The Music of Temptation

By Verity Jacobs

Margot Duke can’t keep her long-distance relationship alive any more than she can the cells that are supposed to be taking center stage in her PhD thesis. Both seem to be suffering an inexplicably long and drawn-out death, and she’s spent more than enough time fretting about it, without any solution in sight.

It figures that the one day she chooses to pack it all in and stop caring is the day she meets Jonathan Young.

Jonathan swings through town with his band, just long enough to knock Margot off her feet, and leave her feeling a little giddy in his wake. The encounter proves once and for all that her inter-continental love affair is over, but can she really stomach the idea of starting another one right on its heels? And with the darling of the indie rock world at that?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verity Jacobs
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311133793

Verity Jacobs

Verity Jacobs is a reformed scientist, who left the lab when she fell in love with writing about love. She lives with her husband and baby girl in London, where she dreams by day and writes all night long. She is addicted to the heart flutters and stomach flips of the fictional romance world.

Book preview

THE MUSIC OF

TEMPTATION

Verity Jacobs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Verity Jacobs

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

About the author

Other titles by Verity Jacobs

Connect with Verity Jacobs

Chapter 1

The problem with Skype, I thought, as I stabbed at my trackpad, trying blindly to click on the little red icon, is that you can’t hang up on anyone properly anymore.

Somehow I managed to end the call, watching as Eric’s face shrank into the ether, and realizing a little too late that slamming the lid of my laptop would have done the job nicely.

I groaned and squeezed my eyes tight, shaking my head in frustration and sending unshed tears flying.

Long-distance relationships suck, I decided, for the eleventh time that week. And long-distance relationships dying a slow and painful death were clearly the worst kind.

Eric and I had been living on different continents for over two years, but things had really only started to go awry in the last month — right after he’d admitted to having kissed one of our friends. He and Sasha had gone to law school together, and they’d always had a bit of a thing for one another, but I’d thought that she and I had developed enough of a bond to preclude anything happening between them. It seemed that I’d gotten that wrong.

The truth was that I’d been almost relieved when he’d told me. The strain of keeping an inter-continental love affair going had definitely started to get to me. Kissing a screen goodnight in Germany while my boyfriend was packing up to leave work in Montreal had pretty much lost all of its novelty value.

I’d found myself wishing, somewhat guiltily, that I could go back to being single again. Not so I could meet other people, although the thought had crossed my mind — phone sex was only so satisfying, even with a webcam, and the need for a little skin-on-skin action was growing ever stronger. More than that though, I simply felt like being independent for a while.

But somehow for Eric, kissing Sasha had been a slight excursion from our regular path down the road to old age together, and he was in no frame of mind to end the relationship over it. I, on the other hand, had finally woken up to the fact that I was ready to bring our five years together to an end. I just wasn’t in love with him anymore. And so began a series of very long, very difficult conversations, in which I tried to break up with Eric, and he refused to have it.

Our friend Stella was the unfortunate go-between in this mess — she counseled him over cocktails, and listened to me moan over Skype. She’d been his confidante after the incident with Sasha, and had witnessed my very apathetic reaction in the aftermath. Stella had somewhat reluctantly come around to Team Breakup. She loved us together, she reasoned, but she’d love us apart as well.

Eric had called that afternoon in an awful mood after a coffee date with Stella, during which she’d told him, in no uncertain terms, to get over it and go out with someone else.

You’re not even in love with her anymore, she’d said. You’re just in love with the idea of her.

Eric had evidently told her to mind her own goddamn business, and then called to admonish me for using her against him.

Why do you have to keep punishing me for this one little mistake? he’d asked, completely missing the point once again. I told you I was sorry for kissing her.

I was tired of talking about it and wished, rather selfishly, that it would all just go away. God knows I had enough to worry about: a handful of unfinished experiments, the specter of my doctoral thesis looming ever closer, and a nerve-racking annual appraisal coming up in the very near future.

I sighed heavily and put my laptop to sleep, stowing it in the drawer underneath my desk and packing my bag to leave. I flipped out a tiny mirror and reapplied my lip gloss, then lined my eyes and ran my fingers through my long brown ponytail. The mirror was nowhere near big enough to attempt a fair appraisal of my outfit, but it didn’t matter much — it was either the denim skirt and Chucks I’d been wearing all day, or nothing. And though Germany was probably liberal enough to tolerate the second option, I didn’t quite feel ready for a nudie run through town. I pulled a thin red cardigan over my black tank top and made for the door.

I may have had a thousand and one things to do — not the least of which was sort out the utter mess I’d made of my relationship — but the night ahead was reserved exclusively for fun. My new favorite band was playing live, and I was heading out to let all my stress drain away in a riff and a beer.

Stella had introduced me to Paperclouds the last time she was in town. I was hooked before we’d even finished listening to the album she had on her phone. In the weeks that followed I’d developed a healthy obsession, rolling the lyrics around in my head as I went through the mind-numbing motions of my daily work in the lab.

Science could certainly be exciting, but pipetting for hours on end left substantial room for doubt on that count.

Paperclouds gave me some respite from the repetition, filling up the silence in the lab, and my head, with soaring guitars and a rough kind of poetry that had slowly seeped under my skin. I was consumed by the music, and had been almost beside myself with happiness when I’d seen a poster in town advertising their show in Cologne, a short half-hour train ride from home. I’d messaged Stella immediately, even though it was still the middle of the night in Montreal, and performed a little dance of joy on the sidewalk by my tram stop.

In the days leading up to the gig, I’d begged the guys in my lab to come along. Tek had outright refused, being a devout fan of all things hip hop, and actively opposed to any music made with a string. Tom had made some noise about joining me, but I knew too well that his plans were always easily abandoned when the love of his life had something else in mind. That left my boss, Kate, whose beautiful brow had creased apologetically when she’d told me she couldn’t make it — meaning I knew I’d lost Tom too, since she was that selfsame love.

But as I walked out into the fading light of the early June evening, I felt a jolt of excitement to be heading out alone.

I’d been in Bonn a little over two years, working toward my PhD in cell biology. When I’d first arrived, I’d gone to any and every gig in town by myself, almost relishing the time alone. There was something deeply satisfying about having the guts to go to a show without knowing a soul in the room. It meant that I could be whoever I wanted to be — dance like a maniac, drink like a fish — and no one would be around to comment or judge me in the morning.

A return to my old routine seemed like an apt way to lift me out of the rut I’d slipped into. Besides, I needed some fun to ease the feeling that had been brewing in my belly since my phone call with Eric.

The club was housed in a grand old ballroom, and it was near empty when I arrived. Small clusters of punters ambled around the outskirts of the cavernous space as a lone roadie lugged cables and amps across the stage. I sidled up to the bar and turned to watch him work, sliding my elbows back onto the beer-sticky counter.

He was sweating lightly under the spotlights, a thin sheen visible across his brow, even from the back of the club where I was standing. He dropped an armful of cables and reached down to pull his sweater over his head, inadvertently dragging his t-shirt up with it. I swallowed a gasp as a lean, flat swathe of tanned skin slid into view, tightening something in my stomach and pooling heat in my cheeks.

The roadie righted his clothing and looked up to catch my eye, smirking to himself as he registered my obvious interest. I scowled and turned away to face the bar, appalled at the idea that some random guy had caught me staring. He was way too pretty — and clearly too arrogant — to be my type anyway.

I ordered a beer and took a sip, sighing as I felt the day’s anxiety start to melt away. I really needed to get out more.

I was reading a flyer stuck soggily to the bar when I felt his heat brush up against me. I turned fractionally to take in the soft olive green fabric that stretched over a flexing bicep as he pressed his weight into the bar.

I’ll have a beer, thanks, he said, in a low voice that seemed to resonate down the length of my body.

Ordinarily I would have bristled with disapproval at his presumptuous use of English in a German bar, but my attention was well and truly occupied by the tingling sensation his proximity had spread across my skin.

This wasn’t how I usually reacted to boys invading my personal space. Something was seriously wrong here. Or seriously right.

I cast my gaze up to his face and almost whimpered when I met his clear blue eyes, looking down at me under a dark brow and a mop of black hair. His lips twitched into a smirk again as he touched his bottle to mine and inclined his head.

Cheers, he said with a wink, before pushing off the bar and sauntering back into the space.

I scowled again, incensed at the idea that my body was betraying me by reacting so readily to so large an ego.

The roadie disappeared behind the stage as the music faded out and the support act took to the stage.

They were young — much younger than anyone in the bar — and clearly excited to be touring the continent. I nodded along to their poppier songs, and beat out a rhythm on my thigh, my smile growing wider as the space filled up with my fellow music lovers.

Gigs were always more fun when they were packed to the rafters.

By the time the support act finished, the room was heaving and the guys in the band were all high on the atmosphere they’d created.

As the lead singer barked out a feverish thanks to the thronging fans, I heard my name over the static from the speakers. I turned to see my friend Aiko skipping toward me with her boyfriend Stephan in tow.

Aiko was one of the few people I’d met outside of work in the two years I’d been in Germany. She was an exotic creature in these parts, her Japanese parents having emigrated to Hamburg in the early years of their marriage before she was born. She sounded exactly like any other German kid, but certainly stood out in a crowd of them, her gorgeous almond eyes and shiny black bob cutting a striking contrast through the sea of northern Europeans.

We exchanged hellos and caught up on the necessities: how my thesis was coming along, how her new job was going, and how excited we both were to be seeing Paperclouds play live — I’d given her a copy of the album last time we’d met.

By the time Stephan had grown bored of our incessant hi-speed prattling in English, our attention was drawn to the stage. A roar went up from the crowd, heralding the band’s entrance. My early arrival meant that the three of us had an excellent vantage point near the front, so we could clearly see the entire stage.

I realized with a start that I had no idea what the members of the band actually looked like. I knew that they were from New York, and I had a vague notion that there were five of them. But aside from some random preconceptions that they were all bearded and scruffy, I hadn’t thought about the appearance of the people making the music at all.

I chuckled to myself as the first of the five confirmed my predictions, ambling onstage under a baseball cap and a week’s worth of stubble. The drummer was next, his face clean shaven, but the long blond locks adequately making up for the beardlessness. An unassuming-looking redhead took to the keyboard, and another beard followed close behind, reaching for a bass guitar and throwing the strap over his head.

So far, so scruffy, I thought smugly, a beat before the smile was all but wiped off my face.

The roadie that I’d ogled earlier had followed the others on stage and was now stationed behind the mic, fiddling with the guitar slung across his hips.

He was ridiculously attractive, the green henley stretching snugly across his broad shoulders and the shaggy black mop framing a perfect face.

Still too pretty to be my type, I thought defiantly. So then why did I feel like I wanted to run my fingers through that hair?

He finished tuning and looked up to grasp the stand between both hands, uttering a low, sexy, Hello, Cologne, into the mic.

The crowd responded with cheers and whistles as the roadie-cum-rock-star raked his eyes across the room. As soon as his gaze found mine, he broke into a broad, indulgent smile, no doubt reacting to the astonishment written all over my face.

Jesus, I must look ridiculous, I cringed inwardly, working hard to compose myself.

I gotta tell you, Cologne, he continued, eyes still trained on me. I haven’t been in town long, but I definitely like what I see so far.

I gulped for air and looked at the floor, my cheeks flooding a self-conscious red. This was really not the way these things usually went. Ordinarily I had more than enough confidence to stare a man down. This boy had broken all my habits with a twitch of his admittedly fairly perfect lips.

Without waiting any longer, the singer cued the band into a crashing intro to one of their songs, setting the crowd off again. He hinged back from his hips, pulsing in time with the drummer as he thrashed out the rhythm guitar line.

Having his attention elsewhere gave me enough time to recover my wits and let the music wash over me. It was so much better live than it had been on my stereo. The melody sounded richer and more complex as it resonated through my body.

The song was largely instrumental, weaving the three guitars through each crescendo, the drums and keys pinning them down and guiding them as the wall of sound ebbed and flowed. The singer played most of the song to his fellow bandmates, and with his back toward me I found I could really lose myself in the music, letting go and moving with the beat.

I closed my eyes and let my body loose, feeling days’ worth of work-related tension fall away. I was so far gone by the time the song was drawing to a close that the sound of his voice almost took the wind right out of me.

What you do to me, he crooned, as the other instruments found their way to the end of the song.

That’s what you do to me, he whispered, playing with the phrase and repeating it — almost moaning it — while his bandmates traded chords for feedback and filled the air with buzzing static.

Still holding on to the mic, he tilted his head to the side and smiled, his eyes closed as the crowd erupted into ecstatic applause.

I stood stock still, rocked to my core and willing him to open his eyes and look at me again. I’d gone from bashful schoolgirl to sex-crazed lunatic in five minutes flat and I wanted nothing more than to drink in that gaze again.

I wanted to be the one doing whatever it was that had him in such a state. He was primal and needy, dripping in sex and relishing it — his wicked grin a testament to the fact that he was very aware of the charge he’d sent through the room.

Thank you, he boomed through the mic, straightening up and surging forward with the opening chords to the next song. It was clear I was going to have no respite from this insane assault to my senses.

I let go again and found my rhythm, determined to enjoy the music and defer whatever longing I was feeling to the end of the night. I needed this release. I closed my eyes and let it happen.

The singer didn’t look my way again for the rest of the set, which was a blessing, really, because it meant I could dance without inhibition. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he’d lost interest so quickly. He’d ignited something inside me that had been missing for a while.

Chapter 2

When the second encore rolled to a mind-numbing finish, I was well and truly exhausted, my top damp and my skirt sticking slightly to my thighs. Aiko and I stumbled to the bar, finding our way to the front of the queue as the place emptied out.

I was so thirsty, I downed most of my beer before we’d even made it back to Stephan on the dance floor. Feeling the alcohol pulsing through my bloodstream, I resolved to go a little slower so that I could make the night last longer. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time, and I certainly wasn’t about to let that go in a hurry, especially while Aiko and Stephan were still willing to party.

One song bled into another, and when the third song started, I left my friends smooching in order to refill our drinks. I leaned heavily into the bar and cast my eyes toward the mirror behind the rows of bottles. I was flushed and sweaty, but not entirely revolting. I looked like I’d just rolled out of bed after a particularly good lay, which is strangely not far from how I actually felt, having endured such a sexually charged musical assault for the past hour and a half.

You! I heard someone yell along the bar to my left.

I turned my head to find the drummer from Paperclouds grinning at me. You’re awesome!

I glanced behind me to see who he was talking to. By the time I turned back he was in my face, still smiling like a madman.

I saw you dancing through our whole set. You were amazing. Thank you, he said, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me into his sweat-soaked frame.

I giggled into his chest and looked up at him as he pulled away.

I should be thanking you — that set was incredible. I bit my lip. But, um, I can’t believe you could see me. That’s really embarrassing.

Germans aren’t really known for letting go on the dance floor—

Unless it’s techno, I chimed in.

Unless it’s techno, he conceded. You must know you stand out in a crowd of bobbing heads.

I guess I hadn’t really thought about it, I said truthfully. I just like dancing.

And you’re not German, are you? he