The Taming of the Bastard by Lindy Dale Page B

Visions of a naked Sam scrubbing
himself with a loofah were assaulting my mind and I was locked in a
futile battle to keep them under wraps.
    Sam’s hand
grazed my mine, catching my attention. Surges of sexual energy
pulsed through the tiny hairs and into my body. Talks of favours
dimmed in my memory. “Did you see the whole game?”
    “ Mmm .”
    “Awesome.” He
waited for me to add something but I couldn’t. His eyes had trapped
me in a world where words were as meaningful as legs on a fish. His
palm was burning a hole in my sleeve and somewhere in my chest I
could feel my innards self-combusting.
    “Enjoy it?” he
probed, being nice, trying to engage me in conversation. He
couldn’t see it was making things worse. The gravelly quality of
his voice was like a drug to my ears. It seeped into my brain and
rendered me wasted. Incapable.
    God. What was
happening to me?
    “Um.... er,
yes,” I mumbled.
    Sam frowned. He
seemed confused by the star-struck girl standing in front of him.
Usually, I gave him as good as he got, which I’m fairly positive
was one of the reasons he’d asked me out in the first place.
“Great. You right for a drink?’ he asked, and not waiting for a
reply, he dashed towards the bar.
    Biting the
corner of my lip, I chastised myself for behaving like a teenager.
What was wrong with me? I’d been fine before he appeared, talking
and laughing with a bunch of girls I didn’t know, but now I was
acting like a fool and we both knew it. Sam had been trying to
spark up some sort of chatter. He was being so nice to me and I’d
been no help at all.
    I looked over
to the bar where Sam stood in his usual two hands resting pose,
like he did when he talked to me at work. He was laughing at
something the guy behind the bar was saying, a full throaty chuckle
that filled the room, causing people to glance in his direction and
yearn for him to respond to them that way. What I needed was a
plan. One that didn’t involve spilling more wine, getting
uproariously drunk and falling all over him or jabbering until he
begged me to stop. The most sensible thing to do would be to act
normal. I would stare at his forehead and behave like he wasn’t the
hottest man alive, possibly throw in the odd smart remark or two,
just like I did at work.
    Easy.
    I wouldn’t look
any lower either because there wasn’t a shred of hope if I did
that. After all, I was only here for a favour. This wasn’t a real
date. There was no call for swooning of any degree.
    As Sam returned
with fresh drinks, I fixed my gaze on a tiny scar above his right
eyebrow and launched my plan into action.
    Step one.
Conversation.
    “For the life
of me, I had no clue what was going on in the game and I think I
was standing on the wrong side of the ground for most of it, but it
was quite interesting. Why do you have to throw the ball
backwards?” I heaved a relief-filled sigh. My tongue had received
the message from my brain.
    Silently, Sam
took in my words. Then his shoulders relaxed and his luscious mouth
spread into a sexy grin. I know I’d declared I wasn’t going to look
lower than his forehead but I couldn’t help it. He was enchanting
me. “You didn’t stand with the Panthers’ women, did you? They’ve
been known to use those umbrellas to break their lads out of
custody. They don’t respond well to females who aren’t wearing
black.”
    “I figured
that. They looked at me like I was about to become a human kebab if
they could just find the marinade.”
    “I think the
word marinade is probably a stretch in the vocabulary of your
average Panther girl.” He gestured to the other girls. “You’ve met
our delightful ladies though?”
    “Kirby
introduced me.”
    Kirby, who was
grasping Rambo’s bum like it was about to sprout wings and make a
bid for freedom, giggled again and did a little curtsey sending her
fluff flying up my nose.
    Sam leant
toward my ear, “Naturally, she’d have to be first in. Kirby’s the
club gossip. Nice