Jared tapped his fingers on the juke in time to the music. He eyed their youngest brother, who was definitely making progress with the redhead. That alone was reason enough to punch him a few times.
"I've got enough on me to post bond." Jared told them. "And a little extra to bribe the sheriff, if we have to."
Devin sighed, straightened from the table. With brotherly affection, he studied the unsuspecting Shane. "Hell, he's going to get his butt whipped before the night's over, anyway, if he keeps playing with that girl. We might as well do it first."
"We'll be more humane," Jared agreed.
The bartender watched them move together, recognized, with despair, the look in each eye. "Not in here. Come on now, Devin, you're the law."
"Just doing my brotherly duty."
"What's the idea?" Scenting trouble, Shane danced back from the bar. He scanned his brothers, shifted as they moved to flank him. "Three against one?" His mouth curved in a wide, reckless grin as other customers moved to safety. "Come on, then."
He crouched, braced, then made the mistake of glancing over as the door opened. His mouth had already fallen open in surprise when Rafe caught him low and sent them both crashing into a table.
"You make it too easy." Laughing, Rafe turned and caught him in a cheerful headlock. Then he went numb, right down to his toes.
The skirt barely made it past the legal limit. It wasn't tight. It went beyond tight as it squeezed possessively over curvy hips in an eye-popping fire-engine red. The legs went on. And on. Rafe's dazzled gape followed them down to the razor-sharp skyscraper heels in that same bold color.
When he managed to lift his gaze, he saw that the skinny black top was as snug as the skirt, and dipped down low over firm, unfettered breasts. It took him a full ten seconds to get to her face.
Her mouth was red and wet and curved. Beside it, the little mole was a bold exclamation of sex. Her hair was tousled, and her eyes were shadowed and heavy. She looked like a woman who'd just climbed out of bed, and was willing to climb right back in.
"Holy hell." It was Shane's strained muttering that jolted him out of shock. "Is that Regan in there? She is hot."
Rafe didn't have the strength to put much behind the punch. When he gained his feet and moved to the door, his head was still buzzing, as if he'd been the one to take the blow.
"What are you doing?''
She moved a shoulder, causing the excuse for a blouse to follow her stretch. "I thought I'd play a little nine-ball."
There was something stuck in his throat. "Nine-ball?"
"Yeah." She sauntered over to the bar, leaned an elbow on it. "Going to buy me a beer, MacKade?"
Chapter 12
If he kept staring at her, she was going to lose it, Regan thought. She was already so nervous that if her clothes hadn't been girdled on, she'd have jumped out of them.
Because she'd wanted to make an entrance, she'd left her coat in the car. Only the heat of possible humiliation kept her teeth from chattering.
Her feet were killing her.
When Rafe didn't answer, she scanned the room and tried not to swallow audibly at the stares. Gathering courage, she flashed a smile at the bartender. Even the weary-eyed Duff was goggling at her.
"I'll have what he's having." When she had the beer in her hand, she turned back. No one had moved a muscle. It was either run or play it out, Regan told herself, taking a quick swallow of beer.
She hated beer.
"Are you going to rack them, MacKade, or am I?"
"I'll rack them," Jared interjected helpfully. His hands were still a little sweaty, but he'd gotten over the worst of the shock. Rafe's face was almost as much of a pleasure to watch as the sway of Regan's hips, as she sauntered over to study the arsenal of cues.
Rafe heard the clatter of balls, and blinked. "You said you wanted an early night."
"Changed my mind." Her voice was breathy from necessity, rather than design. The leather and Span-dex were cutting off her air supply. "I had all this... energy all of a sudden." She walked slowly to the table, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of the skirt. "Who wants to play?"
Half a dozen men moved with scraping chairs and clattering boots. Rafe's snarl was the low, vicious sound of a wild dog guarding his bone. Half a dozen men decided they weren't in the mood for pool after all.