sweep of his thick arm, he gestured to the handsome, hard-faced man standing close to her.
“Welcome to Hawaii, brother. Pele waits long time, sure-sure.” He turned toward the audience and said loudly, “Allow me to introduce Dr. Chase Wilcox—vulcanologist, biologist, and the hottest goddamn drummer I’ve ever heard!”
The volume of the audience’s cheering shot up wildly.
For the first time since Chase had seen Nicole’s flame-colored hair at the back of the stage, he was truly aware of the people beyond the footlights. Beneath his black mustache, his mouth curved up at one corner. He had come way too close to giving the folks a spectacle they never would have forgotten. As it was, he was lucky his lavalava was wrapped so that it concealed his arousal.
When he bowed in acknowledgment of the audience’s enthusiasm, he felt Nicole tugging discreetly against his hard grip. He eased it, but not enough for her to slip away. Her skin felt too good against his palm for him to risk her escaping.
Nicole felt the measured grip and knew that she wasn’t free. Not yet. Half dazed, she remembered wondering if Dane’s brother had a sense of humor or was a womanizer.
Dumb questions.
Better if she had wondered what he would do if she fell into his arms and begged to be womanized.
A sideways glance at him didn’t help to settle her mind. Tall, powerful, self-contained. He had the kind of dark masculinity most men would have killed for. His smile was piratical. He looked like he didn’t have a care—or a brain—in the world.
She couldn’t believe that this skilled, passionate drummer was the internationally renowned vulcanologist Dr. Chase Wilcox, the man who had been selected to author a big, glossy book about Hawaii’s kipukas.
With a curiosity she couldn’t conceal, she weighed the man standing so close beside her. He had dense black hair and fascinating ice-gray eyes. Once she got past their glittering beauty, she could see the intelligence beneath. And something more. Something . . . hard. His face was strong, angular, weathered, defined by twin black arches of eyebrow and a midnight gleam of mustache above a mouth whose heat and sensuality she could barely believe.
Hastily she dragged her mind away from his tempting lips to the rest of him. His shoulders were wide and well muscled. His naked chest was darkened by sun, thatched with curling, glossy black hair, and gleaming with sweat. A black lavalava rode low on his lean hips. The cloth’s scattering of scarlet flowers only heightened his almost overwhelming maleness.
Everything about Chase Wilcox was hard, from the line of his jaw to the fingers that were clamped just short of pain around her wrist.
At Bobby’s signal the curtains closed once more. He stretched his arms. With one hand he briskly rubbed lips that were nearly numb from the panpipes’ demands. With the other hand he caught the back of Nicole’s head and tugged. Automatically she braced her free hand on his heavily muscled shoulder and came up on tiptoe to receive his congratulatory kiss.
Chase’s eyes narrowed when he saw Nicole’s relaxed acceptance of Bobby’s embrace. The kind of mutual physical ease they shared came only from being siblings, longtime friends—or lovers.
Logic said they were lovers, because they sure didn’t come from a common gene pool. On the other hand, they could have been just friends.
Yeah. Sure. And he could have been the Faerie Queen.
The stab of anger Chase felt was as reckless as his refusal to release Nicole’s wrist. He knew it, but it didn’t change anything. He also knew if
And she had answered him.
The possibilities were as dazzling as they were terrifying. If she didn’t get off the stage soon, her knees would finish turning to jelly and her confusion would be obvious to anyone with eyes.
As though Bobby sensed Nicole’s need for time to gather herself, he walked out onstage, taking the attention from her. With a sweep of his thick arm, he gestured to the handsome, hard-faced man standing close to her.
“Welcome to Hawaii, brother. Pele waits long time, sure-sure.” He turned toward the audience and said loudly, “Allow me to introduce Dr. Chase Wilcox—vulcanologist, biologist, and the hottest goddamn drummer I’ve ever heard!”
The volume of the audience’s cheering shot up wildly.
For the first time since Chase had seen Nicole’s flame-colored hair at the back of the stage, he was truly aware of the people beyond the footlights. Beneath his black mustache, his mouth curved up at one corner. He had come way too close to giving the folks a spectacle they never would have forgotten. As it was, he was lucky his lavalava was wrapped so that it concealed his arousal.
When he bowed in acknowledgment of the audience’s enthusiasm, he felt Nicole tugging discreetly against his hard grip. He eased it, but not enough for her to slip away. Her skin felt too good against his palm for him to risk her escaping.
Nicole felt the measured grip and knew that she wasn’t free. Not yet. Half dazed, she remembered wondering if Dane’s brother had a sense of humor or was a womanizer.
Dumb questions.
Better if she had wondered what he would do if she fell into his arms and begged to be womanized.
A sideways glance at him didn’t help to settle her mind. Tall, powerful, self-contained. He had the kind of dark masculinity most men would have killed for. His smile was piratical. He looked like he didn’t have a care—or a brain—in the world.
She couldn’t believe that this skilled, passionate drummer was the internationally renowned vulcanologist Dr. Chase Wilcox, the man who had been selected to author a big, glossy book about Hawaii’s kipukas.
With a curiosity she couldn’t conceal, she weighed the man standing so close beside her. He had dense black hair and fascinating ice-gray eyes. Once she got past their glittering beauty, she could see the intelligence beneath. And something more. Something . . . hard. His face was strong, angular, weathered, defined by twin black arches of eyebrow and a midnight gleam of mustache above a mouth whose heat and sensuality she could barely believe.
Hastily she dragged her mind away from his tempting lips to the rest of him. His shoulders were wide and well muscled. His naked chest was darkened by sun, thatched with curling, glossy black hair, and gleaming with sweat. A black lavalava rode low on his lean hips. The cloth’s scattering of scarlet flowers only heightened his almost overwhelming maleness.
Everything about Chase Wilcox was hard, from the line of his jaw to the fingers that were clamped just short of pain around her wrist.
At Bobby’s signal the curtains closed once more. He stretched his arms. With one hand he briskly rubbed lips that were nearly numb from the panpipes’ demands. With the other hand he caught the back of Nicole’s head and tugged. Automatically she braced her free hand on his heavily muscled shoulder and came up on tiptoe to receive his congratulatory kiss.
Chase’s eyes narrowed when he saw Nicole’s relaxed acceptance of Bobby’s embrace. The kind of mutual physical ease they shared came only from being siblings, longtime friends—or lovers.
Logic said they were lovers, because they sure didn’t come from a common gene pool. On the other hand, they could have been just friends.
Yeah. Sure. And he could have been the Faerie Queen.
The stab of anger Chase felt was as reckless as his refusal to release Nicole’s wrist. He knew it, but it didn’t change anything. He also knew if
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