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better. Couple of vodkas and a chance to scratch the itch that
had been bugging her for months… Christ, she couldn’t remember the
last time she’d had sex. Long days at work and exhaustion had
limited her options for meeting prospective partners. Thank God for
vibrators. Without them, she’d have gone nuts.
    The crowd moved
closer to the bar, filling the empty space next to her as they all
tried shouting their orders to the poor, harassed-looking Molly all
at the same time. Fern huffed and shook her head, burying her nose
back into her glass. When would they learn that they’d get their
drinks quicker if they organised themselves, and one person
ordered?
    “
SHUT THE
HELL UP!
”
    A voice roared
above the melee, and silence fell. Interested, she looked over as a
man fought his way to the front of the group. Like the rest, he was
suited and booted, but in his case, the smart jacket barely
contained a powerful physique. Shorter than the rest, he had a set
of shoulders on him as big as a barn, and a vicious bruise
decorated one cheekbone.
    Despite that,
it was obvious he was the man in charge. Quickly, he collected
orders and relayed them to Molly behind the bar in a low voice Fern
couldn’t make out over the baying of the others as they pushed and
jostled.
    Shaking her
head, she took another swallow from her drink and tried to ignore
them. As soon as she was done, she was out of here in search of a
tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a DVD. Something with explosions and
car chases should do it…
    *
    Tom Sexton took
his drink with a sigh of relief and turned to check that the rest
of the lads were settled. He loved nights out with the squad,
especially after a tough game like today, but it could be bloody
hard work at times. On the pitch, they worked like a well-oiled
machine, chewing up and spitting out any team that dared oppose
them, but off it and out on the town, it was like herding
ferrets—ones with ADHD and Tourette’s.
    But miracle of
miracles, now that they all had a pint or other libation of choice
in hand, they appeared to be behaving. Casting an experienced eye
over the known trouble-makers to ensure they were all well apart,
Tom allowed himself to relax a little and took a drink.
    The aged
bourbon left a trail of fire as it slid down to his stomach. He
sucked a breath in around it. Good stuff. Proper whiskey, just as
he liked it, which was the reason that he’d insisted they come
here. Some of the lads picked right dives, which was alright if you
were into cheap beer and cheaper women.
    Talking of
women, his gaze slid past the two blondes Carson was trying to chat
up, and to the brunette at the end of the bar. Petite, the figure
under the black dress full of the sort of curves he preferred. Even
now, he itched to run his hands along her waist and out over the
cello curve of her hips. A shudder of heat rolled through him as he
surveyed her over the rim of his glass, plotting his approach.
    Despite his
appearance, and he was the first to admit that stuffed into this
bloody jacket, his broad shoulders and heavy chest gave him the
appearance of a thug, he was a thinker. The first to spot and call
plays on the pitch, he directed the front row with the ruthlessness
of a war-general, smashing the opposition's defence and creating
opportunities for the back row to storm to victory. And any
victory, on or off the pitch, depended on the right approach.
    His quarry
turned on the stool, the turn of a slender ankle captivating him
for a heartbeat before he realised she’d gathered her bag and was
preparing to leave.
    Oh, no
sweetheart, we’re not having any of that. I haven’t gotten to know
you yet. And I intend to get to know you a
lot
better
. Like the Shark he wore on his shirt, he slid
through the group around him and cut off her retreat before she’d
taken a step away from the stool.
    “Hey.”
    She stumbled
mid-step and trod on his toe, obviously not expecting anyone to be
so close. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see