Love at Any Cost

  “Mmm . . . chivalrous and brave.” She leaned over the end of the table with an open-hand bridge, breaking the balls with a loud crack, her crisp and powerful precision turning his tongue to cotton. She winked. “But,” she said with that same annoying sympathy, “not very bright. Because you see, when I put you in your place, Mr. MacKenna, it’ll feel like Alcatraz.”

  His jaw dropped when five balls spun off into pockets so fast, his eyes glazed over. “How d-did you do that?” he rasped, awe overriding any loss of pride. “I’ve never seen that before . . .”

  “Merciful Providence, me either . . . ,” she said in apparent surprise. Arms folded, she rested a finger to her chin. “I’ve never been able to pocket more than four balls on a break before, and goodness—all of them solid!” Her gaze flicked to the abundance of striped balls still littering the table, brows ascending in contrition before she offered a sunny smile. “Guess that makes me solids. Oh my stars, but this is fun!”

  “Yeah, fun,” Jamie said with a grunt, feeling the sting of male pride now that the shock had worn off. “How in blazes did you learn to do that?”

  “Well . . . ,” she said with a pretty toss of her head, “when I wasn’t riding my ‘pony,’ I was playing pool with Daddy, who in the absence of a son, taught his daughter everything he knew about the three ‘P’s’—poker, pool, and pinochle.” Hand braced to the table, she bent low with cue in hand and eye on the ball. “Apparently he was somewhat of a pool shark before he met Mama, and gracious, don’t even get me started on pinochle.” She squinted. “Six ball, far right.”

  Another loud crack sent her last two solids swishing into the far pocket.

  “I don’t believe it,” Jamie whispered, mouth slack as he circled the table, unable to fathom what he’d just witnessed with his own eyes. “Holy thunder—the last time I saw a shot like that was when Johnny Kling played at the Oly.”

  Cassie scrunched her nose. “Kling. The Cubs ball player who plays pool in off season?”

  “Yeah . . .” Jamie’s mouth hung open so far, she could have shot a few balls in there too. He blinked, his love for this woman growing by leaps and shots. And his awe? Deeper than the solids in those blasted pockets. “Sweet thunderation,” he muttered under his breath, “marry me now . . .”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat and nodded toward the table. “I think you need to put me out of my misery, Miss McClare.”

  The lip grate was back. “Oh, right . . . sorry. Side left pocket.” With an expert aim that was almost a caress, she promptly plunged the eight ball—and Jamie’s pride—into the dark recesses of gloom with another perfect shot. In a slow pivot, she faced him once again, one dainty hand cupping her stick while she nibbled her thumbnail with the other. The apology in her eyes was as thick as the chalk on his cue. “Sorry, Jamie, I had no right to take advantage of you.”

  He grimaced. That stung. Don’t worry, Miss McClare, I plan to return the favor . . . Threading fingers through the hair at the back of his head, he huffed out a sigh and laid his cue on the table before offering his hand with a stiff smile. “Stellar game, Cowgirl. You should be proud—I’d say I’ve been properly tarred and feathered, not to mention hog-tied.”

  “Forgive me?” She shook his hand, the green eyes soft and somehow vulnerable.

  Strolling around the table, he emptied the pockets and set up once again, rolling the balls until the cluster was nice and tight. Like his jaw. “Sure. On one condition.”

  The mossy-colored eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “And what might that be?”

  His smile eased into a grin as he led her to the far end of the table. “Teach me,” he said with as much humility as he could muster. “I want to learn how to break like that.”

  “Pardon me?” Her tauntingly kissable lower lip sagged a full inch.

  He jagged a brow. “What? You think I’m too proud to admit I can’t play as well as you? Well, I’m not. I know a professional when I see one.” Hands braced to her shoulders, he prodded her into position, then sat on the corner of the table and folded his arms. “If I’m ever going to challenge you—” he dipped his head to peer at her sharply—“and we both know I am—we’re going to level the playing field first.”

  “You want me? To teach you?” Her jaw remained in a stupor.

  He dared her with a shuttered gaze. “Unless you’re scared . . .”

  That snapped her mouth shut. “Scared? Of a street hustler I could beat with my eyes closed?” Her tongue rolled to the side of her mouth with a grin, the tip peeking out as she hunkered over the table with cue firmly in hand. “Not likely, Pretty Boy. Observe and learn . . .”

  With a gentle coax, she slid the stick back and forth, eyes squinting at the colorful triangle. An explosion of cracks erupted, and balls went flying into at least three pockets in a series of clunks, prompting a low whistle from Jamie’s lips. “I’ll tell you what, Miss McClare, you sure wield a mean cue.” He hopped up to rack the balls, then hovered close beside her when she bent over the table.

  A little squeak escaped as she jerked up. “What are you doing?” she said with a gasp, cue and hand splayed to her chest. She arched away, as if to distance herself.

  He grinned and nudged her back in place. “I’ve observed and now I’m going to learn.” Her body stiffened, luring another grin to his lips. “What can I say? I’m a hands-on kinda guy.”

  “Oh, no you don’t . . .” She tried to dart away.

  He clamped her arm. “Come on, Cass, we’re friends, and I need to be side by side so I can sense your rhythm, get the positioning right when you make that break.” A smile inched across his face as he slowly released her. “Unless, of course,” he said, tone careful, “you really are scared . . .”

  ———

  Her jaw gaped like the hole she was about to put in his pride. Scared? Of wiping an annoying smirk off a pretty boy’s face? Not a chance. Hypnotic hazel eyes studied her with a lidded gaze, and she battled a telltale gulp. However . . . scared silly his close proximity might ignite feelings she’d tried so hard to ignore? Oh, you bet. She fought a shiver that threatened her spine. Since the night on The Palace veranda, she’d been on her guard, keeping him and their friendship at arm’s length. But . . . it hadn’t been easy. And she had a suspicion he knew it.

  He grinned, and those impossibly deep dimples translated into deep, deep trouble. “You are scared, aren’t you?” he said with a husky tease that triggered both her temper and her pulse.

  “Only of trampling your tender feelings, bucko, but if you’re not worried, neither am I.” She spun around and leveled her cue, forcing herself to concentrate. “Let the trampling begin.”

  His chuckle was dangerously low in her ear when he leaned close, crowding her space and stealing her air. “Just talk me through it,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath all but caressing her neck as he stood closer than a shadow.

  A knot the size of a cue ball ducked in her throat. “You’re just a horse hair too close for friends, MacKenna, you know that? I can barely move for your smothering.”

  “Come on, Cass . . .” His thumb lightly grazed her hand over the cue. “No closer than playing Marco Polo or dancing at The Palace, right? And we did both of those as friends.”

  Her eyelids wavered closed. Friends—right. Hand to the rail, she bent low to squint at the rack, focusing hard on The 1 ball. She sucked in a deep breath. “You w-want to k-keep your grip relaxed and body motion to a minimum,” she stuttered, allowing the air in her lungs to slowly seep out along with her jitters. Gaze locked on the ball, her concentration returned to the game, infusing her with the clarity she needed. “Most people make the mistake of raising their body when they straighten their arm, then dropping their elbow, two motions that counteract each other.” She raised up to trace the angle with her eye, then resumed position. “Straightening the arm engages the shoulder muscles for more speed, yes, but on the break, accuracy is more important than a little extra power.??
? Gliding the cue through her fingers in five fluid strokes, she aimed dead center. Adrenaline coursed when the balls erupted, easily pocketing four of the fifteen. “Oh, drat, only four this time.” Rising, she turned and squared her shoulders, unable to prevent a smirk from slipping into her smile. “So . . . learn anything, Pretty Boy?”

  “Yeah . . . ,” he said, his whisper little more than a rasp. He skimmed her arms with his palms, throat convulsing as his gaze strayed to her lips. “I’m in love with a pool hustler . . .”

  Her stomach swooped when he lowered his head. “Whoa . . . back off, City Boy!” Cue stick in hand, she slapped it and two hands to his chest, effectively halting his approach. “We agreed to be friends, MacKenna, so get that starry-eyed look off your face right now.”

  He ducked away from the cue with a scowl. “You agreed to be friends, Cass, not me,” he groused, “and putting my eye out will serve no purpose whatsoever.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She prodded him back with the stick, smudging his white shirt with blue chalk. “It might just get that lecherous look out of your eye.”

  Palms raised in self-defense, he softened his stance. “Okay, okay—point taken, Miss McClare.” He brushed the chalk from his shirt. “Have a heart, will you, Cass? I’m just looking to learn some trick shots, not get gouged to death.”

  “Trick shots, my eye—trick moves is more like it.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said with a heavy blast of air. “Just teach me the shot, okay?”

  “No.” She hoisted her chin. “You lost that privilege when you stepped over the line.”

  He rolled his shirtsleeves with an endearing smile that tripped her heart. And most women’s, no doubt. “Come on, Cass, once more, please? As a friend? Just teach me the shot?”

  She folded her arms, cue safely tucked within. “On one condition,” she said, tone curt.

  “Anything.” The dimples almost twinkled.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You keep your hands to yourself, Jamie MacKenna, or so help me, you’ll be tweezing splinters from this cue instead of brushing off chalk. Is that understood?”

  Ambling over to rack the balls once again, he actually had the nerve to salute her, his smile ramping up to adorable. “Yes, ma’am—hands to myself. Got it.”

  She fought the twitch of a smile with a loud huff and shrugged several times to loosen her shoulders before hunching over the table to take aim once again. He returned to hover mode and she tried to ignore him, squinting hard to mentally gauge the shot. The stick slid through her fingers as if they were greased. Nice and easy, Daddy always said, like a pig slipping through slop. On the final pull, she felt the wisp of something warm on her neck, and she squealed, stick and balls flying when she realized it was Jamie’s lips. She whirled around, the heart in her throat effectively sealing both her air and her voice.

  He winced, giving her a mischievous grin. “Uh, rather not learn that move if you don’t mind, Cass—not exactly the one I’m looking for.”

  “Oh, really? Well, how ’bout this one, MacKenna?” she said with a purse of her lips, kneeing his left thigh so hard, his grin twisted into a groan.

  “Hey, that hurt!” he said, his chuckle threaded with pain. “And from now on, this left thigh is officially off limits, Miss McClare.”

  “So is my neck, you . . . you . . . wolf!” She swiped at where he’d kissed her, ignoring the shiver that raced at the thought of his lips on her skin. Hands trembling, she folded her arms, indignant he was making this difficult. “I told you to keep your hands to yourself—”

  “Ah-hah!” he said with an annoying wag of his finger. “Yes, but nothing was said about lips, Miss McClare, and as a lawyer, I’m obliged to follow the letter of the law, so no hands were involved, I assure you.” Playful eyes roved the length of her before braising her cheeks with a wink. “Although it wasn’t easy, Cowgirl, I can tell you that.”

  She stomped her foot, noting with satisfaction that he took a quick step back. “Friends do not nibble on friends’ necks, Jamie MacKenna, and if you persist in this, we will not be friends.”

  He laughed and loosened his tie, hazel eyes a glimmer as he moved in close. “My thoughts exactly,” he said softly, skimming gentle hands down her arms to effectively cage her in. His smile faded to serious, and the desire in his eyes warmed in her belly. “I already told you, Cass, I don’t want to be your friend,” he whispered. “I want more.”

  “Jamie—”

  “No, listen to me, please—just for a moment?” His voice pulsed with an intensity that halted her while his fingers tunneled into her hair to cradle her head. “I’m falling in love with you, Cassie, and there’s no amount of pretending that can change that. I want to court you, so teach me,” he whispered, grazing her cheeks with his thumbs, “not just pool shots, but about faith. Let me see God through your eyes, feel him through your love.” A nerve flickered in the firm line of a jaw that sported just a hint of dark shadow, and his eyes seemed to possess her, so gentle and yet so strong. He bent to brush her brow with his lips and her eyes drifted closed, the very sensation heating her skin. “Because I want you, Cass, and everything you have to offer.”

  Time stood still as he caressed each eyelid with his mouth, weakening her will as much as her knees. Oh, Jamie . . . Her eyes jerked open for a brief moment when his lips found hers, only to flutter closed again when he nuzzled with a tenderness that all but melted her in his arms. Stomach quivering, she opened her eyes to the man who was stealing her heart despite her best efforts. Oh, Lord . . .

  “Give me a chance, Cass,” he said quietly, his very touch a kiss as the warmth of his fingers feathered her face. “Teach me to need him like you do.” His gaze dropped to her lips for a shiver of a second before returning to her eyes. “And if he answers the prayer I’m praying right now, you have my word—I will believe . . .”

  She swallowed the trepidation coating her throat, his words on The Palace veranda haunting her mind. “I’ve done just fine up until now, Cowgirl. I don’t need him.”

  Oh, Lord, but he does! A wispy sigh wavered from her lips as she cupped a hand to his face, the touch of his emerging beard pricking her palm as much as his eyes pricked her soul. Help me, God—is this what you want me to do? She studied the perfectly sculpted face of a man too handsome to be trusted, the bristled jaw of a rogue used to getting his own way, and knew it was a risk to fall in love with Jamie MacKenna. But then it was too late, she suspected, because she was already halfway there, shifting the danger of risk from that of her own heart to the loss of his soul. Drawing in a fortifying breath she gave him a tremulous smile, knowing there could be only one way she could give her consent. “All right, Jamie,” she whispered.

  His trademark grin curved on his lips. “You’ll give me a chance? To court you?”

  “Partially.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I’ll consider courtship if you can oblige by the rules of friendship first, sort of a pre-courtship trial, if you will. But . . . the terms will be mine.”

  His slow exhale feathered her face. “Name ’em, Cass—whatever you say.” A boyish smile broke free as he leaned in to attempt a kiss.

  He grunted when she halted his approach with palms flat to his chest. “Term number one, Mr. MacKenna—no kissing.”

  The blood leeched from his face. “What?”

  She bit back a smile. “And let me be clear since you’ve been known to bend the rules.” She stepped beyond his reach and crossed her arms, her resolve as focused as if she were playing a high-stakes match. “That means no kissing of any kind—not on my lips, my ears, or my neck—is that clear?”

  “B-but—”

  “Term number two,” she continued, ignoring the gape of his mouth. “This friendship will remain a friendship until I deem it to be more, at which point, I will agree to courtship. Which means, Mr. MacKenna, until then, you will keep your hands to yourself, is that understood?”

  “That is not my idea of a courtship,” he said with a gum of his lips. r />
  “Nonetheless, it’s the only courtship you’re being offered—take it or leave it.”

  She heard the distinct grinding of a jaw as he glared. “You’re being ridiculous, Cass. So I can’t hug you or hold your hand or show any affection?”

  Arms folded, she assessed him through cautious eyes, a finger to her cheek while the others rested at her lips, contemplating the ramifications of allowing Jamie MacKenna any liberties at all. She blew out a noisy sigh. “Oh, all right . . . hugs and hand-holding only, but if you so much as step over the—”

  “What else?” he snapped, obviously no patience for threats.

  Squirming beneath his dagger stare, she turned to make her way to the loveseat, where she perched on the edge, her hands folded. “What service do you attend?”

  “Pardon me?” The deep ridge above his nose told her she was pressing her luck.

  “With your family—what church service do you attend, and what time?”

  He stared, with a sag of his jaw, hand parked on one hip. “St. Mary’s, nine o’clock, why?”

  She clamped her lip to stave off a smile. “Wonderful! We attend St. Patrick’s at eleven, so that should be perfect.”

  “For-what?” he bit out, the tic in his cheek keeping time with the one in his eye.

  “Why, to join us, of course, after you take your mother and sister home.”

  She could almost hear his jaw drop. “Wait a minute—you expect me to go to church twice every Sunday?”

  She nodded. “It’s term number three. As a show of faith, of course.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Completely,” she said with a tilt of her head. “The question is, Jamie—are you?”

  He huffed out a sigh and turned away, gouging the back of his neck. She watched his broad shoulders rise and fall before he put a hand to his head to knead at his temple. “Yes,” he whispered, the sound almost a hiss.

  “Good, then we’ll meet you in the vestibule.” She paused, chewing at the edge of her lip. “And then there’s only one more thing—”