Bachelor Auction (24 page)

Suppressing a giggle, she followed him around

the table, trailing a finger along the edge of the

green felt. “I’m not very good. It was my father’s

game so I didn’t take it up.”

Okay, so she wasn’t playing fair, baiting him

with information he’d seemed to covet throughout

dinner.

Stopping beside him again, she added, “Besides,

I don’t know if I want to give it up. It’s really good.”

She took another mouthful, playing up her

enjoyment to prove her point.

He bent to study the angle of his next shot. “You

never know, you might beat me.”

Oh, she intended to. No matter who won the

game. “Hmm, perhaps. And what if I do?”

He tilted his head to look at her, causing a lock

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of inky black hair to fall over his furrowed brow.

“What do you mean?”

“What would I get out of it? The ice cream is

already mine.”

He grinned and turned his attention back to his

aim. “The satisfaction of winning.”

Fascinating, the way the muscles of his back

and shoulder bunched and stretched under his

smooth tanned flesh. And if he moved just right, the

waist of his jeans slipped below his tan line, offering

a glimpse of white skin. No tanning bed had ever

seen this body. More likely he’d gotten his golden

and well-toned form working weekends on his

family’s ranch.

He made the shot and straightened, one hip

cocked. “Well?”

She shook her head. “You’ll have to do better

than that.”

“How about I buy you breakfast in the

morning?”

“It’s on the house, remember? Part of the

package?”

“Oh, yeah.” He doused the end of the stick with

blue chalk.

She edged closer. “I have something a little more

interesting in mind.”

“You do, do you?”

“I’ll accept your wager, but on my terms.”

“Which are?”

The spoon made another trip to her mouth as

did his hungry gaze. His nostrils flared as the

utensil eased from between her lips. She waved it at

him. “For every ball you pocket, you get a bite of my

sundae.”

“And you? What do you get?”

“For every one I make, I get one minute of

complete and utter control over you.”

He blinked, and she could almost see the images

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her words conjured in the reflection of his dark

green eyes. Then he laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll let you go first.”

“Uh-uh.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d go for it.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re the most reserved, in-control person

I’ve ever known. Whether one or a dozen—”

“Seven—eight if you pocket the eight ball to

win.”

Hmm, eight minutes
. She could work wonders

with that much time. Of course, she had to win to

get them, and she had her doubts about that. But

she’d done a lot in less time than that. She waved

her spoon at him again. “However many balls there

are, I should have known you’d never give me

complete power over you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Rubbing the dark stubble along his jaw, he

stared at her long and hard, then planted a hand on

his hip. “You don’t think I can handle eight minutes

of anything you could possibly dish out?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

And if he agreed, it didn’t matter if she won or

lost. She had him in the bag.

Make that in the pocket.

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Marcus circled the imaginary hook Charlotte

baited so cleverly. He would be a fool to bite,

knowing the sharp barbs he’d encounter and how

deep they would dig.

“Look.” She settled a hip on the edge of the pool

table, and the hem of her gown rose to give him a

tantalizing glimpse of the tender flesh of her upper

thighs. “I just thought maybe you’d loosen up for

once, you being the better player and all. I mean,

what could I possibly do in so short a time?”

What indeed? Her terms left little doubt she was

intent on seduction, and he’d been capable of pole-

vaulting unassisted across the room since finding

her in her nightgown. Yet if there was ever a time to

prove not all men wanted her only for her body, this

was it.

And, he reminded himself, he’d withstood her

before. He could do it again. Even if it killed him.

She dug into the ice cream once more, and he

clamped a hand around her wrist to stop the spoon

from reaching her open mouth. “Uh-uh.”

A frown creased her brow. “What?”

“You’re eating my winnings.”

One brow lifted. “Does that mean you accept my

terms?”

“Yes, and I want there to be something left
when

I win.” Laying his cue on the pool table, he reached

for the bowl. “I think the freezer is a good place to

hold the prize.”

The grin that split her full lips could have

blinded him as she shoved the bowl in his hands and

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jumped to gather the balls. “You said I’d only have

eight minutes if I won, so I’m assuming the most

you’ll get is eight bites. If you want the whole

sundae, maybe we should play several games.”

Heading to the kitchen area, he laughed at her

not-so-subtle attempt to gain extra minutes of

control over him. Though he expected to run the

table, there was always a chance she’d succeed in

making a few shots. He wouldn’t push his luck. Or

his stamina. “One game is enough. I’ll take big

bites.”

“You’ll get brain freeze,” she called out.

He stowed the sundae, turned around, and

groaned. She stretched across the table to retrieve a

ball, the neckline of her gown hanging open. The

gentle curve of her breasts sent his blood rushing

south. If she angled a little further to one side...

Marcus closed his eyes. What the hell was he

doing? He would never survive this game if he

allowed his imagination to run wild. It was hard

enough dealing with the enticement of reality. Hard

being the operative word.

Drawing a long breath, he strode forward

purposefully, and with no small amount of difficulty,

determined not to let her distract him. “Not like

that. That one goes in the middle.” He took the eight

ball from her before she could drop it in the top

position. “I’ll do this. You go pick out a cue.”

“A stick?”

“Yes, over there.” He pointed to the rack holding

several cues and waited for her to give up the five

ball she held in her other hand and move aside.

“What difference does it make what ball goes

where?”

“It just does, okay?”

“See, always in control,” she said with a wry

smile before relinquishing the ball and strolling to

the cue rack. She surveyed several then picked one

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that was too heavy for her.

“You’d be better off with the smaller one, second

to the end.”

She slid him a sideways look. “If I didn’t know

better, I’d think you were trying to help me.”

He turned his back on her and finished

rearranging the balls. Grabbing the cue ball, he

rounded the table and placed it on the head spot.

“Just trying to be fair.”

When he glanced her way again, she was once

more perched half on, half off the far corner, this

time with a pool cue between her legs. Several

buttons at the hem of her gown were loose, and one

strap hung down her arm. She might not know how

to play pool, but she sure as hell knew how to play

him.

Forcing his gaze from her shapely thighs, he

asked, “Still want me to break?”

She eased to her feet and sauntered toward him.

“First, I think we should seal the deal.” When she

stood toe to toe with him, she leaned forward, her

lips close to his. “With a kiss.”

He stepped back and held out his hand. “A

shake will do.”

She smiled and placed her hand in his, her

cerulean eyes dancing with mischief. Or was it

triumph? “I have your word? Complete and utter

control?”

He smiled back, slightly shaken but still

confident. “You have my word.”

Nodding, she released his hand. “Then let’s get

started.”

Marcus bent over the table, bracing his fingers

on the felt, and tried to concentrate, almost

impossible with Charlotte leaning on one elbow

beside him. Close enough that her breath brushed

his shoulder. He angled a look at her. “Do you

mind?”

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Her eyes widened in innocence. “Oh, sorry. I

wanted to see how exactly you hold the stick. You

did say you were trying to be fair.”

“Yes, I did.” Sighing, he focused once more on

his target and pulled back the cue to shoot. Her

fingernails grazed the flat of his stomach just above

the waist of his jeans. He jerked. His arm shot

forward, the cue hitting the side of the ball. He

stared slack-jawed as it skidded to one side and into

the left center pocket.

“Is that what’s called a scratch?”

“I’d call it cheating.”

“Now, now,” she said, circling to the foot of the

table for the cue ball, a giddy grin on her beautiful

face. “All’s fair in love and getting your just

desserts.”

“Very funny.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like this is a high stakes

game.”

Maybe not for her, but he’d just lost the upper

hand and some of his confidence that he could run

the table.

Returning to stand next to him, she placed the

ball on the head spot and used her hip to nudge him

aside. She took aim, a bit awkwardly perhaps, but

well enough for him to wonder if she’d played before

or was just a quick study.

Then his attention strayed to the nature of her

position and he wondered other things. Like what

she’d do if he stood behind her, close enough to feel

her heat through his jeans. What if he diverted her

attention as she had his by running his hands up

those satiny thighs beneath her gown to slowly peel

her underwear away? Would she arch her back,

wriggle against him?

“Am I doing it right?”

She rocked back then forward several times,

pumping the cue through her spread fingers.

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He wanted to close his eyes to maintain what

little control he had left but didn’t dare. He couldn’t

trust her not to cheat. “I think you know exactly

what you’re doing.”

****

discomfort for a moment before focusing on the white

ball. She might know how to play the game of

seduction, but she didn’t know squat about billiards.

She hadn’t had the stomach for it after her father

had bragged to his friends he’d banged someone’s

wife on the pool table at home while her mother had

been in the hospital.

With a joust meant to release the rage the

memory stirred, she rammed the small end of the

stick at the center of the ball, shattering the silence.

The triangle of colorful spheres dispersed in a

myriad of directions, but the force of the break was

insufficient and most stopped after traveling only

inches. She held her breath as one neared the right

corner pocket and slowed to a crawl.

“Come on,” she whispered, willing the solid

green ball to keep moving. “Just a little further.” It

teetered then disappeared down the hole. She didn’t

bother to hide her grin this time as she turned to

Marcus. “That’s one minute.”

“Lucky break,” he said, with a teasing smile and

careless shrug, no doubt meant to convey his lack of

concern. His rigid stance and white-knuckled grip on

the stick, told her otherwise.

“Maybe.” She leaned close enough to smell the

clean fresh scent of soap. “But it’s a start.”

“Okay, Ace. Get on with it. Call your next shot.”

“You mean I have to tell you which ball I’ll hit?”

“And where.”

She circled the table and pretended to consider