Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.
He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.
He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her yet nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.
He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.
Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.
Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.
Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.
Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.
Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.
Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.
He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage