High Noon by Nora Roberts Page B

viable options, but no. I won the lottery.”
    â€œGet out. Really?” Delighted, fascinated, she lifted her glass in toast before stretching out a hand for a pretzel.
    â€œYeah, just a fluke. Or, you know, destiny, again depending. I picked up a ticket now and then. Actually, hardly ever. Then one day I went in for a six-pack of Corona, sprang for a ticket.”
    â€œDid you pick the numbers or go with the computer?”
    â€œMy pick. Age, cab number—which was depressing since I hadn’t planned to still be hacking—six for the six-pack. Just that random, and…jackpot. You know how you hear people say if they ever win, or even when they do, how they’re going to keep right on working, living pretty much like they have been?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with them?”
    She laughed again, snagged another pretzel. “Obviously, you retired as a cab-driving bartender.”
    â€œBet your ass. Got my sports bar. Very cool. Only funny thing, and I may lose man points here, but I figured out after a few months I actually didn’t want to be in a bar every night of my life.”
    She glanced around Swifty’s, where the music had gone slow and dreamy. “Yet you have two. And here you are.”
    â€œYet. I sold half interest in Dunc’s to this guy I know. Well, almost half. Figured, hey, Irish pub.”
    â€œHence Swifty’s.”
    â€œHence.”
    â€œNo travel, no flashy car?”
    â€œSome travel, some flash. Anyway, how did you—”
    â€œOh no, the question begs to be asked.” She wagged a finger at him. “It’s rude, but it has to be asked. How much?”
    â€œA hundred and thirty-eight million.”
    She choked on her pretzel, holding up a hand when he tapped her on the back. “Jesus Christ.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I said. You want another beer?”
    She shook her head, gaped at him. “You won a hundred and thirty-eight million dollars on a lottery ticket?”
    â€œYeah, go figure. Best six-pack I ever bought. It got a lot of play at the time. You didn’t hear about it?”
    â€œI…” She was still struggling to absorb. “I don’t know. When?”
    â€œSeven years ago last February.”
    â€œWell.” She puffed out a breath, pushed a hand through her hair. Million replayed through her mind. “Seven years ago last February I was busy giving birth.”
    â€œHard to keep up with current events. You got a kid? What variety?”
    â€œA girl. Carly.” She saw his gaze shift down to her left hand. “Divorced.”
    â€œOkay. Lot of juggling, single parent, high-octane career. I bet you’ve got excellent hand-eye coordination.”
    â€œIt takes practice.” Millions, she thought. Millions stacked on top of millions, yet here he was, nursing a Guinness in a nice little pub in Savannah, looking like an average guy. Well, an average guy with a really cute dimple and a sexy little scar, a killer smile. But still.
    â€œWhy aren’t you living on an island in the South Pacific?”
    â€œI like Savannah. No point in being really rich if you can’t live where you like. How long have you been a cop?”
    â€œUm.” She felt blindsided. The cute, funny guy was now a cute, funny multimillionaire. “I, ah, started with the FBI right out of college, then—”
    â€œYou were with the FBI? Like Clarice Starling? Like Silence of the Lambs ? Or Dana Scully—another hot redhead, by the way. Special Agent Mac Namara?” He let out a long, exaggerated breath. “You really are hot.”
    â€œDue to this, that and the other thing, I decided to shift to the Savannah-Chatham PD. Hostage and crisis negotiator.”
    â€œHostage?” Those dreamy eyes of his sharpened. “Like if a guy barricades himself in some office building with innocent bystanders and wants ten mil, or the release of all