Making of Them (Beating the Biker 3)
“I guess when you’re a detective you have to be. Still, I didn’t make him out to be a Rocco.”
“No one does, not even his bosses. You hear anything more from the Serafini side on this mess?”
“No one’s talking. My grandfather, however, has gone fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“My father would use that word when Grandpa disappeared for a while. So, since my father is in the hospital, I’m thinking it’s the family business type of fishing.”
“Your grandfather is trying to find whoever hired those goons?”
“That’s my guess.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“He’s full of bad ideas. And it worries me. But you can’t stop him, so...”
“Yeah, you can’t stop Uncle Vits either.”
Her face drew into a pensive expression as she ran a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “Well, I should go.”
Go? When she’d just gotten here? Saks scrambled for an idea to keep her here.
“Come on,” he said. “How about a game of pool?”
She shook her head. “I’m not any good at it.”
“I’ll be playing with a handicap. My shoulder is still stiff as hell.”
“Saks,” she sighed.
“Come on, one game. Hawk over there can barely move off the couch. You’d be doing a good deed for the disabled.” He gave her a grin, and his heart stilled while he waited for her answer.
She shook her head and sighed. “One game.”
He took a breath when his heart started to beat again. “All right, one game.” If he had anything to do about it, though, it wouldn’t end there.
?
??And no funny business,” she scolded.
“Funny business? I’m very serious about pool. What do you want? Eight-ball?”
“Eight-ball is fine.” She stepped into the alcove and examined the pool cues.
Saks watched her beautifully rounded ass move under her skirt, and his cock twitched again. “Hmm, you didn’t bat an eye. Are you hustling me?”
“Moi?” she said, batting her eyelashes. “There’s no cash on the table, so how could I be hustling you?”
“I suspect I’m in trouble. But you know what? I’ll take that bet.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and put it on the edge of the table.
“Whoa, a big, bad twenty,” Chrissy taunted.
“Let me see your money.”
Chrissy reached for her purse, pulled out a fifty, and laid it on top of Saks’ money.
“You gonna match it?” she said, a competitive glint in her eye.