He made his way through the crowded, smoky bar, walking slowly and with ease, seemingly oblivious to the craned necks, stares and whispers that followed in his wake. Even the men were affected by him, puffing out their chests and raising their chins, posing and strutting as peacocks, trying to compete.

As if a single one could. The instant she thought it, their eyes met. Another of his slow, lazy smiles lit his face.

To her horror, a flood of heat and moisture throbbed between her legs.

The urge to run away became almost overwhelming, but she steeled herself against it, because there was no way she was going to allow him—or her own, traitorous body—to intimidate her.

He slid into the booth, taking a seat across from her, stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankle, resting them on her side of the booth, effectively blocking her exit. They stared at one another for a long moment in silence, sizing each other up.

As the band shifted into another song, Jack asked without an ounce of warmth, “You following me?”

“I was here first, remember?” Hawk’s lazy smile deepened. “Maybe you’re following me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

He leaned across the table, clasped his big hands together on the scarred wood tabletop, stared deep into her eyes and murmured, “Tell that to your wet panties.”