had been full of promise, full of hope, bright-eyed at the possibilities life had to offer. Once upon a time . . .
“You want a toothpick,
'tite chatte
?”
The voice was unmistakable. Whiskey and smoke and a vision of black satin sheets. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she jerked around, cursing herself for bolting.
“Why would I want a toothpick?” she demanded indignantly.
Jack grinned at the flash of temper in her dark blue eyes. It was a hell of an improvement over the sadness and guilt he'd glimpsed there a moment before. For a moment she had looked like a lost child, and the impact of that impression had slammed into him like a truck. Not that he really cared about her, he assured himself. Miss Laurel Chandler was hardly his type. Too serious by half. Too driven. He liked a girl who liked her fun. A few good laughs, a nice healthy round of mattress thumping, no strings attached. Laurel Chandler was a whole different breed of cat—as evidenced by the mincemeat she'd made of Jimmy Lee Baldwin.
“Why, to pick all those pieces of Jimmy Lee out your teeth, sugar,” he said. “You sure chewed him up and spit him out. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
She scowled. “You're already on my bad side, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“Then why I don't just buy you a drink, angel, and we can make up?” he suggested, smiling, leaning down just a little closer than he should have. Her frown tightened, but she held her ground.
“I'd rather be left alone, thank you very much,” Laurel said primly, avoiding those dark eyes that had managed to see past her carefully erected defenses once already. She fixed her gaze on one deep dimple and did her best to ignore its blatant sex appeal.
“Oh, well, then you came to the wrong place, sugar.”
He draped an arm casually around her shoulders and steered her toward the bar, completely ignoring her wishes. She held herself stiffly, resisting his herding. She looked up at him sideways. He wore a battered black baseball cap that had “100% Coonass” machine embroidered on the front in glossy blue thread. A blood red ruby studded the lobe of his left ear. The wild Hawaiian print shirt he wore hung completely open, revealing a broad wedge of tan chest, well-defined muscle lightly dusted with black hair, a belly that looked as hard and ridged as a washboard. A line of silky-looking hair curled around his belly button like a question mark and disappeared into the low-riding waist of his faded jeans, as if beckoning curious female eyes to wonder about the territory that lay beyond.
She jerked her gaze away, pushing her glasses up on her nose in an attempt to hide the blush that bloomed instantly on her cheeks.
He wasn't her type at all, she reminded herself. He wasn't the kind of man she usually allowed to touch her. He wasn't the kind of man she would ordinarily have known at all. And he wasn't charming her. She was only letting him shepherd her toward the bar because she didn't want to watch Savannah seducing the pool players.
“Talk about chewing ass,” he said, an unholy light in his eyes. “What's black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” Laurel shot him a scowl, which he fielded with an incorrigible grin. “A doberman.”
The laugh that rolled out of him may as well have been a pair of hands that skimmed boldly over her. Laurel ground her teeth at her unwanted reaction, berating her body for its inability to judge character.
“Hey, Ovide!” Jack called. “How 'bout a drink here for our little tigress?”
Laurel blushed again at the name and climbed up on a bar stool, figuring she would at least be rid of Jack Boudreaux's touch now. She was wrong. He merely stood beside her, arm hooked around her loosely but possessively. Worse than standing beside him, she was now at eye level with him, and he didn't hesitate to lean close and murmur in her ear.
“That's Ovide,” he said, his voice as low and intimate as if he were whispering words of seduction. He
“You want a toothpick,
'tite chatte
?”
The voice was unmistakable. Whiskey and smoke and a vision of black satin sheets. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she jerked around, cursing herself for bolting.
“Why would I want a toothpick?” she demanded indignantly.
Jack grinned at the flash of temper in her dark blue eyes. It was a hell of an improvement over the sadness and guilt he'd glimpsed there a moment before. For a moment she had looked like a lost child, and the impact of that impression had slammed into him like a truck. Not that he really cared about her, he assured himself. Miss Laurel Chandler was hardly his type. Too serious by half. Too driven. He liked a girl who liked her fun. A few good laughs, a nice healthy round of mattress thumping, no strings attached. Laurel Chandler was a whole different breed of cat—as evidenced by the mincemeat she'd made of Jimmy Lee Baldwin.
“Why, to pick all those pieces of Jimmy Lee out your teeth, sugar,” he said. “You sure chewed him up and spit him out. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
She scowled. “You're already on my bad side, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“Then why I don't just buy you a drink, angel, and we can make up?” he suggested, smiling, leaning down just a little closer than he should have. Her frown tightened, but she held her ground.
“I'd rather be left alone, thank you very much,” Laurel said primly, avoiding those dark eyes that had managed to see past her carefully erected defenses once already. She fixed her gaze on one deep dimple and did her best to ignore its blatant sex appeal.
“Oh, well, then you came to the wrong place, sugar.”
He draped an arm casually around her shoulders and steered her toward the bar, completely ignoring her wishes. She held herself stiffly, resisting his herding. She looked up at him sideways. He wore a battered black baseball cap that had “100% Coonass” machine embroidered on the front in glossy blue thread. A blood red ruby studded the lobe of his left ear. The wild Hawaiian print shirt he wore hung completely open, revealing a broad wedge of tan chest, well-defined muscle lightly dusted with black hair, a belly that looked as hard and ridged as a washboard. A line of silky-looking hair curled around his belly button like a question mark and disappeared into the low-riding waist of his faded jeans, as if beckoning curious female eyes to wonder about the territory that lay beyond.
She jerked her gaze away, pushing her glasses up on her nose in an attempt to hide the blush that bloomed instantly on her cheeks.
He wasn't her type at all, she reminded herself. He wasn't the kind of man she usually allowed to touch her. He wasn't the kind of man she would ordinarily have known at all. And he wasn't charming her. She was only letting him shepherd her toward the bar because she didn't want to watch Savannah seducing the pool players.
“Talk about chewing ass,” he said, an unholy light in his eyes. “What's black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” Laurel shot him a scowl, which he fielded with an incorrigible grin. “A doberman.”
The laugh that rolled out of him may as well have been a pair of hands that skimmed boldly over her. Laurel ground her teeth at her unwanted reaction, berating her body for its inability to judge character.
“Hey, Ovide!” Jack called. “How 'bout a drink here for our little tigress?”
Laurel blushed again at the name and climbed up on a bar stool, figuring she would at least be rid of Jack Boudreaux's touch now. She was wrong. He merely stood beside her, arm hooked around her loosely but possessively. Worse than standing beside him, she was now at eye level with him, and he didn't hesitate to lean close and murmur in her ear.
“That's Ovide,” he said, his voice as low and intimate as if he were whispering words of seduction. He
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