She couldn’t believe she’d been the one to find him, since she was usually the one sent to the long-shot locales. The song washed over her as she quietly entered the small-town bar, the male voice full of gravel and grit, caressing her skin like the hands of a rough lover. Making her shiver with a need she forced herself to restrain for the sake of the unwary patrons. Son of a bitch. He could sing and play the guitar? No one had mentioned that little tidbit in his file. Rose was a sucker for musicians. Musicians and drop-dead sexy men who looked like they were carved out of sharp rock and bone and broken dreams. His pictures and what little video she’d had time to peruse had not done justice to this Scotsman’s appeal. He was big. He was bearded. He was a ginger with ice-blue eyes she wanted move closer to appreciate. The song he sang was soft and melancholy, his brow furrowed in a brooding expression that she knew came naturally to him.
