But telling himself not to care about Layla Farrell was like telling him to chop his hair, put on a suit and work nine to five. It would never happen.
The corners of his eyes tightened along with his jaw. He thrust the pool cue at Tanner. “You make the shot.”
“What? I can’t. Out of order means the game’s forfeit.”
“Then don’t.”
Blake had better things to worry about than losing a pool game. He’d pay Tanner back the hundred tomorrow morning before they headed for the bike rally in Sturgis, South Dakota. The two of them had to go over his designs for the latest landscaping job up for bid in Barrington Estates, the gated community that boasted multimillion-dollar homes, golf course views, and a few Cleveland Indians baseball players in residence.
A few more contracts like this one, and Desanto Landscaping and Design would earn the most solid reputation in greater Cleveland. Hand his brother those figures to crunch in his head and Tanner would forget tonight’s wash. It wasn’t about the money, anyway. It was all about the thrill and skill of competition. That competitive streak sent him shoving through the crowd toward the bar.
Nobody messed with a Desanto, or what a Desanto put his claim to. Right now Blake would do something he’d been aching to do since the day he lost her.
Claim Layla Farrell one last time.
He hoped the prick cop she called a boyfriend would hear about it. The animosity that thrived between him and Jack now resembled scathing hatred. If Johnson stepped up, Blake had a can of whoop-ass waiting for him, for the heartbreak he’d caused the Desanto family, the blackmail last year, and the stunt Johnson pulled six months ago, slapping him with false charges and putting him through hell.
Blake couldn’t wait to return the favor. Starting now.
*
Layla whipped around, clutching her jacket up to her chin. Who did this guy think he was? Maybe if she ignored the groper he’d get bored and go away.
Wrong . She cringed as his hand lifted her hair and sifted through it. She stared hard at the WMMS radio station poster plastered to the bar mirror. Its buzzard mascot leered at her with a taunting smirk.
Coming here was a lousy idea, but she’d been desperate to find Robby before he left town, as the letter she found on the kitchen counter that morning foretold. She had to change his mind about selling his soul to a biker gang. Of all places, this would be the one to cater to the band of devils who had stolen her little brother.
But no one looked familiar or friendly enough to ask. That meant one thing. Time to leave.
Layla devised a quick plan, on the verge of enacting it when she heard rustling and what sounded like a shove behind her. Two hands with long tanned fingers slapped down on the counter, trapping her against the bar.
A sexy voice spilled down her neck. “Baby, I’ve been waiting for you all night.”
That was it. Layla couldn’t stand the humiliation burning through her. She picked up her full shot glass in a death grip, spun around and aimed up. She prepared to bolt. Instead, her feet fused to the floor.
Her eyes flew wide. “Blake?” The shot of tequila splashed him full in the face. “Oh, no… I didn’t know it was you!”
Scraping a hand down his face, he shucked the droplets. His eyes opened and narrowed, the antique bottle-green depths staring down the slope of his straight nose. Then he lifted a tequila-soaked finger to the seam of his lips, sucking off the flavor.
He shook his head. Brushing his finger across her lips next, he stepped forward. “I think it would taste better on you.”
“What—?”
His mouth clamped over hers. He stole her breath away, branding her with his lips in an aggressive stamp of ownership.
He began to pull back, but their lips clung together. For reasons unfathomable, they couldn’t force themselves apart. His hands cupped her shoulders, and she felt a nudge backward, but in the next moment he closed the distance between them.
Suddenly he demanded deeper exploration. He shifted his weight, pulling her into his arms, their bodies compressed airtight. Her heels lifted off the floor. Her head fell back into his palm.
Blake’s breath came in hot bursts against her cheek. He tasted like wheat beer, a hint of tequila, and a big bad dose of sin. His tongue dipped inside her mouth for a quick taste, then slid the length of hers, a thorough, possessive sweep.
Her heart nearly pounded out of her chest. Layla discovered the wild speed of his pulse matched her own when her wrists touched the scorching sides of his neck. Her fingers curved under the fall of his hair.
What was she doing? She was in the middle of a packed bar, with Blake Desanto kissing her like he owned her soul. And he’d come to collect. Layla owed him nothing. He’d let her down in the worst way, and not even a mind-erasing kiss could wipe away that memory. This had to stop.