Page 60 of Just What She Needed

"It's not the clothes." Rhett ran the tip of her index finger over the carefully cultivated stubble that covered his chin and jaw.

Rhys took her hand in his and placed a gentle bite on her finger before he glanced over his shoulder.

Rhett followed his gaze and was relieved to note that no one was paying them any attention but were still glued to the NASCAR game.

Semi-privacy assured for the moment, Rhys put one hand on the back of her neck and pulled her face to his. While the kiss was soft, there was still enough heat in it to make small beads of perspiration break out along Rhett's hairline under her bangs. An almost inaudible moan came from her throat.

"Don't make those noises, not here," Rhys warned in a low voice. "There's no time for me to take care of them right now, much as I'd like to."

"Fine, I'll try to control myself."

Rhys grinned at the mock exasperation in her voice. "I'm so glad you're here."

Though the words were voiced lightly, Rhett caught the depth of sincerity behind them. She placed a hand on his cheek.

"I'm glad I'm here, too."

A commotion in the doorway next to them broke the moment, and Rhys turned his head to watch four men bustle into the room carrying a plethora of white bags.

"All right," one of the men barked. While not overly muscular, the blond, middle-aged man gave off an aura of strength despite the riot of curls that fell down over his ears. "Shut that shit off and come eat. Since I had to send someone out after this, you're going to eat it while it's hot."

"Our tour manager, Mike." Rhys nodded toward the man. "And two of his minions. The very large bloke who looks like he's going to single-handedly consume all the food is my head of security. His name is Terry, but everyone calls him T."

The scent of the food struck her nose, and Rhett's mouth started to water. "Is that Chinese food that T is about to steal from us?"

"Yeah." Rhys stepped back and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. "We're all a little tired of the usual stuff they feed us and wanted something different."

"What do they usually feed you?"

"Steak, baked potato, either asparagus or green beans depending on where we are. Oh, they do mix it up and prepare other things, but they seem fixated on steak." Rhys groaned as his stretch reached its zenith, then lowered his arms again.

"Oh, poor babies." Rhett worked hard to hold back the eye roll that wanted to accompany her statement. "Have to eat steak every night."

Rhys snorted laughter through his nose. "First world problems, right? Oh, by the way. I didn't know what to get for you, so I just sent out for what you had when we ate Chinese last time."

"Lo Mein, General Tso's Chicken and pork fried rice?" At his nod, she smiled. "Good. That's the only thing I ever eat when I have Chinese food."

"Really? That's all?"

"Oh, come on, Rhys." She gave him a gentle push on his chest. "You know how I feel about vegetables." The last word was almost spat out, as though she were talking about raw sewage.

"What's wrong with vegetables?" growled a menacing sounding voice.

Rhett looked over Rhys's shoulder at the voice's owner. Ross Kellum, lead guitarist for Illicit, could have stood in for a pillaging Viking with no questions asked. A light mustache and beard of golden brown matched the elbow length mane on his head, and his straight brows and narrow eyes gave the impression of mayhem ready to erupt at any moment. Though he was the same height as Rhys he seemed bigger because of his heavily muscled arms and chest. Rhett studied him for a moment and caught the mischievous twinkle in his fjord-blue eyes.

"I'm just doing it for your well-being," she told him. "The less vegetables I eat, the more for you."

Well-shaped lips broke into a smile. "You must be Rhett. I'm Ross. Good to meet you." He cut his eyes at Rhys. "Tell this idiot to quit slobbering all over you and y'all come eat."

Laughing under his breath, Rhys took Rhett's hand and led her after Ross to the round table Mike appropriated for the food. Take out boxes were being distributed right and left by the ring of people that made it impossible to get near the table.

"Hey." Drew Cooper held up a container and squinted at the writing on it. "Where the hell's Rhett?"

Like everyone else in Illicit, with the exception of Rhys, Drew had a thick Southern accent, so his question sounded more like "Where's the hellcat?" Mike thought so, anyway, because he looked up with a confused frown.

"Which hellcat?"

Drew turned annoyed eyes his way. "Not hellcat. Where. The. Hell. Is. Rhett."