Dragonfury 01 - Fury of Fire

reacting to him like that. Her brain had obviously been short circuited by one too many handfuls of salted peanuts.
    Angela pushed the bowl of Planters’ finest away and, glancing at Mr. Rough-and-Tumble, raised a brow. “Looking for trouble?”
    His mouth curved up at the corners; he took a handful of nuts. “Nah, just a pool game. You play?”
    “Depends.”
    “On what?”
    “Whether or not you like to lose.”
    He laughed, flashing straight, white teeth. “You’re that good?”
    “You wanna find out?”
    “Yeah,” he said, eyes intense as he popped the peanuts into his mouth. Angela swallowed as he chewed, reining in errant urges—ones that included full body contact as she licked the salt from his bottom lip. “I really do.”
    His voice came out low, almost purr-like, and Angela shivered as the vibration slid up her spine. Wow, he was a wet dream with the body to back it up. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’d be good in bed…so unbelievably hot and—
    Holy hell, what was she doing?
    Cozying up to this guy was a big mistake…one she shouldn’t make. Mac would kick her butt if he found out. Which was almost guaranteed. Yeah, McGovern’s might not be busy tonight, but the bar held court for its regulars. She recognized the cops in the corner booth. And just her luck, they were old school, throwbacks from the glory days when women were receptionists instead of detectives.
    For some crazy reason, she didn’t care. Not tonight. Right this minute, she wanted to ride the edge—let go and live dangerously for a change. The blond sitting beside her would give her that. She knew it like the chill in her glass. He was a flesh-and-blood opportunity. One she couldn’t pass up without at least exploring…if only for an hour or two.
    Setting her glass down on the damp napkin, Angela pivoted on the stool seat. Knee to knee with him now, she studied him, absorbed the chiseled planes of his face and the pale blue of his gaze. Hmm, his eyes were incredible, the color of ice…of the unspoiled glaciers she saw on the National Geographic channel. Icy, yet warm. Another paradox. One that upped her interest in him.
    She held out her hand. “Angela.”
    “Rikar.” He stared at her hand.
    A heartbeat passed before he raised his own. As his palm met hers, a prickling rush slid through her, ramping up sexual attraction, shoving sanity aside. He sucked in a quick breath and pulled back, letting her go. The second his skin left hers, she wanted the feeling back.
    A little breathless from his touch, she asked, “No last name?”
    “Not tonight.” He slid off his stool and tipped his chin toward the pool tables. “Maybe tomorrow, though.”
    Angela clamped down on a smile. He was a tease. Using a string-along strategy designed to not only heighten her curiosity, but keep it in orbit. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. Rikar was a player, a guy who understood the finer points of the game. Fine by her. She held the ball and controlled the field. No was no, after all, and instinct told her Rikar would respect her decision…either way.
    Sliding off the stool, she followed him, enjoying the view from behind. Man, he moved well, male power coiling, releasing with each step, making her imagine what he’d feel like mouth to mouth and skin to skin.
    And, oh, boy. Was she actually thinking about this? Considering taking Rikar home? After a measly fifteen minutes of watching and thirty seconds of talking? Jeez. She needed her head examined. But even as she told herself that, temptation called, urging her to answer. She hadn’t been with a guy in…what? Close to two years. Not from lack of wanting, but from lack of time…and trust. Other than Mac, trust and men didn’t coexist well for her. And, well, no way she would sleep with her partner. She didn’t want Mac that way.
    But Rikar?
    Angela blew out a long breath. Yeah, he was perfect. With his pale eyes, skull-trimmed blond hair, and ripped body, he was number one on her list of stupid things to do on a Friday night.
    Wiping damp palms on her dark jeans, Angela studied the cues hanging in the wall rack. She made a show of it, buying time to collect herself. The guy standing quietly in her shadow rattled her more than she wanted to admit, and honestly? Acting like an idiot came in at minus two thousand on her personal Richter scale.
    Cue balls clinked together, rolling on the table as she picked her weapon, a beautiful dark piece with light