Holiday Op

Chapter Three

Tony chalked his stick, eyeing his opponent as she did the same at the other end of the table. She was a hell of a woman, a hell of a human being for that matter, and she was hot to boot. It didn't get much better.

He'd better make this game count.

Annabelle eyed him across the table, her creamy complexion made soft in the glow of the pool table chandelier. Walking toward him, her hips swaying with the Bee Gees tunes spilling from the dance floor in the next room, she tossed her silky, mid-length auburn hair away from her face and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. His gaze drifted from her angular shoulders, lower to the narrow taper of her waist and beautifully toned forearms.

"I hope you're ready to come to Jesus when this is over,” she said.

"Not gonna happen. I play to win.” At pool, and pretty much everything else for that matter.

"What's winning worth to you?"

Tony twirled the stick between his fingers. This was getting more and more interesting by the second. “What's it worth to you?"

"I asked you first."

Ah, she liked a man to make the first move. Good to know. “I'll make a deal with you.” He never took his eyes from hers.

"Why do I feel like I'm making a deal with the devil?"

His only answer to that was a slow smile.

"What sort of deal?"

"I win, I get a date."

Her brows lifted sharply. “A date?"

"You know, the kind where you get dolled up, I slap on some cologne, we break bread together over candlelight and great conversation, and at the end, well…” He winked. “You get the idea.” There. It was on the table. Her move.

"I was thinking more along the lines of ten bucks."

"Nah, too boring."

"What if I win?” she asked.

He pondered that a moment. “A personal chef for a day."

"I do just fine cooking for myself."

"What do you cook?"

She shrugged. “Oh you know, the basics."

"Like?"

Her gaze drifted away. “Lean Cuisine, Hungry Man, Hot Pockets, Ben and Jerry's. The four frozen food groups."

Tony burst out laughing. “You need help."

"Says you."

"Says every health expert on the planet."

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I get by just fine on my own."

Tony stepped toward her so he had to look down into her face. “And getting by is good enough for you?"

Annabelle blinked up at him. Her eyes grew serious.

Bingo.

"All right, fair enough,” she said quietly. “Let the game begin."

Annabelle's first shot echoed like a lightning crack, scattering balls across the table. Two stripes made it in. Yes. A strong start. Several shots later, she had cleared off two more stripes, and then missed by a hair. Didn't matter. She was still in control of this game.

"Your table.” She straightened.

Tony bent low to take his shot, giving her a bird's eye view of his strong, hard features. He watched a solid red ball sashay off the edge and swish into a corner pocket. Then he lifted his gaze, caught her staring, and winked. Like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Which was impossible because she didn't even know what she was thinking, getting involved with a guy like Tony Lombardi. An obvious flirt and player. Not that he'd flirted with anyone else here, but still… just look at him. Glossy dark curls, blue eyes that put the Gerber baby to shame, an imposing, muscled but not-too-large build. In other words, a hunk of burning love.

The kind of burn that left a scar.

Not to mention, getting involved with a fellow Coastie. Yikes. Trouble. And yet, here she was. Suiting up for another go-round. Because either way this game went, he'd guaranteed himself more face time with her.

No one could say he wasn't clever.

Watching him strut around the table with that square-legged swagger, she couldn't stand it anymore and turned to watch the dancing. This was unexpected, this… invisible magnetic draw between them. More than unexpected, it was completely off track.

Nothing distracted her from a singular ambition to be the best damned female rescue swimmer in the Coast Guard. Sure, there had been men in her life. Mostly short-lived flings long on good times and short on commitment. That suited her just fine. She was a loner by nature.

But this guy. He was something altogether different.

Annabelle turned slowly to find Tony chalking his stick, watching her. The strangest realization hit her; he liked her. Despite the fact that she was underdressed, she had a smart mouth, and she didn't do the coy little girl routine. Not to mention he didn't seem the least bit put off by what she did for a living.

Amazing.

Not many men, or women for that matter, understood why she put herself in danger for the sake of others. Tony accepted it. Respected it. The idea unfurled something inside her, like a cold, clenched hand finally relaxing and stretching toward a warm fire. If this wasn't unchartered territory, she didn't know what was. Give her a stormy night, violent seas, danger, and lives to save.

That unknown, she could handle.

"You're up,” he said.

Annabelle took her shot, landing a stripe in a side pocket. She glanced up, arched a brow. “Take that."

"I'm still winning."

"Not for long."

Another shot. She missed.

He shook his head. “It's looking pretty grim for you, Foster."

She straightened and sent him a sidelong glance. From this angle, up close and personal, he looked much more approachable, more… real. If so inclined, she could reach out and trace the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, or press on the indentation in his chin, or feel the rough stubble framing his mouth.

Annabelle turned around and perched a hip on the edge of the table. “So what made you decide to become a Coast Guard chef?"

"Well, I've always loved food. Hard not to when you grow up on all day progressive holiday meals."

"Ah, right, you're Italian."

"Hundred percent.” He easily dropped two more balls.

"Where does the Coast Guard fit in?"

He didn't answer right away, but looked thoughtful. “It all started with an article in the newspaper about a Coast Guard rescue off the New Jersey Shore during a nor'easter. I was obsessed after that with everything Coast Guard. What can I say, I was a kid, my parents had just died in a car accident, and I needed… something.” He shrugged, as if the story were just a piece of his life's roadmap. “And I guess I've always wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. Plus, I needed an education. The Coast Guard turned out to be my ticket."

She didn't say anything, merely watched him. He tried to underplay it, like it all just happened this way. But Annabelle knew one thing; nothing just happened.

"It turned out to be a great place for me. People think I'm a behind the scenes guy, and technically I am, but everyone has to eat. I take care of my people, their stomachs, and their morale, and they take care of business."

Annabelle took her shot, scratched.

"What about you?” he asked.

"I come from a long military pedigree."

"Which branch?"

"Navy. Going back two generations."

"And you became a Coastie?” He set up the cue ball, aimed, and sank his last ball. “Bet that went over well."

She nodded. “Yeah, it was kind of a given that I would go into some kind of military service, most likely the Navy, but I wanted to do my own thing. I didn't want to be thought of as Foster's daughter for the rest of my life."

Tony shot at the eight ball and missed. “So you're a trailblazer."

"You could say that."

He stared at her for long seconds.

"What?"

"Oh nothing."

"You're giving me a look."

A slight smile softened his features. “I'm impressed."

The hand unfurled even further. “Flattery will not distract me."

"I wasn't trying to flatter you, I was being honest.” He leaned against the table beside her as she took a shot and sank her last stripe. “Not every day I meet a beautiful woman whose resume is also impressive."

Annabelle straightened and faced him, her fingers inches away from his on the edge of the table. “This doesn't bother you."

"Why would it?"

"Why wouldn't it?” she countered.

"Looks like you've been meeting the wrong kind of guys."

"And you're the right kind?"

A slow, knowing smile. “Damn straight."

Annabelle angled herself in position, took a shot, and missed. Tony watched her face as he circled the table, slow and intense, each step predatory. Then he leaned down, surveyed the angle at eye level, pointed, and aimed.

Crack.

The eight ball disappeared into a side pocket.

Just like that, he won. Not only the game, but also a date, and the upper hand. Annabelle replaced her stick in its place and turned to face the victor. Reaching beyond her, he replaced his own stick, never taking his eyes from hers. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled.

"What next, champ?” he asked. “Dancing?"

"I've had enough humiliation for one night, thanks."

"So that's it?"

She nodded. “Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

"I'll walk you out."

Tony retrieved their coats from the coat check, took down her address for their date, and exchanged his phone number for hers. The cold arctic air washed over them like ice water as they walked through the parking lot. The night was still and cold, the stars twinkling in a black sky.

Her pace slowed as they reached her navy blue Ford Explorer. She turned, passing her keys back and forth between each hand, stomach torn up.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I was impressed with you, Annabelle.” It was the first time he'd used her first name. The syllables rolled off his tongue like balls of cookie dough. “I want to know you."

"Isn't that what we're doing?” What was she doing?

Tony leaned one hand against the driver side door, halfway trapping her between his body and the car. She could escape now if she wanted, slip away from him, create distance. But she did no such thing.

"I think we're dating,” he said.

"We agreed to a date, as in singular,” she said softly.

"Oh don't worry, you'll be back."

She rolled her eyes. “I was beginning to think you had a modest side."

"I know what I have to offer, and it's good stuff."

"Oh yeah? How good?” Had she really just said that? What alien life form had snatched her body and put a sexpot in its place?

He waggled his brows. “Stick around long enough and you'll find out."

"Are you playing hard to get?” That was it. She was out of control. Nothing was going to shut her up except complete and total extraction from the situation. Like right now.

Get. In. The. Car

Still, she didn't move.

"Maybe,” he said.

"I don't like games. That's why I don't date.” Among many other even more valid reasons. Like the way she was feeling right now. Ready to throw up or throw the man down on the hood of her car.

"No games here. Just you and me, and what could be. If you're open to it.” He licked his lips, gaze never leaving hers. “Are you?"

Her breathing grew shallow. She felt like a helo was hovering over her head, rotor blades whirring, louder and louder and… Oh, God. Was she? One week ago, the answer would have been absolutely not. But in a matter of two meetings, Tony Lombardi had seduced her senses with Frosty the Snowman cookies and Sweet Potato Casserole.

She swallowed. “Possibly."

His other arm closed in, trapping her completely, as he angled his head toward her. Pausing, he looked into her eyes and smiled. This was her last chance to stop this thing. Except that was like trying to stop a freight train by standing in the middle of the tracks. Who was stupid enough to do such a thing?

Not her.

Annabelle grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him against her. Within seconds, mouths engaged, arms clawed, and hands raked. A switch flipped, turning on every nerve ending in her body. She wanted to drink him in gulps, not sips. Feel everything he had to give. Have all of him-now.

Annabelle pressed a hand to his chest and broke the kiss, gasping. “You need to go.” Before she did something really stupid.

"How's that for possibility?” he asked, breathless.

She couldn't even answer him. All she could do was breathe in and out, in and out, drawing as much oxygen into her constricted lungs as they would allow.

He backed up, hair still mussed from her roving hands. “Tomorrow night. 2000 hours. I'll pick you up."