“Watch out, Luc, she’s a hustler,” Rob warned.
“Is that right?” One corner of Luc’s mouth lifted. “Are you a hustler, Ace?”
“Just because I beat the Hammer, I’m automatically a hustler?”
“No. You let poor Rob think he was winning and then you coldcocked him. That makes you a hustler.”
She tried not to smile, but she failed. “Are you scared?”
“Not hardly.” He shook his head and a short lock of dark blond hair fell across his forehead. “Ready to play?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re a really bad sport.”
“Me?” He placed a big hand on the front of his ribbed navy sweater, drawing her attention to his wide chest.
“I’ve seen you whack the goalposts when a puck gets by you.”
“I’m competitive.” His hand fell to his side. “Not a bad sport.”
“Right.” She tilted her head and looked into his eyes, the light blue barely discernible within the dark bar. “Do you think you can stand to lose?”
“I don’t plan to lose.” He motioned toward the tape line. “Ladies first.”
When it came to darts, she took no prisoners and was both competitive and a bad sport. If he wanted her to go first, she wasn’t going to argue. “How much money are you willing to bet?”
“I’ll put my fifty against your fifty.”
“You’re on.” Jane doubled on with her first throw and scored sixty points by the time she was through.
Luc’s first throw bounced back and he didn’t double on until his third dart. “That sucked.” With his brows drawn together, he walked to the board and retrieved the darts. Standing within the pool of light, he studied the tips and flights. “These are dull,” he said, then looked across his shoulder at her. “Let me see yours.”
She doubted hers were sharper and moved next to him. He took them from her open palm and, with his head bent over hers, tested the points with this thumb. “Yours aren’t as dull as mine.”
He was so close, if she leaned forward just a little, her forehead would touch his. “Fine,” she said, managing to sound halfway normal, as if the clean scent of him didn’t make her breath catch in her throat. “Pick whichever three you want, and I’ll take the others.”
“No. We’ll use the same darts.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “That way, when I beat you, you can’t cry.”
She looked into his eyes, so close to hers, and her heart thumped in her chest. “I’m not the one who threw a bounce-back on the very first throw, then blamed the darts.” And while her heart was thumping, he appeared totally unaffected. She took a step back and put distance between him and her silly reaction. “Now, are you going to talk all night, Martineau, or are we going to get busy so I can kick your butt?”
“You’re cocky for such a short little thing,” he said and slapped the three darts he’d deemed the sharpest into her hand. “I think you have one of those short-girl syndromes,” he added, then joined some of his teammates who’d moved to the table several feet away.
She shrugged as if to say, Yeah, so? and walked to the line. With her weight perfectly balanced on both feet, her wrist loose and relaxed, she shot a double, a triple, and a single bull. Luc strode to the toe line as she retrieved the darts from the board. “You’re right,” she said as she walked toward him, “these are much better.” She placed all three in his outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
His hand closed over hers, pressing the darts into her palm. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“At a little bar near the University of Washington.” The heat of his hand warmed hers. “I worked there nights to put myself through school.” She tried to pull away, but his grasp tightened and the shafts dug into her flesh.
“Isn’t Hooters around there?” He finally let go of her hand and she took a step back.
“No, it’s across the lake from the university,” she answered, even though she figured he knew exactly where Hooters was located. His car could probably get there on its own. He was just trying to rattle her.
It wasn’t working until he took a step toward her and said next to her ear, “Were you a Hooters girl?”
Despite the heat creeping up her neck, she managed a cool and collected, if not quite a Honey Pie, response. “I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m not Hooters material.”
He lowered his voice, his warm breath touching her cheek as he asked, “Why’s that?”
“We both know why.”