I’d missed.
Again.
Rage poured through my veins like lava, choking up my system and forcing a red blaze to sear across my mind. How the fuck had I missed? I broke open my shotgun with a violent crack and yanked out the empty casings, fisting them uncomfortably in my hand for a moment while I tried to compose myself. The discomfort helped center me.
I could live with the consequences of losing our wager, but defeat? That was much harder for me to handle. There wasn’t anything I hated more than losing. All the sins like incompetence or betrayal or death were simply different types of loss.
Ms. Alby’s feminine voice broke through my haze. “Do you want me to give you a tip?”
It wasn’t clear if she meant her offer in earnest, or if she was rightfully throwing my earlier hubris back in my face. It didn’t matter. I slammed new shells into the barrels and closed the break with a sharp snap, issuing the word as cold as the weapon in my hands. “No.”
My mindset wasn’t right. There was likely a voice inside me warning me to slow down and reset, but my pride was an open wound, and the only way I knew how to cover it was to reestablish my skill. To control and dominate.
“Pull.”
The game was mostly mental, and she’d already beaten me. When the target from the high house slipped past me—my third missed shot—it solidified my loss for everyone else. Unless she missed four out of her next seven shots, the great Macalister Hale was going to bested by some twenty-six-year-old girl.
I hadn’t shot this poorly in years.
No matter how quickly she moved, time dragged by, slowing with each shot she made. We shuffled to the final position in the center of the field, situated directly between the two trap houses. I finished out the round by hitting my final two targets then stood to the side to watch her as she completed her series.
Her legs were wrapped in black leggings, and the hem of her long black coat flapped subtly in the breeze. When she was my assistant, I’d instruct her to wear skirts and dresses. It wasn’t just that I liked my employees to look a certain way, but she had a nice figure. She should be using it to her advantage.
Men became weak around beautiful women.
Even I wasn’t immune, and Sophia Alby was a beautiful woman. She was focused and hard now, but once the game was over, I suspected she’d return to the bright, infectious girl I’d met at lunch earlier this week, with curious eyes and a mouth that could twist into debilitating smile.
I wanted to despise her as she made her final shots then exercised her option at the end. A perfect twenty-five, which I’d only completed a dozen times in my life. This girl had done it with so much finesse she’d made it look easy.
Across the lawn, the crowd of guests clapped for her. She nodded her appreciation while her spent casings were removed, and the bent, unloaded shotgun was placed across her shoulders. She pulled down her earmuffs to hang around the back of her neck and removed her shooting glasses, fixing her gaze on me.
As she spoke, her gloves were tugged off and pocketed. “Good game, Mr. Hale. Or should I say, boss?”
She thrust her hand out.
I’d lost, and my stomach was a bubbling cauldron of unpleasantness, but I refused to show it. I warmed up my tone just enough to keep the bitterness out as I took her offered handshake. “It’s Macalister. Congratulations, Ms. Alby.”
That same spark was there when we touched, and her voice went uneven. “It’s Sophia. And thank you.”
When she tried to pull away, I locked my fingers tighter around her. “Will you play another round?”
Sophia’s lips parted like she was going to speak, but she produced no sound. My hold on her seemed to have a paralyzing effect. It gave me a moment to solidify my plan. The only other person here who had skills like us was Damon.
Was she worried I was going to ask to redo our wager?
“Perhaps we can talk Mr. Lynch into joining us,” I added.
She practically jolted with excitement, and it broke loose her tongue. “I’d be happy to.”
I ended the handshake, turned, and strode toward the crowd. I’d lost the bet, but I’d do all within my power to even the score. If I couldn’t defeat her, someone else eventually would, and I’d enjoy seeing it. “Damon, you’ll play this next round.”
The scowl that crossed his face was unexpected, but no more than his response. “No.”
I pulled up short, stunned. I’d issued an order, and although I was no longer his chairman, I still owned the company where he sat on the board. How dare he refuse? “Excuse me?”