Love at Any Cost (20 page)

He watched her hurry from the room, his eyes following her graceful form as she glided into the study, careful to close the door. “No, not over, Cait,” he whispered, truly annoyed at how the woman had an infernal gift for making him crazy. “Not by a long shot.”

Jerking his tie loose, he strode toward the sound of laughter that did little to ease his sullen mood. Caitlyn McClare had no business presiding on an all-male board, especially one with the potential to drive an even bigger wedge between Logan and her. Cursing under his breath, he stormed into the parlour and peeled off his jacket, hurling it on the love seat. With a tic in his temple that belonged only to Caitlyn McClare, he rolled his sleeves and yanked a chair to the table, ignoring the gaping stares. “The deuce with whist,” he said, sweeping the table with his arm. He shuffled the cards into a ragged, little pile. “We're playing poker, so ante up.”

“But Mama doesn't like us to play poker,” Maddie said, tone innocent and blue eyes as wide as Caitlyn's would be if she were to walk in the room.

“Awk, awk, ante up, ante up . . .”

Logan shuffled and dealt the cards, sailing them hard to each player with a clamp of his jaw. Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a fistful of change onto the table along with a thick wad of bills. He slipped Maddie a wink before flashing a menacing smile. “Good.”

 17 

Y
ou know, there's just something intrinsically wrong with a sweet, innocent girl winning at poker.” Jamie held the door as Cassie floated into the billiard room, the scent of lilacs lingering like she, unfortunately, lingered in his mind. He was glad Logan left when Caitlyn broke up the poker game, taking Bram and Blake along while everyone else opted for bed, giving Jamie a rare chance to be alone with Cassie. His lips crooked. Although it'd cost him a half-night's wage at the Blue Moon to bribe Blake to forgo “chaperoning,” a task his mother—and Cassie—had expected. Not to mention Blake's ribbing that Cassie would hang him out to dry—both in pool and in courtship. His eyes followed the jaunty sway of her hips as if she wore her ranch issue of scandalously curved blue jeans rather than a pink chiffon dress, and his mouth went dry at the thought. He quickly cleared his throat. “Playing poker—much less winning—is not something one expects of a lady, Miss McClare. Even if she is a cowgirl from lower East Texas.”

Her chuckle floated behind, as soft and billowy as the pink chiffon. “What can I say? Father wanted a boy, so he settled for a tomboy to which he could impart his skills.” She peeked back,
nibbling her lip in that adorable way she had when she felt sorry for him.

Like now
.

Her sympathetic smile suddenly tilted just short of sassy. “Now that I've fleeced you at cards, are you sure you want to do this?” The scalloped hem of her dress wisped across the carpet as she made a beeline for the billiard table with the same unwavering assurance with which he entered the boxing ring at the Oly. She commenced to setting up the table with a rack of the balls, humor lacing her tone. “I can't help but worry about your male pride, you know, losing to a woman—
again.
Like Daddy always says, ‘There's a time in a man's life when he just needs to cowboy up and ride into the sunset.' ”

Ride away? Not a chance, Cowgirl.
Jamie closed the door, and the click seemed to drain the blood—and the sass—from her cheeks. “B-Blake is joining us, isn't he?” she said in a rush, a hint of a wobble in the luscious line of her throat. “We should leave the door open till he comes.”

He offered a gentle smile to allay her fears. “I'm afraid Bram and Blake bowed out, Cass, something about joining Logan for a nightcap on the Coast, and with the billiard room so close to Mrs. McClare's bedroom, we should really keep the door closed.” Hoping to deflect the anxious look in her eyes, he tossed a cocky grin. “And I wouldn't worry about my pride, if I were you,” he said with a swagger that matched his stride across the room. “I guarantee you'll be too busy worrying about your own.” He handed her a cue before chalking his. “Hate to burst your bubble, Cowgirl, but I was hustling in pool halls while you were still riding your pony.”

“Were you now?” A squirm of her smile told him she wasn't impressed. She replaced the cue he'd given her and took another. “Sorry, I prefer the mushroom tip.” With a focused squint, she
carefully applied a slight edge of chalk around the cue's perimeter rather than grinding it as most novices did, then clunked the cue stick on the floor several times. “A hustler, eh?”

“Yeah,” he said with a hike of his jaw, his faint smile issuing a challenge. “Not to mention Oly Club billiards champ two years in a row.”

“My, my, a title as well.” She tilted her head, green eyes sparkling with humor. “And are you the pretty-boy champ too?”

“That settles it.” He stripped off his jacket and tossed it over a wing chair with a perilous grin. “I'm going to put you in your place, Miss McClare, right where you belong.”

She gave him a wide-eyed stare, lashes aflutter. “In the trophy case?”

No, in my arms.
“I'll even forgo the coin toss and let you have the break.”

“Mmm . . . chivalrous
and
brave.” She leaned over the end of the table with an open-hand bridge, breaking the balls with a loud crack, her crisp and powerful precision turning his tongue to cotton. She winked. “But,” she said with that same annoying sympathy, “not very bright. Because you see, when I put you in
your
place, Mr. MacKenna, it'll feel like Alcatraz.”

His jaw dropped when five balls spun off into pockets so fast, his eyes glazed over. “How d-did you do that?” he rasped, awe overriding any loss of pride. “I've never seen that before . . .”

“Merciful Providence, me either . . . ,” she said in apparent surprise. Arms folded, she rested a finger to her chin. “I've never been able to pocket more than four balls on a break before, and goodness—all of them solid!” Her gaze flicked to the abundance of striped balls still littering the table, brows ascending in contrition before she offered a sunny smile. “Guess that makes me solids. Oh my stars, but this is fun!”

“Yeah, fun,” Jamie said with a grunt, feeling the sting of male pride now that the shock had worn off. “How in blazes did you learn to do that?”

“Well . . . ,” she said with a pretty toss of her head, “when I wasn't riding my ‘pony,' I was playing pool with Daddy, who in the absence of a son, taught his daughter everything he knew about the three ‘P's'—poker, pool, and pinochle.” Hand braced to the table, she bent low with cue in hand and eye on the ball. “Apparently he was somewhat of a pool shark before he met Mama, and gracious, don't even get me started on pinochle.” She squinted. “Six ball, far right.”

Another loud crack sent her last two solids swishing into the far pocket.

“I don't believe it,” Jamie whispered, mouth slack as he circled the table, unable to fathom what he'd just witnessed with his own eyes. “Holy thunder—the last time I saw a shot like that was when Johnny Kling played at the Oly.”

Cassie scrunched her nose. “Kling. The Cubs ball player who plays pool in off season?”

“Yeah . . .” Jamie's mouth hung open so far, she could have shot a few balls in there too. He blinked, his love for this woman growing by leaps and shots. And his awe? Deeper than the solids in those blasted pockets. “Sweet thunderation,” he muttered under his breath, “marry me now . . .”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat and nodded toward the table. “I think you need to put me out of my misery, Miss McClare.”

The lip grate was back. “Oh, right . . . sorry. Side left pocket.” With an expert aim that was almost a caress, she promptly plunged the eight ball—and Jamie's pride—into the dark recesses of gloom with another perfect shot. In a slow pivot, she faced him once
again, one dainty hand cupping her stick while she nibbled her thumbnail with the other. The apology in her eyes was as thick as the chalk on his cue. “Sorry, Jamie, I had no right to take advantage of you.”

He grimaced. That stung.
Don't worry, Miss McClare, I plan to return the favor
. . . Threading fingers through the hair at the back of his head, he huffed out a sigh and laid his cue on the table before offering his hand with a stiff smile. “Stellar game, Cowgirl. You should be proud—I'd say I've been properly tarred and feathered, not to mention hog-tied.”

“Forgive me?” She shook his hand, the green eyes soft and somehow vulnerable.

Strolling around the table, he emptied the pockets and set up once again, rolling the balls until the cluster was nice and tight. Like his jaw. “Sure. On one condition.”

The mossy-colored eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “And what might that be?”

His smile eased into a grin as he led her to the far end of the table. “Teach me,” he said with as much humility as he could muster. “I want to learn how to break like that.”

“Pardon me?” Her tauntingly kissable lower lip sagged a full inch.

He jagged a brow. “What? You think I'm too proud to admit I can't play as well as you? Well, I'm not. I know a professional when I see one.” Hands braced to her shoulders, he prodded her into position, then sat on the corner of the table and folded his arms. “If I'm ever going to challenge you—” he dipped his head to peer at her sharply—“and we both know I am—we're going to level the playing field first.”

“You want
me
? To teach
you
?” Her jaw remained in a stupor.

He dared her with a shuttered gaze. “Unless you're scared . . .”

That snapped her mouth shut. “Scared? Of a street hustler I could beat with my eyes closed?” Her tongue rolled to the side of her mouth with a grin, the tip peeking out as she hunkered over the table with cue firmly in hand. “Not likely, Pretty Boy. Observe and learn . . .”

With a gentle coax, she slid the stick back and forth, eyes squinting at the colorful triangle. An explosion of cracks erupted, and balls went flying into at least three pockets in a series of clunks, prompting a low whistle from Jamie's lips. “I'll tell you what, Miss McClare, you sure wield a mean cue.” He hopped up to rack the balls, then hovered close beside her when she bent over the table.

A little squeak escaped as she jerked up. “What are you doing?” she said with a gasp, cue and hand splayed to her chest. She arched away, as if to distance herself.

He grinned and nudged her back in place. “I've observed and now I'm going to learn.” Her body stiffened, luring another grin to his lips. “What can I say? I'm a hands-on kinda guy.”

“Oh, no you don't . . .” She tried to dart away.

He clamped her arm. “Come on, Cass, we're friends, and I need to be side by side so I can sense your rhythm, get the positioning right when you make that break.” A smile inched across his face as he slowly released her. “Unless, of course,” he said, tone careful, “you really
are
scared . . .”

———

Her jaw gaped like the hole she was about to put in his pride.
Scared?
Of wiping an annoying smirk off a pretty boy's face? Not a chance. Hypnotic hazel eyes studied her with a lidded gaze, and she battled a telltale gulp. However . . . scared silly his close proximity might ignite feelings she'd tried so hard to ignore?
Oh, you bet.
She fought a shiver that threatened her spine. Since the night on The Palace veranda, she'd been on her guard, keeping
him and their friendship at arm's length. But . . . it hadn't been easy. And she had a suspicion he knew it.

He grinned, and those impossibly deep dimples translated into deep,
deep
trouble. “You
are
scared, aren't you?” he said with a husky tease that triggered both her temper and her pulse.

“Only of trampling your tender feelings, bucko, but if you're not worried, neither am I.” She spun around and leveled her cue, forcing herself to concentrate. “Let the trampling begin.”

His chuckle was dangerously low in her ear when he leaned close, crowding her space and stealing her air. “Just talk me through it,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath all but caressing her neck as he stood closer than a shadow.

A knot the size of a cue ball ducked in her throat. “You're just a horse hair too close for friends, MacKenna, you know that? I can barely move for your smothering.”

“Come on, Cass . . .” His thumb lightly grazed her hand over the cue. “No closer than playing Marco Polo or dancing at The Palace, right? And we did both of those as friends.”

Her eyelids wavered closed.
Friends—right.
Hand to the rail, she bent low to squint at the rack, focusing hard on The 1 ball. She sucked in a deep breath. “You w-want to k-keep your grip relaxed and body motion to a minimum,” she stuttered, allowing the air in her lungs to slowly seep out along with her jitters. Gaze locked on the ball, her concentration returned to the game, infusing her with the clarity she needed. “Most people make the mistake of raising their body when they straighten their arm, then dropping their elbow, two motions that counteract each other.” She raised up to trace the angle with her eye, then resumed position. “Straightening the arm engages the shoulder muscles for more speed, yes, but on the break, accuracy is more important than a little extra power.” Gliding the cue through her fingers in five
fluid strokes, she aimed dead center. Adrenaline coursed when the balls erupted, easily pocketing four of the fifteen. “Oh, drat, only four this time.” Rising, she turned and squared her shoulders, unable to prevent a smirk from slipping into her smile. “So . . . learn anything, Pretty Boy?”