Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(6)

Castro throws out the pallino—the little target ball. His first toss comes within about a foot and a half of the target.

I know I can do better than that. So I let ‘em fly.





Thirty minutes later I’ve beaten every hockey player I’ve come up against. I should probably throw the game and let someone else win. But that’s lame. And cleaning up at bocce is more fun than making conversation.

Then Heidi steps up to the court. “Okay, big man. It’s time someone put you in your place.” She throws a ball that lands dead center, rolls two feet forward and stops an inch from the pallino.

“Nice!” I enthuse. “I’m gonna have to bring out the heat.”

“Bring it,” she growls. “I’m ready.”

I lob a ball at hers and push it a few crucial inches off the target.

“Fine, fine,” she says with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll get you yet.” She makes another brilliant toss and pushes my ball out of the way.

“Yeah!” cheers the small crowd around us. “You go girl!”

As if there was any question who’d they’d back. I’d cheer for Heidi, too. She’s hilarious. But I can’t ease up now. Heidi is watching me with flashing eyes. She doesn’t want me to throw the game. So I toss out another winner, crowding her closest ball.

Dave Beringer steps onto the court to squint at our two balls. “Keep throwing, Heidi. He’s inside your toss by a half inch.”

“No problemo,” she says cheerfully. “I’m smooth with my balls.” She winks at her boyfriend before her third throw.

“Ooooooh!” The crowd sighs as her roll goes too far to the side.

She’s only got one more throw to repair the damage, and it’s a beauty. She puts the ball right up against the target again.

“Pressure!” someone yells. Because it won’t be easy for me to win now.

My first cautious toss falls short, and all the men snicker. “Yeah, yeah. I got one more.” I dust off my hands, and contemplate my strategy. I can only win this if I ease up to Heidi’s ball and nudge it aside. Hell.

I line up a careful shot, but just as I’m about to toss, I catch a flash of strawberry curls at my side. I turn for a better look, which is a mistake. As the ball leaves my hand, I’m not even looking at the target. Because Bess Beringer—a woman I haven’t seen for nine years—is standing right there, gaping at me.

The ball misses the target. Badly. Heidi lets out a whoop of victory and everyone laughs.

But I can’t stop staring at Bess. She’s a redhead, like her brother, but her hair color is only one of the striking things about her. She has pink cheeks and flashing bright blue eyes that always tell you just where you stand with her.

And right now they’re staring back at me with astonishment. It’s been almost a decade since we’ve come face to face. But, hell, it seems like no time has gone by at all, because it’s way too easy to picture her beneath me in bed, straining against me, reaching for what we both wanted and always found together—heady, sweet release.

She’s blinking at me, as if she can picture it all, too.

“Hey, Bess!” Heidi says, dusting off her hands. “Welcome back! How was your vacation?”

“Um…” She swallows. “Nice,” she says after a beat. “Great vacation.”

“Did you win the bet? Ten days without your phone?”

“Yup.” Bess’s head bobs up and down, but she’s still sneaking looks at me.

“Do you know Mark Tankiewicz?” Heidi asks. “Mark, you must know Bess Beringer, agent to the stars?”

I turn to face Bess, and our eyes lock again. Her surprise is so palpable that I have to hold back a chuckle. With the whole world standing here listening, I’m going to have to choose my words carefully.

Bess beats me to it. “Nice to meet you,” she says, thrusting out a hand.

Wait, what? That’s how she wants to play it?

It takes me a beat to respond. “Likewise,” I say, reaching out to shake. When her slender hand lands in mine, I can’t help myself. I stroke a finger along the underside of her wrist. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Now her cheeks are rapidly staining to a deep pink, and the sight stirs up some long-dormant feelings in my chest. Bess and I had some hot times together. Really hot. We’d both been young and new to New York City and so confident that the universe was going to hand us everything we asked of it. And maybe it did for Bess. I sure hope so, anyway.

No wedding ring, though, my asshole brain notices.

Bess pulls her hand out of mine and takes a step backward. “And you’re here in Brooklyn because…?”

“Traded,” I say gruffly.

“To Brooklyn.” Her low voice is so familiar that it gives me chills.

“Right,” I say, laughing darkly. “And when I found out, I had the same look of shock on my face that you’ve got right now.”

Everybody else laughs, too, and the sound seems to pull Bess out of her stupor. She straightens her spine, and I’m struck by how familiar her body language is, too. I was always fascinated by Bess. Behind that sweet name and nymph-like body is a tough girl. She’s a study in sexy contrasts.

The first time we met, Bess had been a newbie agent, the youngest employee in Henry Kassman’s shop. After sharing a business dinner, I’d taken her to my hotel room, where we’d had the kind of up-all-night, energetic, soul-scorching sex that exuberant youngsters sometimes experience but rarely appreciate.