Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Hot Cowboy Nights series by Victoria Vane
Mojave Desert, Southern California
Lying on his belly behind an outcropping of rocks, Reid squinted into the scope of his rifle. He was sweating like a pig in his dirt-encrusted ghillie suit and didn’t even want to think about how he smelled after three days in hundred-plus temps. He shifted his body. His legs were numb from hours of observation, but he still felt the gravel chewing through the suit and into his skin.
“You got plans after this, hermano?” asked his spotter, Rafael Garcia. They’d met during basic eighteen months ago and had done two tours together. Six months after returning, they’d both earned the coveted Scout Sniper hog’s tooth they proudly wore around their necks.
“Nothing special,” Reid answered. “You?”
“Oh yeah. Big plans, considering this is our final weekend of freedom and the last chance to score some ass. You need to come along this time.”
Reid squinted through his riflescope at the village below where the USMC had re-created a near perfect model of their mission theater, complete with hundreds of Arabic speakers who wandered the streets and haggled in the staged marketplace. It was quiet below; maybe too quiet.
“No can do, Raf. I’ve got phone calls to make and a ton of shit to take care of before we deploy.” In truth, he was still licking his wounds.
What pissed him off most wasn’t so much getting dumped, as he’d half-expected that, but her chosen method. After two years together, she hadn’t even allowed him the satisfaction of tearing up a letter. That’s what really sucked. Rather than a letter or even a phone call, she’d sent a Dear John text on New Year’s Eve: Can’t wait for U anymore. :-( So sorry Reid. Take care. Tonya.
Five months later, he still wasn’t over it. After seeing so many guys dumped during deployments—and now having experienced it himself—he’d banished any thought of women from his mind.
“C’mon, hermano,” Garcia cajoled. “You’ve still got all next week to take care of that shit. You gotta get some while the getting is still good. We’re looking at eight straight months of chaqueta.”
“Chaqueta? Jacket?” Reid translated with a frown.
“No, man.” Garcia grinned, fisting his hand and mimicking jacking off.
“You speak English as well as I do. Why can’t you just use it?” Reid asked.
“You’re not in Wyoming anymore. You need to learn some Spanish. Hispanics are the fastest growing minority. Especially here in So Cal. Who knows? We may even outnumber you gringos before the end of the century. Just think of it as broadening your cultural horizons.”
“Yeah? Well, I think my cultural horizons are gonna expand real soon, considering where we’re headed.”
“And the hijos de puta madres over there will kill you for touching their women. Shit, they don’t even let you look at them. For the next eight months, we’ll all be doing puñetas.”
Garcia was right. The coming months would be almost monastic. No sex. No booze. A supreme test of both celibacy and abstinence. Most of the grunts would spend the next week drinking till they puked and fucking anything that moved. He didn’t judge, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be part of it.
“Tell you what, ése,” Garcia continued, as he raised his binoculars, “if you go this weekend, I’ll even take you someplace where your cowboy ass will feel right at home.”
“In Southern California?”
“Yeah. We have rednecks in tejanos out here too. Mierda,” Garcia swore softly. “Insurgent sighted at two o’clock. He’s got an RPG shouldered.”
“Fuck. Can’t see him.”
This was the final test of a grueling, sleep-deprived seventy-two hours, and he was about to fail. Reid pulled back from his scope to blink the dust out of his eyes, then scanned for his target again. “Sighted,” Reid confirmed with relief. “Got the son of a bitch in the crosshairs.”
“Too slow, hombre. He’s already taking cover. Looks like he’s going to launch from behind that concrete wall.”
“The hell he is.” At twelve hundred yards, it was the longest shot Reid had ever attempted, but his bipod supported the deadliest weapon he’d ever fired. The M82A3 with fifty-caliber rounds could certainly handle the distance and even a concrete wall. Hell, it could probably take out a fucking tank from a mile away.
“Wind call?” he asked.
“Steady at seven miles per hour. No cross breeze,” Garcia replied.
Reid doped his scope.
“Push it left point two,” Garcia instructed.
“You sure about that?” Reid had estimated point three. He was rarely off, but Garcia knew his shit. He’d proven to be the best spotter in their class.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You gotta trust me.” Garcia echoed his own thoughts, but Reid was accustomed to relying on his instincts. It was hard to turn that over to someone else. “Tell you what,” Garcia continued, “if you miss the mark, you’re off the hook. If you hit, you’re the designated driver.”
To any other guy that kind of bet might provide incentive to miss, but Garcia knew him too well. Reid took pride on never missing a shot and had an entire trophy room of big game back in Wyoming to prove it.
“All right by me.” Reid made the necessary adjustment and honed in once more on his target, a silhouette behind a concrete wall that stood over half a mile away.
One shot. One kill. The scout sniper mantra. It was time to take it.
Reid inhaled slow and deep. Exhaling, his finger tightened on the trigger. He held the next breath for a three count and then slowly and deliberately squeezed. The recoil rammed his right shoulder. The discharge blasted his ears. Three seconds later, half the concrete wall disintegrated before their eyes.
“Mierda!” Garcia lowered his spotting scope with a grin. “That thing’s a fucking cannon. So, are we gonna take a taxi or do you wanna drive?”
* * *
“I don’t know why I let you drag me here. You know as well as I do that I’m gonna hate this place.”
Yolanda pouted. “C’mon, chica. When was the last time you had any fun? You’ve had your nose buried in your books for months, and now you’re gonna be working all summer in the middle of nowhere. Just give it a chance, OK?”
“There’s plenty of other places we could have gone besides a redneck club,” Haley groused.
“But this place has the biggest dance floor in California. Four thousand square feet to shake your booty.”
“You’re the dancer, not me.” The club scene wasn’t Haley’s thing. At all.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket. It’ll be fun.”
Haley cast a disparaging eye over the line of girls in their cowboy boots and ass-squeezing Daisy Dukes. “The place is a bit testosterone-challenged, don’t you think?”
Yolanda laughed. “Don’t worry about that. In a couple of hours, it’s gonna be swarming with horny marines.”
“Great.” Haley rolled her eyes.
“You’re the one who mentioned testosterone,” Yolanda said, grinning.
Although they’d been best friends since junior high school, she and Yolanda had vastly different priorities. Haley didn’t even try to keep up with her best friend’s revolving-door love life.
“Rarely.” Yolanda winked at her. “There’s a lot more to life than books, Haley, but don’t take my word for it. It’s time you discover for yourself.”
“What’s the point?” Haley argued. “I don’t have time to date.”
“Who says anything about dating?” Yolanda replied. “We’re just here to have a good time, right? It doesn’t have to lead to anything.
“Look,” Yolanda continued, “if you don’t want to be accosted by horny marines, just stay out on the floor. You don’t even need a partner. They play mainly line dances here, and most of those guys are too macho to line dance.”
“I’m just going to make an ass of myself.”
“It’s why we came early,” Yolanda countered. “So you can take advantage of the lessons. If you don’t catch on, no problema. They’ll mix it up later with some freestyle hip-hop. C’mon. At least give it a chance. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, barrels of fun,” Haley mumbled.
They moved slowly up the line.
The big, bald, unsmiling bouncer held out his hand. “ID.”
“You’d think they’d be a bit friendlier,” Haley groused as both girls fished out their wallets.
Yolanda presented her license and promptly received an over-twenty-one bracelet.
“Pay to the right,” he said. “Next.”
Haley received a scowl when she presented her ID. “Put out both hands.”
She complied and got a big black X on the back of each with a Sharpie. Great. If she wanted ink on her body, she’d have gotten a tat.
“We enforce the law,” he warned. “Try to drink, and we’ll boot your ass. Pay to the right.”
She stepped to the counter already feeling like a felon.
“Twenty bucks,” the cashier announced without even looking up.
Haley presented her debit card.
The woman shook her head. “Cash only.”
“Cash? Who carries cash anymore?”
“No cash. No entry.”
“Just a minute. Let me find my friend.” Haley searched the crowd for Yolanda, but she’d already gone inside.
“You’re holding up the line.”
“But I don’t have any—”
“I got it.” A soft, whiskey-smooth baritone sounded from behind her.
Haley spun around to meet a solid wall of chest. Her gaze tracked north of the button-down Western shirt to meet a pair of sky-blue eyes shadowed by a well-worn Stetson. Built like a rock, with dimples to boot, this tall cowboy stirred interest in places she’d ignored for a very long time. She’d never gone for that type before, but when he gazed down at her with a heart-skipping grin stretching his mouth… Holy cow…boy.
He stepped up to the cashier, flipped his wallet open, and handed the woman two twenties.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as we get inside,” Haley blurted. “I have a friend—”
Blue Eyes shook his head. “It’s no big deal. I got it. If it bothers you that much, you can pay me back later on with a dance.”
“Thanks for the easy terms, but I’m not much of a dancer.” Haley’s mouth stretched into an involuntary smile. He really was hot and a charmer too.
His answering smile morphed into a crooked grin revealing even white teeth. The night was starting to look up. Her gaze tracked to his blue eyes again. Way up.
“That’s a bit of a relief actually,” he said. “I manage a passable two-step, but that’s about the limit of my repertoire.” He nodded to the gap that had broadened between them and the door. “Wanna go inside now?”
Haley tensed under the sudden contact of his big, warm palm on her lower back. It was a light touch that still set every nerve ending on alert. Discomposed by her own response, she fought the instinct to pull away. Forcing a breath, she willed herself to relax, and let him guide her toward the door.
Once inside, he offered his hand. “I’m Reid.”
She eyeballed him anew. A handshake? Was he for real? “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” His annoyingly disarming grin lingered. She didn’t trust how easily she responded to it, to him. “Born and raised in Wyoming.”
“Wyoming? So you’re the genuine article and not one of those jokers?” She inclined her head to the throng gathered around the mechanical bull.
He shook his head with a scoffing sound. “I earned my spurs on the real thing.”
She glanced down at his boots, expecting to see them.
He chuckled. “I don’t wear ’em unless I’m ridin’.”
“So are you going to show them how it’s done?”
“I got nothing to prove. Besides, there’s no comparison. A mechanical bull can’t stomp you into the dirt or plant a horn in your ass.”
“Are you working on one of the ranches out here?”
“Nope. I’ve hung it all up for the U.S. Marine Corps.”
“You’re a marine?” she repeated in dismay.
“Yup. Corporal Reid Everett of the Third Battalion First Marines.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. Why did the only guy she’d taken any interest in since God knows when have to be a marine? The revelation instantly snuffed out any flicker of interest. A potential fling with a hot cowboy was one thing, but a jarhead was completely out of consideration.
“Nice meeting you, Reid.” She turned away.
He laid a hand on her arm, his brows meeting in a subtle frown. “Not quite the reaction I’d expected…”
“My father was a marine,” she explained.
“Was?”
“So I’m told,” she responded, tight-lipped. “I never knew him. I’m going to find my friend now.”
“Wait a minute. Wha’d I say?” He looked confused and maybe even a bit hurt, like she’d locked his wheels up and sent him skidding.
“It’s not what you said. It’s what you are.”
Just another whore-mongering marine. They were all just a bunch of horny dogs. Her own father had been one of them—impregnating her mother, never to be heard from again.
The grunts from Camp Pendleton had an especially long and well-earned history. She’d even done a research study on it for one of her college classes. Since the USMC established their base in 1942, the number of illegitimate births within a one-hundred-mile radius of the base had skyrocketed nine months after every major troop deployment. The data was undeniable. Semper fidelis certainly didn’t apply to the women they left behind.
“I’m not into marines, Reid. But don’t worry, there are plenty of women here who would be more than eager to give you a memorable pre-deployment send-off.”
Not daring to look back, Haley made a brisk retreat.
* * *
Reid stared after the petite blond in consternation. Although he’d arrived without the slightest interest in getting laid, that was before he’d eyed her. She seemed so different from all the rest. Reserved. Almost aloof. Dressed in a pale yellow sundress with a long, loose braid down her back, she’d stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the others in their belly shirts, miniskirts, and booty shorts.
He’d wondered what all that gold silk would look like loose and kissing the dimples of her ass. He shook his head in mild disappointment. Guess he’d never find out.
“Ay! Cabrón!” Garcia appeared at Reid’s side with two bottles of Dos Equis and a shit-eating grin. He offered one of the long necks. “Who was that hot little rubia?”
“Dunno.” Reid accepted the beer with a grimace. “Never got her name.” He still couldn’t figure her abrupt about-face. She’d begun to soften toward him, only to turn frigid as ice in the blink of an eye. “I gathered she’s not partial to jarheads.”
“Then best cut your losses, ’cause you sure as shit aren’t going to score there. Maybe you should try a Chicana? Just pick one and ask her to slow dance. There’re plenty of hot little mamasitas on that floor who’d go for that six-three frame and pretty boy face.”
Reid took a swig of beer. The dance lessons had finished with a manic performance of “Cotton-Eye Joe.” The lines broke up with dancers dispersing toward the various bars.
“Here’s your chance, bro. All you gotta do is offer her a drink. I’ll even teach you to say it in Spanish: Quiero comer tu coño.”
Reid eyed Garcia with suspicion. “I thought comer was ‘to eat.’”
“Eat, drink.” Garcia shrugged. “It’s all the same in Spanish.”
“I’m not falling for it, Garcia. I’ve been around you long enough to have a pretty good notion of what coño means.”
“Hey, man.” Garcia raised his hands. “Just doing you a favor. That phrase is sure to come in handy for you one day.”
“I appreciate your concern for my dick, amigo, but I’m really not interested in chasing tail. Blond or Chicana. I’m perfectly happy to leave the field open, chill with a couple of beers, and shoot some pool.”
“Suit yourself, cabrón. But the only balls I’m interested in are right here.” He cupped his crotch with a smirk.
The blare of hip-hop music drew their attention back to the floor. Couples were already pairing for some up-close freak and grind, while a few girls were twerking in groups.
“Mira ese culo! Look at that ass, man.” Garcia gestured to a curvy brunette. He up-ended his bottle, emptied it in one long swallow, and then handed it to Reid. “Target sighted, hermano. Time to engage.”
* * *
Haley didn’t know why she’d let Yolanda drag her to the club. She didn’t have time for guys. She was far too busy with work and school even to think about them. Or had been. Until the cowboy. He’d definitely made her think, but her budding infatuation died a premature death the moment he’d declared himself a leatherneck. Maybe she wasn’t being fair, but the deck was firmly stacked against him.
She already wanted to leave, but Yolanda had driven. Unless her friend chose someone else to take her home tonight, she’d be stuck here until closing. Haley looked around the club with increasing dismay. She hated dancing and was surrounded by marines.
She scouted the dance floor and spotted Yolanda holding up her hair and doing a body roll, sandwiched between two guys. Maybe she’d be driving herself after all. By the look of things, Yo was gonna get a ride of some kind.
Yolanda spotted her and waved frantically, beckoning Haley to join her and the two guys. Haley answered with a sharp head shake. If she was going to be stuck here all night, she really needed a drink. She formed a fist with her thumb raised to her lips, the universal drink sign. Yolanda nodded acknowledgment and then ground her booty into her new partner.
Haley considered the acetone wipes Yolanda had shoved into her purse. A few minutes of scrubbing in the bathroom would erase the black marks on her hands. She weighed the consequences. If she got caught, she’d get tossed out on her ass. It was definitely worth the risk.
Moments later, Haley exited the restroom, hands thoroughly cleansed of black marker. She then discovered an ATM at the back of the club and whipped out her debit card. After collecting her cash, she headed for the nearest bar, only to be intercepted by four different guys sporting buzz cuts. She rolled her eyes. More marines. It wasn’t too hard to brush them off yet, but the night was early and they weren’t fully tanked.
She could really use that drink, but the bartenders would ask to see her bracelet before taking an order. With her friend on the floor, her only option was to ask one of the grunts to buy the drink for her. Opting for the devil she knew, the cowboy, Haley scouted the bar. At least she had the excuse of paying him back. She had enough cash to cover her debt and still buy a couple of cocktails. She found him a few minutes later shooting pool with a cadre of his leatherneck buddies.
“Hey, cowboy. I have something for you.” She slapped the twenty on the table where he was setting up his first shot.
Her unintended innuendo was met with silence as his baby blues darted up from the table to meet her gaze. The rest of the group eyeballed her up and down with open interest, making her feel like she’d entered a wolf’s den.
She bit her lip, wishing she’d said something else. “I-I mean I found an ATM. I can pay you back now.”
His tawny brows met. “Said I didn’t care about that.” He pushed the twenty across the table and turned his attention back to the cue.
That was it? A brush off? Haley’s hackles rose. Was this his idea of payback for her earlier snub? I don’t think so, cowboy.
“All right then.” She parked her hip on the edge of the table, blocking his view of the balls. “If you won’t take it from me, play me for it.”
He stepped back from the table, his gaze sweeping over her with open cynicism. “You want me to play you?”
His partner at the table sniggered. “If the cowboy won’t take you up on it, I will. I’ll play you like a sonata, baby.”
Straightening to his full height, the cowboy shot his buddy a dangerous look. She guessed he was a few inches over six feet and wondered how much of that was the boots. Probably only an inch or so. Without them, he’d still tower at least a foot above her five foot two inches.
She dropped another twenty. “Double or nothing? Eight ball, nine ball, nine ball kiss, Chicago, Chinese, Rotation 61,” she rattled off the game variations.
A buff marine in a muscle shirt flashed a lecherous grin. “I’ll rotate you sixty-nine, sweetheart.” No doubt about it, they were already halfway to shit-faced.
Haley ignored him. “Slop shot, call shot. Your choice, cowboy. Loser buys the drinks.”
* * *
Reid considered the blond who’d brushed him off like a fly from shit less than an hour ago. When he’d paid her cover he hadn’t expected anything in return except maybe a dance, but now she’d positioned herself squarely in his crosshairs.
“So you think you’re a player, eh?” Reid eyed her with renewed speculation, wondering what game she was really playing.
“Only pool,” she answered as if reading his mind. “A better question would be what kind of player are you?” She slid off the table, letting the double entendre hang.
“Guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself. Mind if the lady steps in?” he asked the cluster of marines. The request was purely rhetorical. They all knew he was staking his claim, but he’d still sweeten the deal. “Tell you what, give us some space, and I’ll buy you all a round.”
“Go on,” she urged the grunts as if shooing chickens, adding with a grin, “I’m sure Corporal Everett doesn’t want any witnesses when he gets his ass handed to him.”
The marines dispersed toward the bar with muffled guffaws.
His interest ramped another notch, Reid propped his cue against the table and cocked his head to study all five-foot-nothin’ of her. She was probably no more than a buck ten soaking wet, yet had the balls to go toe-to-toe with him. “You sure talk big for such a puny little thing.”
“I laid my money down, didn’t I? What are we playing?” she asked.
“Let’s just keep it a simple game of eight ball.” He offered her a cue. “Ladies first?”
“No. Lag for break. I play by the rules.” She set up two balls for the shot.
He came up beside her and leaned over the table, his cue poised. “Always?” He was close enough to smell her, fresh and sweet like ripe strawberries. “Sometimes it’s more fun to break ’em.”
She snorted and chalked her cue. “Says the guy whose entire life is dictated by the USMC for what, the next four years?”
“Six more. I signed on for eight.”
“Eight?” She pulled back with a surprised look. “What kind of idiocy is that?”
He stiffened. She had no qualms about speaking her mind, for damn sure. Lucky she was an attractive female. Good-looking women could just about get away with murder. Hell, many had. It was an injustice, or maybe God’s idea of a joke, but facts were facts. Men had a long history of making life and death decisions guided by their dicks. His was already exerting a great deal of influence.
“Back home we have another word for it. It’s called patriotism.”
“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled,” she came back. “I just don’t understand anyone’s desire for that kind of life.”
“The military creates order out of chaos. That often applies as much to the individual as to the mission.”
“That may be, but there are plenty of other ways than the military to ‘find yourself.’”
“I s’pose so,” he replied. “But look how many people waste years of their lives in college only to end up flipping burgers.”
She tossed her head. “And killing skills are so much more practical in life?” Her voice and eyes challenged. Taunted. But he wasn’t about to take her bait.
“The Marines teach more than killing. Look…er… Hell, I still don’t even know your name.”
“Haley,” she answered softly. “Haley Cooper.”
“Look, Miz Cooper, we obviously don’t see eye to eye on this issue, so let’s just drop it and play.”
They completed the lag shot, both balls bouncing off the table to return to the head rail. Reid’s ball was closest, a millimeter from touching the rail. He considered the table. “Looks like it’s gonna be ladies first after all.”
“You sure you want me to break?” She flashed him a smug smile. “You might live to regret that decision, cowboy.”
Reid stood a couple of steps behind and slightly to the right, perfectly positioned to scope her out as she set up her shot. Every movement was too damned distracting. Her dress clung to her ass, riding up as she bent over the table, but not as far as he’d like. He guessed she was a distance runner by the look of her lean and shapely legs. He found his gaze caught in a loop, tracking up and down between her legs and ass.
She broke, and then straightened, tugging her skirt back down over her legs. “You haven’t said what your job is, Corporal Everett.”
“Scout sniper.” He flushed, knowing what was coming next. She’d try to put him on the defensive.
“You’re a sniper?” Her eyes widened. “Isn’t that the same as an assassin?”
He felt his color deepen another shade, but was careful to keep his expression and voice neutral. “A scout sniper’s primary function is to conduct close reconnaissance and surveillance in order to gain intelligence on the enemy and terrain. By necessity, he must be skilled in long-range marksmanship from concealed locations in order to support combat operations.”
“Wow. That was a mouthful. Did you quote all that from some soldier manual?”
“A U.S. Marine isn’t a soldier.”
“What’s the difference? You both make war, don’t you?” She studied him as if she knew she’d ventured onto treacherous ground but was still determined to see how far he’d let her tread.
“The Marine Corps’ primary mission isn’t to make war but to protect this country and those who can’t protect themselves, Miz Cooper.” He continued unapologetically, “Unfortunately, sometimes that does mean war and killing.” She was intentionally pushing his hot buttons, but he was accustomed to maintaining rigid self-control.
“So you actually think some people deserve to die?” Her face was flushed, and her green eyes blazed.
“Some do,” he answered levelly. There was no way to win once an argument got emotional. “I’m a peaceful man who believes in minding my own pastures, but I also believe in good and evil. There are a lot of very bad people in this world. Certainly the ones who fly airplanes through skyscrapers. When that kind of thing happens, I believe in doing whatever it takes to protect our own.”
He could see her getting more worked up by the minute, and damned if he wasn’t also—just not in the same way. She’d been baiting him from the start, spewing arguments that usually just pissed him off, but in this case, it was turning him on.
His gaze locked on her mouth. Her tongue darted out as if she read his thoughts. She drew a breath as if to formulate another rebuttal, but he’d had enough. Before her lips could spout off anymore of the Pacifist Tree Hugger’s Manifesto, he pulled her into his arms and silenced her with his.
* * *
The kiss came without warning, and Haley was too stunned at first to react. He began gently enough, his lips sliding over hers, hands cupping her face, thumbs stroking her jaw, and then he grew more insistent, his tongue probing the seal of her lips. His callused hands were simultaneously firm and gentle, and his lips paradoxically soft and commanding.
Mere seconds had her head spinning and stomach fluttering. She was slipping fast and not about to let him pull her in any deeper. Part of her wanted to give into it, to see where it might lead, but the other half resented his audacity. Her pride won out. She resisted the urge to soften, to open to him, then stiffened, pressing her hands against his chest.
He released her instantly.
She stepped back, knees weak and pulse racing. “I didn’t come here looking to hook up.”
“Neither did I. But sometimes unexpected things happen.” His gaze locked with hers, a look of speculation gleaming in his eyes. “When they do, it’s best to just go with your gut instinct.”
“That so? Well all my instincts scream ‘no marines,’ so don’t let it happen again.”
Suddenly remembering the cue in her hand, Haley turned back to the table. It took all of her will to focus back on the game. She could hardly believe how he’d nearly unraveled her with a single kiss. Then again, no one had ever kissed her like that. She made her break, pocketing the one, and then moved methodically around the table, calling each shot as she sank every solid. Only the eight ball remained, but it was trapped behind two stripes.
Reid’s lips curved with smug certainty. “Looks like I’ll get my turn after all.”
“Don’t count your chickens, cowboy.” She laid down her cue and searched the wall behind her for a shorter one. “Jump cue,” she answered his silent question.
“You’re kidding right?”
“Nope.” Approaching the table, she angled for her shot. She could almost feel his eyes on her ass. She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough. He was leaning against the wall with both arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze zeroed in on her behind.
“Enjoying the view?”
“Sure am,” he confessed, unabashed.
He was sadly mistaken if he thought he’d unnerve her. Keeping him in her peripheral vision, she widened her stance and stretched out over the table. All sign of smugness evaporated from his face. He tugged on his jeans.
Haley grinned, reveling in her small victory, and then prepared for a bigger one. “Eight ball, side pocket,” she declared with confidence. On a three count she took the shot, jumping the stripes to pocket the eight. “Yeah baby!” She threw down the cue and fisted the air, gloating in her triumph.