Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(14)
Author: Hope Ramsay

He was everything alien and dangerous—the very antithesis of the sort of man Mother would approve of. And certainly not the guy Miriam Randall had told her to be searching for. His unsuitability drew her like a flame draws a moth.

Tulane looked up at that moment and caught her stare. A slow smile spread across his lips, folding his cheeks into rows of laugh lines, his eyes dancing seductively. He appeared ready to forget the conversation they’d had earlier in the day.

She smiled back as heat crawled up her face.

“So,” Tulane said in a voice that carried all the way down to her end of the table. “Who’s for pool?” He held her stare, and then asked, “Sarah?”

Her stomach dropped three inches, but she couldn’t look away. “I… uh… don’t know how to play pool.”

His grin widened. “Of course you don’t. Would you like to learn?”

That brought her up short. Was he trying to lead her astray so he would have leverage over her? After all, the guy had already taught her how to swear, pass on the right, and survive a bar fight. Now there was a seductive thought.

“Sure. I’m game,” she found herself saying.

He stood up. “Okay, then, let’s get you a cue stick.”

She pushed back from the table and followed him toward the front of the building and the pool table.

Tulane pulled a couple of cue sticks down from a rack on the wall.

“Uh, do they have any short ones?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Honey, this isn’t like some things, where length matters. A cue stick comes in just one size.” He handed her a stick that was almost as tall as she was.

“Oh.” She wondered what things he might be thinking about. He said “things,” and her mind moved directly to the gutter.

He pulled down a triangular frame, then started pulling balls out from under the table and placing them on the green felt top. “Now,” he said, investing his voice with a certain professorial manner, “the balls come in two kinds, solids and stripes. That’s important.”

He collected the balls into the triangle and arranged them. “This is called racking the balls.”

“Sounds painful.”

“I’m shocked. Where did a nice girl like you learn such things?”

“From you.”

His smile broadened. “I reckon you did. I reckon I have some talent in this teaching department.” He paused a moment as he positioned the triangle over a little white dot in the middle of the table and then removed the frame.

“Now, normally we’d flip to see who gets the chance to break, but I’m going to let you have the honors. We’ll chalk it up to you being a pool virgin and me being an experienced teacher, okay?”

He picked up a white ball and held it up. “This is a cue ball. It’s the only one you’re allowed to hit with your stick. It’s also the one you don’t want to put in any pockets.”

“Uh-huh.”

He placed it over the white dot at the end of the table opposite the group of balls. “Okay. Now, take a position at the end of the table and line up your stick with the cue ball.”

She moved to the end of the table and leaned over the table like she’d seen people do in the movies. The posture felt awkward. “Like this?”

He stood at the other end of the table, his gaze dipping down and then back up. One of his dimples made a sudden, wicked appearance. A little flush of excitement inched down her spine. He was getting a bird’s-eye view of her bra. It was new. She had bought it on a whim because it pushed up her assets and did things for her cl**vage. Tulane appeared to have noticed.

He hesitated, obviously enjoying the view, and then he cleared his throat. “Uh, well, no.”

She straightened up. “No? What am I doing wrong?”

He headed around the table in her direction. “Uh, just about everything.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Look here, I want you to stand with your legs perpendicular to the table and your feet about shoulder-width apart. Balance your weight on both feet.”

She did as she was told. “Like this?”

“Uh, well…” He moved around the table until he was standing behind her. In the next instant, he grabbed her by the h*ps and positioned her body at the edge of the table. The palms of his hands felt unbelievably warm through the fabric of her pants. He let go. Disappointment settled into her stomach.

“Like that,” he said, and his breath feathered across her cheek.

“Okay, what’s next?” she asked, her voice sounding unusually husky.

“Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right.”

He leaned forward and grabbed her right hand and placed it way back on the stick, near its butt end. His motion had the effect of bringing the front of his body into contact with the back of hers. She was overwhelmed with his citrus scent, and the rounded contours of his thighs, and other bits of his equipment pressed up against the cleft in her bottom. Her heart slammed against her rib cage.

He backed up. “Okay,” he said, his voice sounding a little pinched. “Put your left hand palm down on the table about seven inches from the cue ball.”

She bent over, with Tulane right behind her. The man had to have a really good view of her bottom. She didn’t want to think about all that wide expanse of behind, and panty lines, too.

“Okay, now, lift your thumb and lay the shaft of the cue in the crease between your thumb and the side of your hand.”

Goodness. Her entire nervous system went a little haywire the minute he said the word “shaft.”

“Now slide the stick back and forth in the crease. It should slide smoothly and evenly.”

She did it. “Ah. It’s pretty smooth,” she said, her voice squeaky.

“Good. You’ve made an excellent bridge.”

“Bridge?”

“That’s what they call that little crease there where you’ve got the stick.”

“Oh. Okay.” Thank goodness they didn’t call it something salacious, otherwise she might turn into ash right on the spot.

“Okay, honey, the trick to making a good shot is to slide the stick back and forth in the slot a couple of times and then, when you’re ready, you pull back and strike the cue ball at its center. You got that?”

“Uh-huh.” She managed not to strangle on the words. It occurred to her that slot was a whole lot more salacious than bridge.

“Let ’er rip,” he said.

She did as instructed, striking the cue ball solidly. It rolled over the felt and smacked the other group of balls with enough force to scatter them in all four directions. One of the colored balls dropped with a thud into a corner pocket.

“Good break,” Tulane said. He pulled the six ball from beneath the table and held it up for her to see.

An intense flush of pride washed through her and must have shown on her face, because Tulane gave her a brilliant smile.

He nodded, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Since you sank a ball with your break, you get to go again. And since you pocketed a solid, your objective now is to get all the solid balls into the pockets, except for the eight ball. That comes later.” He went on to briefly outline the rest of the rules of the game.

She missed her next shot, and most of the rest of them, too. It came as no surprise that Tulane won the game. She would have been disappointed in him if he had let her win. Still, he purposely missed shots so she could have a chance to play. And somehow that seemed to underscore the fact that for a big, bad, good ol’ boy, Tulane was actually quite sensitive. She was terrible at this game, but Tulane didn’t seem to notice.

When the game was over, she realized the members of the No. 57 Ford team were drinking beer and lounging around on barstools, watching intently. She wondered what they might be thinking.

Tulane grinned at the crew. “Anyone else up for a game?”

Ken stood up. “Sure.”

“I was hoping to goad you into it.” There was an odd, tense look on Tulane’s face. “Best three out of five?”

Ken nodded coolly. “What are the stakes?”

Tulane dug in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a messy wad of bills. He counted them. “Twenty-five?”

Ken shook his head. “That all?”

Tulane shrugged. “Didn’t get to the bank. You ought to spot me a few, just to be neighborly.”

“Not on your life. Okay. Twenty-five.” Ken dug into his chinos and pulled out a money clip. He pulled out a crisp twenty and a five. They laid their money on a table nearby, pinning it down with Tulane’s beer.

Tulane and Kenny’s games were not exactly friendly. There was something of the playground in the way they circled one another, like a couple of thirteen-year-olds trying to figure out who was the top boy on the field.

Sarah sat down on a high stool at the bar and ordered another Coke. Lori came down and sat beside her.

Ken won the coin toss and broke first. “Oops,” Lori whispered.

Sarah turned toward her. “Oops?”

“Not good for Tulane,” Lori said.

Ken proceeded to run the table. Tulane didn’t even get a shot. The engineer played like a machine. He didn’t seem worried, and he never missed.

Tulane broke the second game. He also ran the table, but he took a lot longer setting up his shots. Tulane had to work hard to keep up with Ken.

In the end, Ken won the twenty-five dollars in five games. He sauntered over to where she and Lori sat and leaned on his cue. He paused, as if expecting Sarah to make obeisance to him, as if he were the victor of a joust, and she the lady who was supposed to hand out laurel wreaths to the victors.

It was pretty arrogant of him. She didn’t think skill at playing pool meant much in the great scheme of things.

“Do you regularly beat Tulane?” she found herself asking.

He smiled as if this question was precisely the one he wanted her to ask. “Well, I probably have a few games up on him.” He was trying to sound humble. He failed.

Lori snorted. “Honey, Tulane and Ken play pool all the time. It’s become a regular spectator sport. I’d say Kenny has a slight edge, though.”

Ken shrugged. “I can’t help it if the guy insists. I’m not hustling him.”

Tulane shrugged. “Just passing the time and building up team spirit.” He turned around and placed his cue stick in the rack.

Sarah knew darn well that Tulane didn’t play with Kenny just to pass the time. Tulane didn’t like Kenny Lewicki. And Ken didn’t have much respect for Tulane. That game had been all about testosterone. But for some reason, Tulane chose not to fight Kenny. He chose to compete against him in a venue where Kenny had the edge.

Maybe it wasn’t about testosterone at all. Maybe Tulane was just trying to get Kenny on his side, because the two of them didn’t seem to be the best of teammates. The two men couldn’t have been more different if they tried.

At that moment, Tulane reached into his jeans and pulled out another wad of bills that belied his earlier comment about not making it to the bank. “ ’Course, I never bet more than I can afford to lose.” He winked at Sarah. “Honey, that’s one of those rules that you need to remember if you ever decide to take up hustling pool for a living.”