In answer, she delivered her most innocent of smiles.
Side-by-side, they leaned forward for the lag. Heat generated from his large body. The room felt suddenly . . . smaller, her corset suddenly . . . tighter, and her mind suddenly . . . unfocused.
Stop it!
“At the count of three,” he said.
Focused on the cue ball in front of her, she waited for the count.
Both balls bounced off the top cushion and rolled toward the baulk, Colin’s gaining a bit more momentum and speed than hers.
As it neared the baulk, Anne’s ball slowed, while Colin’s ball passed the baulk line, bounced into the cushion, and returned several inches above. A good shot, but not the best.
Anne watched her ball inch closer. “Come on. Come on. A little farther.”
Her prayer did not go unanswered, and the ball came to a rest a mere inch from the baulk cushion.
Colin mumbled something that sounded like, “Lucky shot.”
She held her hand to her ear. “What was that, my lord?”
Brow furrowed and ears red at the tips, he looked rather adorable. She would thoroughly enjoy beating him.
His smiles and bravado dissipated. “Choose who breaks, madam.”
“So formal. Is that cue stick lodged up your...?” She motioned to his behind. A muffled snort sounded from the footman stationed behind her.
As much as she hated allowing him to score points early, she needed to evaluate his skill level. In addition, until both cue balls were on the table, making a cannon was impossible, and she intended to double up on her scoring with every opportunity.
She handed him the white cue ball. “Please, be my guest.”
As he removed the ball from her grasp, his fingers caressed her skin. His eyes flared, the black of his pupils nearly obliterating the lovely green of his irises.
Heat rushed up Anne’s neck and settled in her cheeks.
A smug expression of satisfaction passed over his face as he placed his cue ball in the D and bent to take his shot, providing a visual reminder of his remarkably nice bottom.
Try as she might to pull her gaze away from the stretch of fabric against the round curves of his backside, she failed. A lump had taken up residence in her throat. She needed to concentrate. A puppy was at stake!
Colin couldn’t believeAnne’s luck with the lag. But one shot did not make a game, and this was his table, by God!
Not that he didn’t already want to win, but her smug, cocksure attitude solidified his determination. On his firstshot, he potted the red ball with ease, bouncing it off the top cushion, then banking it into the left side cushion before it dropped with a satisfyingplunkinto the right side pocket.
“Three points for Lord Manning,” Alan said.
After potting the red ball again, Colin purposely missed his next shot, with the red ball tipping precariously close to a corner pocket but not going in. He gave her a sweet smile, interested, if not eager, to see what she was made of. “It’s all yours, Nymph.”
Once more, she made a show of examining the table.
“The point of the game is to hit the balls with that stick thing in your hands.”
“Oh. Do you mean like this?” She positioned her cue ball in the D, drew back the cue and smacked her cue ball into his, bouncing it off the top cushion, banking on the left, before it knocked the red ball into the corner pocket.
Damn.And here he thought she’d go for the easy shot for only the red.
“Well done, my lady! Three points for potting the red, and two more for the cannon!” Irritation flared in Colin’s chest at Alan’s enthusiasm.
“No need for additional commentary. Just keep score.”
