Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,5

enough, she could turn and catch him by surprise. Grabbing the pistol was going to be the complicated part, but she’d been in tighter situations and managed.

She took a breath, relaxed her body, and made a quick promise to God to show up at church on Sunday. A second later, she shrieked and pivoted on one foot, flinging her elbow toward his nose. The solid connection rippled down her arm. Blood exploded from his nose, and his hand jerked up as he cursed. Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she shot out her right leg to hook it behind his.

He spun away, but, lunging for his forearm, Rose grabbed and hung on, her sweat-slicked grip locking on his wrist. Just as her fingers found the barrel of his gun, he flipped his hand and captured her fingers instead. The triumphant grin that crossed his face didn’t last long. Leveraging her weight, she threw her body against him and pushed. He’d expected her to pull away, and he fell with a grunt, pulling her with him.

The wind caught her skirt as they hit the ground and rolled, the filmy material tangling around her legs and trapping her. The boy immediately twisted and gained the upper position. The gun hovered over her cheek just as she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. Twisting her head to look, her attacker’s gaze followed hers.

Someone was running toward them.

Without a second’s thought, his stunned eyes widening, the boy jumped to his feet and fled, the gun clattering to the asphalt as his shadow vanished into the darkness.

The pounding footsteps drew closer, and like a ghost taking form, her would-be rescuer appeared. He yelled without slowing down. “You okay?”

With a single startled glance, she recognized the silhouette. Broad shoulders, slim hips, a reckless grace that was impossible to ignore… She’d made love to that body too many times to pretend she didn’t know who he was. “Go,” she cried. “I’m right behind you.”

What was he doing here? What could he possibly want? Why now? Why here?

Why him?

Chapter Two

Her questions were wiped from her mind as Rose caught up with Timothy Santos a few seconds later. They raced in unison across the blacktop, crashed through a low hedge, and darted into the open area behind the station. If she’d been in heels instead of the flats she’d dragged out of her closet, this contest would have already been over and the men she’d been chasing would be long gone.

All at once, a different pair of men bolted out from behind a tortured mesquite tree and followed the fleeing boy. They were obviously with the boy but had hung back, possibly because she would have recognized them. The idea fueled her legs, and she poured on more speed.

She was halfway to the dry creek bed that bordered the county property when the trio reached the scrawny oaks lining the slope. Headlights flickered and the men shouted as they dashed toward the twin beams. A second later, the vehicle’s door slammed and an engine screamed.

At her side, Santos lifted his gun and steadied his aim with both hands. Rose swirled, her breath catching in her chest. He’d won every shooting competition he’d ever entered, and she had no doubt he could hit the truck. Her chest heaving from the run, she cried, “Watch out! There’s a kid in there.”

From beneath a well-worn cowboy hat, Santos silenced her with a single look, the light glancing off the slash of his cheekbones as he reluctantly pointed the barrel down. The moon came out from behind the clouds, the landscape turning to silver as the truck disappeared in a whirlwind of gravel and grit. As motionless as a slab of granite, he stood before her in a wide-legged stance. “He might have been a kid, but he was a kid with a gun.”

He was right, of course—Santos usually was—but she didn’t admit it. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

Only seconds passed as she waited for his answer, but in that moment, she swung from angry to stunned as his appearance registered. He was the man she’d lived with and loved two years ago, but nothing about him looked the same. Beneath his hat his hair was long and tangled, his face thinner, his eyes haunted—a stark harshness in his expression carving lines where none had been. Even his sleeveless leather vest looked worn, scratches and rips marring the entire surface, his jeans baggy