“I’ll go ahead and assume you’ve played nine ball,” he said, racking the table.

She dusted the top of her cue stick with chalk. “Of course.” Only nine balls were used in nine ball, hence the name, numbered in order from one to nine. Aside from the break, the balls must be pocketed in numerical order, or the cue ball must at least contact the lowest-numbered ball first, after which any numbered ball could be legally scored, meaning the one ball could be struck and then the nine by either the one or the cue ball, and if sunk, the game is won. It was a fast-paced game with fewer balls in play. Is that why he’d chosen it? Eager for his prize?

Not if she had anything to say about it.

The pool room had been abandoned. She didn’t know where his friends had gone, or if they would return. A new waitress was attending them now, only sparing Naia a cursory glance of curiosity before dropping off their drinks. Knowing she no longer had to bother with an interview, Naia had ordered her favorite drink: Hurricane. It was sweet and strong, and synonymous to its name, too many of them and you’d wake in the morning thinking you’d been hit by a storm.

Cortez ordered a whiskey sour. He sipped as she inspected his prowess at racking. Not a ball out of place.

“Are you ready for this?” she taunted. “In a few moments, you’re about to welcome a new employee into the fold.”

Grinning devilishly, he said, “Or you’ll welcome me into yours.”

She turned away to hide her flush. Bastard. “Not going to happen.” She chalked her cue stick, planted her stance, and aimed for the apex of the triangle. Inhaling a deep breath, she raised her elbow, drew the stick back and then plowed forward through the cue ball.

Crack.

The sound rang out like gunfire, balls smashing around like chaotic bumper cars. And though her break was impressive, it was exceedingly unlucky. No balls were pocketed. Damn. She may have already lost this game before it had begun.

Cortez strolled up to the table. “I thought you were going to provide me with a challenge.”

She glared at him and then turned to nurse her drink.

He had a straight shot at the start, and the one ball bit the dust. The two ball quickly followed, then the three. He was going to sweep the table. Her heart sank when he lined up the four. He was going for a bank to sink the nine. Game over. But then something interesting happened. The cue ball knocked the four into the pocket no problem, but then came to rest just inside the corner, behind the nine and flanked by several others. The five ball was at the complete opposite end of the table, near the adjacent corner. He had to go for the five, but couldn’t hit the nine first. If he hit the nine or didn’t manage to sink five, it was her turn.

She sat up in her chair, curious how he was going to get out of this.

Before plotting his move, he sent her a cocky smirk. He raised his cue stick at a forty-five degree, aiming the tip just below the cue ball’s center point. A trick shot? He was going to jump the nine.

You have got to be kidding me.

The cue ball sailed over the nine, rolled along the bank, and then kissed the five. The five took its time edging to the pocket and then dove in.

“Impressive.” The hustler was being hustled. Naia drew a long swig from her glass.

To his credit, Cortez didn’t gloat. He just focused on the next ball in line. The six was back at the opposite end, taunting him with its position, guarded heavily by the eight ball. Naia saw what she would do: bank the cue off the railing, tap the six, driving it into the eight at just the right angle to send it to a side pocket. Legal but risky.

Cortez was lining up a different shot entirely. By his angle, she wondered if he was playing a safety, planning to forfeit his turn but leave her in a position where her only shot would be impossible to make.

Yet he seemed to be aiming straight for the eight ball. The only way to make his shot that way would be to—

He struck the cue ball. As it traveled down the table, it spun like a ballerina on speed, curving the line, skirting the eight ball, and smacking the six into the corner pocket.

Naia remained remarkably calm. “You’ve got some skill.”

“Thank you,” he said, devising his next shot. This one was straightforward. A wham bam thank you ma’am. Just what he plans to do with me.

Time for something drastic.

Bringing her drink with her, she hopped off her seat and sidled up to the table across from him, near where he’d have to aim so that she’d be in his line of sight. Time for a little handicapping. She leaned forward with her elbows on the pool table, pretending to gauge the shot with him, but really, she was giving him a bullseye view of her cleavage.

He grinned. “Resorting to diversion tactics? Displaying my prize is only going to make me focus harder on winning it.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She stood, discouraged, but not showing it.

“Please, try all you like. I appreciate the effort.”

You asked for it. As he drew back on his cue stick, she sipped from her drink, tilting it a touch too much. Liquid ran down her front. She moaned, “Oh, I’ve got myself all wet.”

His gaze snapped to her dampened breasts just as he made contact with the cue ball. It struck its mark, but was a fraction off. The seven ball was caught like a ping pong, bouncing back and forth within the edge of the pocket. It didn’t go in.

Her grin was Grinch-worthy.

He stood, glowering at her. “Dirty trick.”

Still smiling, she plucked a napkin off the table and dabbed her chest. She’ll have to get the dress dry-cleaned before returning it to Goldie, but it was worth it.

Better still, she was left with a perfect shot. “All’s fair,” she chirped, lining up her shot, and sinking the seven. Her set up was a dream. A straight shot for the eight.

Cortez took a seat directly behind her, and suddenly she could think of nothing but how short the hem of her dress was and his eyes on her ass. She glanced back. Yup. He was staring right at it.

She quirked an indignant brow.

He took a long leisurely pull from his whiskey, his penetrating gaze never straying from her backside.

She cleared her throat.

“Feel free to take your time,” he said. “I’ve got the best seat in the house and the view is impeccable.”

She rolled her eyes. Determined to ignore him, she focused on the eight ball. She only needed to kiss it for it to go in, except the position of the cue ball meant she’d have to lean quite far over the table...

She faced Cortez. “Would you mind moving.”

“Why?”

“You’re obscuring my shot.”

He indicated the space between them. “You have plenty of room. And I’m just sitting here, quiet as a mouse.” His expression was pure mischief.

“You’re distracting me on purpose.”

“All’s fair.”

She piped her lip and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Fine. Look all you want, because you’re never going to get to touch.” To add insult, she hiked up her skirt an inch, turned, and eyed the seven ball like it was a bullseye on his crotch.

As she bent, she let out a husky sound.

She tapped the cue ball with just the right pressure to knock the eight in, but her act of rebellion backfired. Now she was really damp, and it had nothing to do with spilled drinks.

When she turned back to Cortez in triumph, she was floored by his heated expression.

“I think you want to stay the night with me, even if you do win.”

“Hm. A one night stand with you or land a nice cushy job? The scales aren’t balanced in your favor, are they? You’d really have to step up your game.”

He stood, and in one, step invaded her personal space. His big, callused, ninja palm gripped her backside and jerked her against him. Forced off balance, she planted her hand on his toned shoulder for leverage.

“Ah-ah, the rules are clear.” She sounded too breathy. Her traitorous body soaked up his heat like a thirsty sponge.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply. The furious beat of her heart made her light headed as his mouth trailed along her jaw at a mind-numbingly slow pace, coming to feather along her lips. All she could do was breathe, wait, want. But he pulled away and released her.

“You’re right, I’ll work on my game.”

She was left speechless, breathless, aroused, and...longing.

“You should take your last shot.”

Woodenly, she faced table and struggled to restart her brain.

Nine ball. Right. Last shot.

Her line of aim was perfect. Her follow through was off. The cue ball trailed the nine into the pocket.

She scratched.

She lost.