"What did you say this place was called again?"

Marianne's voice was all trepidation as Trent held the door to the bar open for her. To her credit, however nervous she felt in that moment, she hid it well; she strutted with calm class into the establishment, and every male eye that wasn't occupied with a drink fixed on her in an instant.

"When's the last time you've been inside anything that wasn't a brewpub?" he had asked her in the car on the way over.

"Does my own home count?" she returned.

"The Swing Station," Trent said now with pride. He fixed his hands on his hips and surveyed the terrain. "Out of my jurisdiction, which means anything that goes wrong isn't my problem."

"I don't believe that for a second," Marianne muttered. She made a beeline for the bar, and Trent followed, raising his eyebrow in question. "I don't believe for a second that you could keep your nose out of anything even if it doesn't directly concern you."

"Makes me a damn fine sheriff," Trent agreed. More eyes turned to him than Marianne at his claim, and he figured the bartender was in for an easy night. He rolled up to the bar and signaled the keep. "Hey, there. Mind if we take one of those back rooms off your hands?"

"Sure," the bartender replied. "It's five bucks if you want to rent it out for the rest of the night."

"Ouch," Trent joked as he dug for his wallet. He didn't mean it, of course; five bucks was well worth the price of admission, and he was just getting started with his plan. He dropped a twenty on the counter and passed one of the whiskeys that magically appeared there to Marianne. "Keep 'em coming," he told the bartender as he moved off toward the back of the Station.

"What's…what's in the room?" Marianne asked nervously as she followed after him. She coughed and waved a hand in front of her to disperse a cloud of cigarette smoke; the smoker leered from his table.

Trent grinned with what he thought was the appropriate amount of mystery as he shouldered open the door. Marianne peered inside and saw the dark green poker table. She exhaled.

"What'd you think I was leading you into?" Trent asked her in amusement.

"I'm not sure," she replied as she swept by him. "A den of sin, maybe? Even dennier and sinnier than the one we just left?"

"I just wanted to give you a taste for what a real honky tonk is like. No bells, no whistles." He pulled out a chair for her, and Marianne sat down.

"I saw plenty of bells coming in here," she noted. "And I'm pretty sure a few of those men would have definitely whistled at me—or worse—if I wasn't with you."

"I mean it isn't fancy. It isn't high-class. What it is, is good, dirty fun. Sometimes things get wild." Trent waved toward the door as he fell into a chair. "Sometimes I have to break it up. Sometimes I even have to arrest people. But mostly it's good people, cheap drinks, hearty laughter. Music, dance, maybe a wet T-shirt here and there."

"Classy." Marianne raised her glass to her painted lips and eyed him over the rim. It hadn't escaped him that she was wearing lipstick tonight. Was it in honor of the evening, or was it for him specifically? It had been so long since Trent had found the time to go out with a woman, he was at a complete loss trying to read her signals. "So we're going to play cards?"

"All night long, if you want to." He rocked forward and shook out the deck he had brought along. It was his grandfather's, old and worn and timeless. He wouldn't be surprised if the cards had been printed long before Lockhart Bend officially became a town. "Pick your poison." He arrayed the cards in a clumsy fan, and Marianne laughed.

"Well, considering we're sitting at a poker table…" She leaned forward, and her cleavage deepened. "How about we play poker?"

"Sure. You want to make a drinking game out of it?" Trent took a long sip of his whiskey, relishing the burn, and Marianne's eyes took on the glint of a challenge.

"I think I have a better idea," she said.

* * *

"Shoo-oot." Trent threw his cards down. He purposefully drew out the word, because he had a feeling Marianne liked it, from the way her mouth twitched and her gaze dropped. "Guess you got me again. All right, what's next?"

"Your shirt," she said with conviction.

"You don't want me to take my hat off first?"

"Leave the hat on."

"You know…" Trent smiled as he peeled his shirt up over his head. He was forced to remove his hat and replace it immediately to appease his mistress. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a little bit kinky, Marianne Stanton."

"Maybe you don't know better." He couldn't help but notice the way Marianne's eyes lingered on his chest. Had he known he was going to get naked this evening, he couldn't have chosen a better location; the shadows cast by the dim lightbulb suspended overhead highlighted every contour of his muscled frame. He prided himself on keeping in as good shape as his brothers, and he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to let Marianne get an eyeful now.

"Pleased with yourself, huh?" he interrupted her study. "Tell me what else is new." He waved a hand at the table. "Well, what are we at? I'm losing track here, girl."

"Well…" Marianne leaned back and crossed her arms beneath her exposed bra. She was down to just her underwear, same as Trent; unlike Trent’s, hers was black and svelte and contrasted with her china doll skin in a way that was nothing less than damn sinful. "I've had four drinks, you've had six. All whiskey."

"I meant how much do I owe you?"

Marianne's eyebrow arched. "Owe me? I'd say a life debt, considering how soundly I've whooped you."

Trent winced. There was too much truth to her words for his liking. He just hoped this evening wasn't a sign of things to come—he had another challenge he intended to win later, after all. "If you can think of anything you might settle for in the meantime, I'm all ears."

"All right, Sheriff." Marianne kicked her bare legs up onto the table and crossed them, one over the other. "How about I forgive your debts for a kiss?"