Page 12 of Luck of the Draw

Skye expertly grinned a carefree grin and pealed with put-on laughter. “Yeah! Par-tay!” She twirled her finger at the drink. “I think I need one of those!”

“Hell yeah you do!” The woman patted the bar, her fingers full of rings that clacked against the wood. “Hey, baby! Get this pretty little thing one of these on me!”

The bawdy woman behind the bar turned and offered a jovial, toothy smile. “Comin’ right on up.”

“Aw!” Skye clutched her invisible pearls. “You’re too sweet! Thank you so much!”

The woman waved her hand sloppily. “Don’t even mention it, baby girl!” She pointed at the suitcase. “You obviously just got here, so you got catchin’ up to do!”

Drunk tourists could always be counted on.

Skye giggled. “I sure do! I was on that plane darn close to four hours.”

“Oh really? Where ya from?”

Skye’s jaw hung as she attempted to come up with a backstory. To her relief, the bartender chose that moment to set down the drink, and the topic seemed to slip off the table.

“There ya go,cher,” the bartender said.

“Hey! Hey, hey!” the other woman said, waving at the bartender. “Do you know anything about that cemetery tour? Is it worth it? Is it really haunted?”

“Ooohh…” The bartender leaned forward and rested her palms on the bar. “Well, I have heard people say the ghost of Marie Leveau will slide up in there with the groups and tickle the backs of their necks.”

Both women sucked in a gasp and squealed in unison.

Skye dropped her chin, turning her head away, and chuckled quietly. She picked up the glass and took a long sip from the straw as she spun the stool in a slow turn, scanning the patrons for a potential target.

The hurricane was especially sweet and strong. She cast an enamored gaze down at the red liquid, relishing what felt like total freedom right then. Especially compared to where she’d come from and knowing where she was headed. The drink went straight to her head. Skye giggled again, this time not for show, and she pushed her foot against the bar to continue to spin.

The women noticed and chuckled as the lady with all the rings gave Skye’s shoulder a gentle push.

“Round and round she goes,” the woman sing-songed. “Where she stops, nobody knows.”

Skye laughed again and tilted her chin toward the ceiling but abruptly dropped it again when her knees collided with what was obviously someone else’s legs.

And there he was.

She knew it.

Approximately three or four years older than her.

Dark-as-night hair.

A heavy five o’clock shadow along his sharp, distinguished jaw.

Eyes like espresso.

Built like a tall pillar of carved marble.

Sexy as sin and hellfire.

And, most telling of all, wearing an expensive suit that indicated he was not from around these parts. Nobody from New Orleans would set foot in a pub like this on a weekday night wearing a tie and an obviously designer, obviously tailored suit.

This guy was young, hot, successful, and clearly here on some kind of business trip. A discreet glance at his left hand showed no wedding band, so he would definitely be receptive to a nice, bubbly, equally-receptive young woman in a bar.

He glanced at her knees as she stopped spinning, and then he cut an amused smirk at her.

Yes. This was her man.

---