out, with every man eyeing the black spandex that hugged her butt in a strategic manner.
“I’ll talk to him,” Gillian announced, twisting in her seat to get a proper look and show the world she wasn’t…
Holy smokes.
The man looked her over, the devil’s own eyes lingering on her wardrobe choices and the curves underneath. Gillian squirmed, the barstool too small for a woman whose body was about to explode.
Maintaining a calm smile, she returned the look, and noticed the changes. His jeans no longer had holes in the knees. Unless she missed her fashion mark—which she never did—they were high-dollar ass-huggers, bleached just enough to look well-worn. The brown hair was still long, sexily tousled, the ends touched with a silvery gold, as if the angels had reached out and marked him as their own.
Sure, Austen Hart had returned in the standard class uniform of Tin Cup, Texas, but the trimmings were just a little off, a little telling. The button-downed shirt was more fitted, more “in.” The boots more polished. The buckle on his belt shone like gold. A more clueless man might have been unaware of the differences, but not Austen. No, Austen would have made his sartorial choices on purpose, to make a statement, to remind the people of Tin Cup that Frank Hart’s son did not exist anymore and this new and improved persona was there to dazzle and delight.
Sadly, Gillian thought she would be the only one to miss the old version.
Beer in hand, she walked toward him. Meeting his gaze, seeing that ready smile, she wondered if he knew how much she hated what he did to her. In her mind, she had rehearsed a thousand lines, but now, all she could think about was the sinful speculation in those unapologetic dark eyes. It used to be, she could almost catch his heart flashing in his eyes. Now they flashed with something else. Sex. Quickly, Gillian erased the naked Austen images from her brain.
Focus, girl.
As her feet carried her closer to the man, the bar lights rippled over him, spotlighting the comfortable set of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest. It was a beautifully proportioned chest, more broad, more strong, more confident than she remembered. She kept moving, until she was so close that she could see the tiny lines of stubble on the jaw. Gillian stopped. Waited.
The silence in the bar grew ear-popping loud.
“Hey, Gillian,” he said, his voice caressing her name, just as silky, just as sexy, just the same way he’d enthralled her in the past. Gillian smiled, a thousand watts of sexual promise. She was no longer the innocent lamb. Now she could fight the devil on his own terms—and win.
The grin he fired at her was lazy and warm, spreading through her blood like whiskey, blocking out painful memories she needed to keep. Remember the white silky gown in the back of your closet, she told herself. Remember the tears, remember the taunts. Ten years ago she would have succumbed to the grin, destined to repeat her past mistakes, but not any more.
Gillian leaned one hip against his table, lifted the bottle to her lips, and then took a languorous sip. Her eyes never left his, her lashes fluttering bedroom-low. With a steady hand, she held out the bottle in invitation. “Want some?” Her voice was husky with nerves, but the sultry intent was pitch-perfect.
He nodded once. She raised the bottle higher, just out of his reach and her smile turned cold.
Slowly, deliberately, she poured Texas’s best beer on the head of the easy-leaving Austen Hart. It was ten years too late, but damned if she didn’t feel free.
Gillian lifted her head and sauntered out of the bar, the sound of his mocking laughter echoing behind her.
4
A GREAT EXIT ENTAILED finality. An actual leaving of the premises in order to seal the deal, but Gillian couldn’t quite pull it off. Instead, she found herself in the graveled parking lot of Smitty’s, digging through her purse in the meager light of the moon, “searching”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gillian announced, twisting in her seat to get a proper look and show the world she wasn’t…
Holy smokes.
The man looked her over, the devil’s own eyes lingering on her wardrobe choices and the curves underneath. Gillian squirmed, the barstool too small for a woman whose body was about to explode.
Maintaining a calm smile, she returned the look, and noticed the changes. His jeans no longer had holes in the knees. Unless she missed her fashion mark—which she never did—they were high-dollar ass-huggers, bleached just enough to look well-worn. The brown hair was still long, sexily tousled, the ends touched with a silvery gold, as if the angels had reached out and marked him as their own.
Sure, Austen Hart had returned in the standard class uniform of Tin Cup, Texas, but the trimmings were just a little off, a little telling. The button-downed shirt was more fitted, more “in.” The boots more polished. The buckle on his belt shone like gold. A more clueless man might have been unaware of the differences, but not Austen. No, Austen would have made his sartorial choices on purpose, to make a statement, to remind the people of Tin Cup that Frank Hart’s son did not exist anymore and this new and improved persona was there to dazzle and delight.
Sadly, Gillian thought she would be the only one to miss the old version.
Beer in hand, she walked toward him. Meeting his gaze, seeing that ready smile, she wondered if he knew how much she hated what he did to her. In her mind, she had rehearsed a thousand lines, but now, all she could think about was the sinful speculation in those unapologetic dark eyes. It used to be, she could almost catch his heart flashing in his eyes. Now they flashed with something else. Sex. Quickly, Gillian erased the naked Austen images from her brain.
Focus, girl.
As her feet carried her closer to the man, the bar lights rippled over him, spotlighting the comfortable set of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest. It was a beautifully proportioned chest, more broad, more strong, more confident than she remembered. She kept moving, until she was so close that she could see the tiny lines of stubble on the jaw. Gillian stopped. Waited.
The silence in the bar grew ear-popping loud.
“Hey, Gillian,” he said, his voice caressing her name, just as silky, just as sexy, just the same way he’d enthralled her in the past. Gillian smiled, a thousand watts of sexual promise. She was no longer the innocent lamb. Now she could fight the devil on his own terms—and win.
The grin he fired at her was lazy and warm, spreading through her blood like whiskey, blocking out painful memories she needed to keep. Remember the white silky gown in the back of your closet, she told herself. Remember the tears, remember the taunts. Ten years ago she would have succumbed to the grin, destined to repeat her past mistakes, but not any more.
Gillian leaned one hip against his table, lifted the bottle to her lips, and then took a languorous sip. Her eyes never left his, her lashes fluttering bedroom-low. With a steady hand, she held out the bottle in invitation. “Want some?” Her voice was husky with nerves, but the sultry intent was pitch-perfect.
He nodded once. She raised the bottle higher, just out of his reach and her smile turned cold.
Slowly, deliberately, she poured Texas’s best beer on the head of the easy-leaving Austen Hart. It was ten years too late, but damned if she didn’t feel free.
Gillian lifted her head and sauntered out of the bar, the sound of his mocking laughter echoing behind her.
4
A GREAT EXIT ENTAILED finality. An actual leaving of the premises in order to seal the deal, but Gillian couldn’t quite pull it off. Instead, she found herself in the graveled parking lot of Smitty’s, digging through her purse in the meager light of the moon, “searching”
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