All the Way(3)
The bartender bounced her leg. Layla exhaled and dug through her purse. At least the drinks here were cheap, since the service stunk.
“Crap.” She’d given her last five to the doorman. “Do you take credit?” She slapped down her card.
“Does this look like a bank machine to you? Tabs start at fifteen bucks.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” Layla asked.
“Find a guy into charity, show your tits, or hit the road.”
“Nice. Look, I’ll leave, but I need to see if someone’s been here recently. Do you know Robby—er, Rob Farrell?”
“You put up the cash, and I’ll talk the trash.”
Layla leaned forward. “Does that mean you know him? Has he been here? You have to tell me.”
The woman tightened her lips over her buckteeth. Layla wanted to burst.
“I’m into charity,” said the guy with the bad joke. “I’m also into titties.”
Laughter assaulted her from an audience drawn to the mention of female anatomy. She considered buying them all a round so she could rack up fifteen bucks and get out of here, but it might give them the wrong idea. She didn’t want to get chummy.
“I’m not taking off my shirt. I just need to find my brother.” Layla turned to scour the room until a hulking form blocked her view.
“Looks like you don’t have much choice now, darlin’.” The guy who stepped forward fingered the trail of buttons down her coat. “We’re ready to see a show.”
Layla skewed him with an icy glare. But her inner ice queen melted when she saw the look on his face. He was serious. And she was blocked in. She gulped.
Straining to peer beyond him, she estimated how long it would take to make a mad dash for the door. She had never attempted to run in high heels, but now looked like the perfect time to try.
She didn’t have to be graceful. She just had to get out.
*
“Nice and easy, straight in the hole.”
Blake Desanto stretched across the pool table in the Handle Bar. He splayed his fingers on the green felt and lined up for his winning shot.
Overhearing his choice words, the brunette who’d been eyeing him all night flashed a come-hither smile. His sidelong glance and arched eyebrow acknowledged her silent offer. In a minute he’d saunter over. Right now he needed to focus on the game, even if he could make this shot in his sleep.
His brother, Tanner, who’d finished his music gig, goaded him from the sidelines. “That’s a lot of green, bro. We’ve got a hundred riding on this one. Make it count.”
Blake scraped a long lock of hair out of his view and grinned over the pool stick, perfecting his aim at the eight ball. “Better start praying, since I’m a little off my game tonight—my shoulders hurt from carrying this team.”
The brothers were playing a set of contenders who had no chance of winning, but Tanner scowled at the dig. “Okay, hot shot, next game I’m taking you on solo. But score this one already, will you?”
“I plan to.” Blake drew back to take the shot.
Suddenly he did something he’d never done. His eyes left the cue ball, concentration severed by a commotion at the bar. He froze.
Then he straightened to his full height of six-three in steel-toed boots. His sights locked on a pale, beautiful face that startled him with recognition. Dark hair spilled down her back in a long slow wave. Those arcing cheek bones and almond-shaped violet eyes made a stunning impact. The exotic combination could only belong to one woman.
What is Layla Farrell doing in the Handle Bar?
The sight of her tugged inside his chest as it always did. The first time she walked up his drive, he’d tripped heart first into those huge violet-blue eyes. That wasn’t like him. Blake Desanto didn’t fall all over himself for any woman. Apparently with one exception.
It took him six months to decide he was okay with that, one of those things that came along about once a lifetime. It took four months to realize she was unlike any woman he had ever known. The two months they dated told him she might even be the one. But it took only one night for the whole thing to get shot to hell, his emotions still shredded from losing her.
He’d spent the past year forcing her out of his head—and, if he stopped to examine how deeply she affected him, he might have said his heart, too. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, and still maintain the cool detachment he’d perfected around her.
Quickly, he absorbed the scene at the bar, the panic in her eyes, the crowd of males converging, Dan “The Man” Greene putting his filthy fingers on her. Blake felt his self-control snap.
An emotion spilled through his veins, chilled his blood. It crawled up his spine and prickled across his scalp. Jealousy. The raw, possessive, consuming kind. Something he’d struggled against most of his thirty-four years, and dealt with by never letting women get too close, never letting himself care too much.