Page 81

She turned back to face the bar. “You’re an asshole,” she muttered.

“Jealous?” he inquired.

“Hardly.”

“Hey, look. Piper. Someone’s coming over to talk to you, in spite of your man clothes, general scrawniness, and obvious brainiac tendencies.”

She glanced up at a giant slab of a man. He was at the top end of the age range in the place, but she would bet he could take out half the male talent in this joint. His graying hair was buzzed short.

“This guy bothering you?” the slab rumbled, lifting his chin at Ian.

“Nah. He’s okay,” she mumbled.

“Sure you don’t want me to take his sorry ass out back and teach him some manners?”

Alarmed, she looked up at the man. “No, really. He’s fine.”

“I dunno…”

Ian reached over and slugged the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, T-Bone. Long time no see. How’s the other side of the fence?”

“Lucrative, man. You need to hop ship and come to the private security side of the house. Where’ve you been M&M?”

Piper looked back and forth between the two men. Of course. The Special Forces community was tiny. She would bet Ian knew half the yahoos in here. Scowling, she listened to the ritual trading of war stories between Ian and the mountain of a former Marine.

Once they’d traded evasive pleasantries about their most recent assignments, she was startled to hear T-Bone murmur, “Who’s the arm candy, Ian?”

“My partner. Piper, meet Cooper Bosworth.”

“Can I buy you a drink, darlin’?” Bosworth rumbled.

She smiled regretfully. “I’m designated wingman, tonight. And at the rate Ian’s going, he’s going to need some serious helpfinding a willing female and figuring out what to do with her. I’d better stay sober enough to help him find his dick?—“

“Hey now!” Ian interrupted as T-Bone roared with laughter.

She shrugged, eyes glinting with irritation. “I dare you. Find a bimbo in here and have sex on the premises before we leave.”

Ian stared at her in open shock. Something akin to disappointment passed through his gaze.

“You wanted a wingman, right?” she pressed. “Isn’t it my job to help you achieve cheap sex with the hottest groupie you can manage to snare with your line of bullshit?”

“Bit of an attitude your partner’s got on her,” T-Bone commented just before slugging about half a beer in a single pull.

Ian glared at her. “You noticed that, huh?” He picked up his glass as she glared back at him and moved off toward the dim recesses of the bar near a jukebox spewing country music and a tiny dance floor full of slutty bubbettes strutting their stuff. He was welcome to them.

“Bunch of half-drunk groupie chicks,” she muttered in disgust, staring down at the bar and the beer sitting between her braced elbows. “Hardly seems fair to turn Ian loose on them.”

T-Bone chuckled from beside her, his elbows planted next to hers. “Only kind of chicks he knows what to do with.”

She glanced over at the big man, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Ian ain’t exactly a ladies’ man. Oh, the girls swoon all over him, and the way I hear it he’s hell on wheels in the sack. But he’s a man’s man.”

“What the heck does that mean?” she demanded.

“He’s most comfortable with men. In the field. Blowing stuff up and hanging with a SEAL team. Women—they make him hinky.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”