“You think so?” He fell into step, alarmingly casual as they came up to her car.

“Who’s going to stop me?”

“This is a nice ride,” he observed. Suddenly he had a knife in his hand, but instead of threatening her with it, which she could’ve handled, he traced it down the front whitewall. “And I guess I could stop you.” Understatement.

“Yeah.” She wouldn’t even breathe without his permission. Those Diamond Back tires had set her back a pretty penny in South Carolina, but nothing was too good for the Marquis. It was all she had left of her daddy, after all. “Just what do you want from me?”

Ten minutes with you up against a wall.

For a second, Reyes thought he’d spoken out loud, but she wouldn’t be regarding him with the same mix of wariness and puzzlement in her tawny eyes, if he had. Up close, he saw the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, making her look young and vulnerable. He’d bet she played that for all she was worth.

Not tall, but she gave the impression of being leggy, lean along with it. She wore strawberry blond hair in a wavy nimbus to her shoulders. Her jeans were old, torn at the knees, but her boots looked expensive.

And he absolutely couldn’t explain his vicious urge to grab her with both hands, mark her with his teeth, and ride her until she begged for mercy. Maybe it was because he couldn’t picture her crying uncle; spirit in a woman made his heart kick like a half-broke horse, and she’d shown such a roguish blend of guile and confidence inside the bar.

The first three games, she hadn’t been able to play worth shit. He’d watched his share of hustlers over the years, and he always knew when a player stalled. They had a tell in the way they handled the cues, but this woman, he’d have sworn she barely knew how to hold the stick. Until that last game. Until she turned into a tournament player before his eyes—like magic.