Branded Sanctuary Read Online Free PDF Page A

hoping to get lucky.”
    “I got lucky the moment you dialed my number. Want to do another exercise? This one I call WPS. It helps the beginners get over self-consciousness.”
    “I‟m afraid to ask what WPS means.”
    “Worst Possible Song. Basically, I come up with a song for you to sing to me, the one you‟d least likely pick for yourself, because it wouldn‟t fit your voice or comfort zone. Of course, I usually have a karaoke machine to help them with the words. For our purposes, I‟ll pick something familiar. You can sing what you remember and improvise the rest. Learning to think on your feet, in front of an audience, is also important.”
    “I honestly can‟t believe you‟re on the other side of this phone, sounding so teacherly. Not wearing a stitch. It‟s really turning me on.” His laugh made her grin, an expression so out of practice, instinctive or deliberate, it was a real surprise to feel it stretching her face. “Focus,” he repeated, even more sternly. “You‟re already a problem student.”
    “That‟s what my teachers said. I just learned faster than everyone else and got bored.”
    “Sounds like a challenge to me. Lucille, by Kenny Rogers.”
    “Oh my God, I love that song. I dated a guy who was a roadie for him on his nostalgia tour a few years back. There was this seventy-year-old woman up front and, no kidding, she threw her panties at him.”
    “Your roadie or Kenny Rogers?”
    “Kenny Rogers, jerk. But Stan had to retrieve the panties so nobody slipped on them. He was a sweetheart. He made a point to get them back to her after the concert.
    Told her that, while Kenny appreciated the gesture, he thought some lucky guy probably couldn‟t wait to see her in those crotchless purple mesh panties.”
    “You made that up.”
    “Truth is always stranger than fiction. Are you really going to make me sing Lucille ?”
    “I‟d never make you do anything.”
    “But you‟ll think I‟m a chicken.”
    “ Le petit poulet. Already do, remember?”
    “Will you say something else in French? Or Italian? Can you do an Aussie accent?”
    “You give me a song, love, I‟ll do anything you want.”
    A shiver ran up her spine at the broad tone that brought to mind Heath Ledger.
    “All right, here goes. But you really do have a masochistic bent.”

    “That‟s sadistic, love. A masochist craves pain. A sadist gives it. Though that‟s a brush with too broad a stroke, to my way of thinking. Start singing, pretty sheila.”
    “I have an Australian friend who says that word‟s old-fashioned now.” Chloe rolled over on her back, guiding her fingers through her headboard and holding there as she stared at her ceiling. “I wish it wasn‟t. Don‟t talk that way anymore, though. I like your voice, just as it is.”
    “Anything you want,” he said softly. “Will you sing for me, Chloe?” Closing her eyes, she hummed a few bars, taking a moment to collect her thoughts before starting the first stanza. A man seeing a woman in a smoky bar, thinking he was going to get lucky, never realizing he‟d stepped into a tragedy of love lost.
    When she was done, Brendan was quiet. “I like your voice,” he said. “Nice and off tune, pretty and feminine. I can‟t believe you knew every word. You sang it like you felt it, no self-consciousness at all. You‟d be great in my class.” The sincere compliment was a small thing, but it was an accomplishment. Giving her a feeling she hadn‟t had in awhile—that she had something worthwhile to offer. She wanted to push away the morbid thought, and the emotions that crowded in behind it, but the refrain of the song haunted her mind. Why did you leave me?
    “Brendan, would you do something for me?”
    “Anything.”
    “Are you really still naked?”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “Good. Can you put your hand on your heart?”
    A space of time, then: “It‟s there now.”
    “Can you count out the beats? There‟s this theory, that when two people focus on the rhythm