Rough Rider (Hot Cowboy Nights, #2)(86)

“Go on,” she urged the grunts as if shooing chickens, adding with a grin, “I’m sure Corporal Everett doesn’t want any witnesses when he gets his ass handed to him.”

The marines dispersed toward the bar with muffled guffaws.

His interest ramped another notch, Reid propped his cue against the table and cocked his head to study all five-foot-nothin’ of her. She was probably no more than a buck ten soaking wet, yet had the balls to go toe-to-toe with him. “You sure talk big for such a puny little thing.”

“I laid my money down, didn’t I? What are we playing?” she asked.

“Let’s just keep it a simple game of eight ball.” He offered her a cue. “Ladies first?”

“No. Lag for break. I play by the rules.” She set up two balls for the shot.

He came up beside her and leaned over the table, his cue poised. “Always?” He was close enough to smell her, fresh and sweet like ripe strawberries. “Sometimes it’s more fun to break ’em.”

She snorted and chalked her cue. “Says the guy whose entire life is dictated by the USMC for what, the next four years?”

“Six more. I signed on for eight.”

“Eight?” She pulled back with a surprised look. “What kind of idiocy is that?”

He stiffened. She had no qualms about speaking her mind, for damn sure. Lucky she was an attractive female. Good-looking women could just about get away with murder. Hell, many had. It was an injustice, or maybe God’s idea of a joke, but facts were facts. Men had a long history of making life and death decisions guided by their dicks. His was already exerting a great deal of influence.

“Back home we have another word for it. It’s called patriotism.”

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled,” she came back. “I just don’t understand anyone’s desire for that kind of life.”

“The military creates order out of chaos. That often applies as much to the individual as to the mission.”

“That may be, but there are plenty of other ways than the military to ‘find yourself.’”

“I s’pose so,” he replied. “But look how many people waste years of their lives in college only to end up flipping burgers.”

She tossed her head. “And killing skills are so much more practical in life?” Her voice and eyes challenged. Taunted. But he wasn’t about to take her bait.

“The Marines teach more than killing. Look…er… Hell, I still don’t even know your name.”

“Haley,” she answered softly. “Haley Cooper.”

“Look, Miz Cooper, we obviously don’t see eye to eye on this issue, so let’s just drop it and play.”

They completed the lag shot, both balls bouncing off the table to return to the head rail. Reid’s ball was closest, a millimeter from touching the rail. He considered the table. “Looks like it’s gonna be ladies first after all.”

“You sure you want me to break?” She flashed him a smug smile. “You might live to regret that decision, cowboy.”

Reid stood a couple of steps behind and slightly to the right, perfectly positioned to scope her out as she set up her shot. Every movement was too damned distracting. Her dress clung to her ass, riding up as she bent over the table, but not as far as he’d like. He guessed she was a distance runner by the look of her lean and shapely legs. He found his gaze caught in a loop, tracking up and down between her legs and ass.

She broke, and then straightened, tugging her skirt back down over her legs. “You haven’t said what your job is, Corporal Everett.”

“Scout sniper.” He flushed, knowing what was coming next. She’d try to put him on the defensive.

“You’re a sniper?” Her eyes widened. “Isn’t that the same as an assassin?”

He felt his color deepen another shade, but was careful to keep his expression and voice neutral. “A scout sniper’s primary function is to conduct close reconnaissance and surveillance in order to gain intelligence on the enemy and terrain. By necessity, he must be skilled in long-range marksmanship from concealed locations in order to support combat operations.”

“Wow. That was a mouthful. Did you quote all that from some soldier manual?”

“A U.S. Marine isn’t a soldier.”

“What’s the difference? You both make war, don’t you?” She studied him as if she knew she’d ventured onto treacherous ground but was still determined to see how far he’d let her tread.

“The Marine Corps’ primary mission isn’t to make war but to protect this country and those who can’t protect themselves, Miz Cooper.” He continued unapologetically, “Unfortunately, sometimes that does mean war and killing.” She was intentionally pushing his hot buttons, but he was accustomed to maintaining rigid self-control.

“So you actually think some people deserve to die?” Her face was flushed, and her green eyes blazed.

“Some do,” he answered levelly. There was no way to win once an argument got emotional. “I’m a peaceful man who believes in minding my own pastures, but I also believe in good and evil. There are a lot of very bad people in this world. Certainly the ones who fly airplanes through skyscrapers. When that kind of thing happens, I believe in doing whatever it takes to protect our own.”