His hand fisting around the bottle, Brooks took a sip of beer, gulping down hard. The woman’s moves around the pool table were as smooth and as polished as his new Justin boots.
“Five ball, corner pocket,” she said, her voice sultry with a side of sass, as if she knew she wasn’t going to miss. Then she took her shot. The cue ball met its mark and sure enough, the five ball rolled right into the pocket.
She straightened to full height, her chest expanding to near button-popping proportions. She couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two, but what she had in that small package was enough to make him break out in a sweat. And that was saying something, since he’d come to Texas for one reason, and one reason only.
To meet his biological father for the first time in his life.
He’d spent the better part of his adulthood trying to find the man who’d abandoned him and his twin brother, Graham in Chicago. Sutton Winchester, his bitter older rival and the man Brooks thought might be his biological father turned out not to be his blood kin after all. Thank God. But Sutton had known the truth of his parenthood all along, and the ailing man, plagued by a bout of conscience—or so Brooks figured—had finally given up the information that led to the name and location of his and Graham’s father.
Brooks would have been speaking with his real father at Look Away Ranch in Cool Springs right now if he hadn’t gotten a bad case of nerves. So much was riding on this. The trek to get to this place in time, to solving the mystery surrounding the birth of the Newport twins, as well as his younger brother Carson, would finally come to fruition.
So, yeah, the powerful CEO of the Newport Corporation from Chicago had turned chicken. Those bawking noises played out in his head. He’d never run scared before and yet, as he was breezing through this dusty town, the Welcome sign and Christmas lights outside the doors of the C’mon Inn had called to him. He’d pulled to a stop and entered the lodge, in need of a fortifying drink and a good night’s rest. He had a lot to think about, and meeting Beau Preston in the light of day seemed a better idea.
He kept his gaze trained on the prettiest thing in the joint. The woman. She wielded the pool cue like a weapon and began wiggling her perfectly trim ass in an effort to make a clean shot. He sipped beer to cool his jets, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He had visions of bending over the pool table with her and bringing them both to heaven.
Long strands of her hair hung down to touch her breasts, and as she leaned over even further to line up her shot, those strands caressed green felt. She announced her next shot and bam, the ball banked off the left side and then ricocheted straight into the center pocket.
The whiskered man she was playing against hung his head. “Man, Ruby. You don’t give a guy a chance.”
She chuckled. “That’s the rule I live by, Stan. You know that.”
“But you could miss once in a while. Make it interesting.”
So her name was Ruby. Brooks liked the sound of it, all right. It fit.
He had no business lusting after her. Woman trouble was the last thing he needed. Yet his brain wasn’t doing a good job of convincing his groin to back off.
The game continued until she handed the older guy his vitals on a silver platter. “Sorry, Stan.”
“You’d think after all these years a man could do better against a teeny tiny woman.”
She grinned, showing off a smile that lit the place on fire, then set a sympathetic hand on the man’s shoulder and reached up to kiss his cheek.
The old guy’s face turned beet red. “You know that’s the only reason I endure this torture. For that kiss at the end.”
Her deep, provocative chuckle rumbled in Brooks’s ears. “You’re sweet for saying that, Stan. Now, go on home to Betsy. And kiss your sweet grandson for me.”
Nodding, Stan smiled at her. “Will do. You be good now, you hear?”
“I can always try,” she said, hooking her cue stick on the wall next to a holly wreath.
Stan walked off, and Ruby did this little number with her head that landed all of her thick, silky hair on one shoulder. Brooks’s groin tightened some more. If she was any indication of what Cool Springs was like, he was quickly gaining an affinity for the place.
The woman spotted him. Her deep-set eyes, the color of dark cocoa, met his for a second, and time seemed to stop. Blood rushed through his veins. She blinked a time or two and then let him go, as if she recognized him to be an out-of-towner.
He finished off his beer and rose, tossing some bills onto the bar and giving the barkeep a nod.
“Hey, sweet doll,” a man called out, coming from the darkest depths of the bar to stand in front of her. “How about giving me a go-round?”
Ruby tilted her head up. “No thanks. I’m through for the night.”
“You ain’t through until you’ve seen me wield my stick. It’s impressive.” The big oaf wiggled his brows and crowded her against the pool table.
She rolled her eyes. “Pleeeze.”
“Yeah, babe, that’s exactly what you’ll be crying out once we’re done playing.”
“Sorry, but if that’s your best come-on line, you’re in sad shape, buster.”
She inched her body away, brushing by him, trying not to make contact with the bruiser. But the jerk grabbed her arm from behind and gave a sharp tug. She struggled to wiggle free. “Let go,” she said.
Brooks scanned the room. All eyes were still on Ruby, but no one was making a move. Instead they all had smug looks on their faces. Forget what he’d thought about this town; they were all jerks.
The muscles in his arms bunched and his hands tightened into fists as Brooks stepped toward the two of them. He couldn’t stand by and watch this scene play out, not when the petite pool shark was in trouble. “Get your hands—”
The words weren’t out of his mouth before Ruby elbowed the guy in the gut. “Oof.” He doubled over, clutching his stomach, and cursed her up and down using filthy names.
Crap. Now she was in deep. The guy’s head came up; the unabashed fury in his eyes was aimed her way. Brooks immediately pulled his arm back, fists at the ready, but before he could land a punch, Ruby grabbed the guy’s forearm. The twist of her body came so fast, Brooks blinked, and before he knew it, she’d tossed the big oaf over her shoulder WWF-style and had him down for the count. As in, she’d laid him out flat on his back.
Someone from the bar groused, “No one messes with Ruby unless she wants to be messed with.”
Apparently the oaf hadn’t known that. And neither had Brooks. But hell, the rest of them had known.
She stepped over the man to face Brooks, her gaze on the right hook he’d been ready to land. “Thanks anyway,” she said, out of breath. Apparently she wasn’t Supergirl. The effort had taxed her, and he found himself enjoying how the ebb and flow of her labored breaths stretched the material of her blouse.
He stood there somewhat in awe, a grin spreading his mouth wide. “You didn’t let me do my gladiator routine.”
“Sorry. Maybe next time.” Her lips quirked up.
Behind her, the bartender and another man began dragging the patron away.
“Does that happen often?” he asked her.
“Often enough,” she said. “But not with guys who know me.”
He rubbed at his chin. “No. I wouldn’t imagine.”
He kept his gaze trained on her, astonished at what he’d just witnessed. Her eyes danced in amusement, probably at his befuddled expression. And then someone turned up the volume on the country song playing, and his thoughts ran wild.