He skimmed a hand over hers. "Anyone in particular helping fill it out?"

"No. No one in particular." She smiled sweetly, leaned forward. "How's Darla?"

He cleared his throat and bought himself a little time by sipping his beer. "She's fine. Dandy."

It wasn't worth mentioning that he'd nudged good old Darla along, despite her invitation to fix his supper—and anything else he might like. "Any progress on the hunt?"

"That's not a very subtle avoidance of the topic."

"I wasn't trying to be subtle." He laid his hand over hers again, snagging her fingers before she could draw them away. "Find any good ghosts lately?"

"Actually, I did." She had the pleasure of seeing the smile fade from his eyes.

"That's bull."

"No, indeed. I have some very nice documentation of an event. Registered a forty-two-degree temperature drop in less than two minutes."

He took another drink. "Your fancy equipment needs to be overhauled."

His reaction amused her, intrigued her. "You're very resistant. Do you feel threatened?"

"Why would I feel threatened by something that doesn't exist?"

One brow cocked up under her fringe of bangs. "Why would you?"

"Because I—" He caught himself, narrowed his eyes. She was smiling blandly and, he noted, very much in control. "Is that how you analyze your patients?"

"Do you feel like a patient?"

"Cut it out."

"Sorry." She threw her head back and laughed. "It was irresistible. I don't really do individual therapy, but you'd make a terrific subject. Want to try word-association?"

"No."

She arched both brows this time. "You're not afraid, are you? It's very simple. I say a word, you respond with the first thing that comes to mind."

"I'm not afraid of some silly parlor game." But he was irritated, just enough to jerk his shoulders. "Fine. Shoot."

"Home."

"Family."

It made her smile. "Bird."

"Feather."

"Car."

"Truck."

"City."

"Noise."

"Country."

"Land."

"Sex."

"Women." Then he brought their joined hands to his lips, nipped lightly at her fingers. "Rebecca."

She ignored the jingling spurt of her pulse. "It's the first thing that comes to your mind that counts. All in all, I'd say you're a very elemental man, set in your ways and happy with them. Consider that a thumbnail analysis."

"Why don't I try it with you?"

"As soon as you get your degree, farm boy." She waited a beat. "If you're hungry, why don't you try the peanuts?"

"I like your hand better." To prove it, he continued to nibble, all the way around to her palm. "It's long and a little bony. Like the rest of you."

In a casual move, she scooted her chair closer, leaned her head toward his. "Do you really think I'd let you seduce me over a couple of beers at the local tavern?"

"It's worth a shot." He brushed his lips over her wrist. "Your pulse is racing, Dr. Knight."

"A basic chemical reaction to stimulus. Nothing personal."

"We could make it personal." He glanced ever his shoulder, saw that the pool table was free. "You up for a bet?"

"Depends on the type of bet."

"How about a game of pool, a friendly wager?"

"Pool?" Her brows drew together. "I don't know the rules.''

Even better, he thought. "I'll explain them. You're supposed to be a quick study. Anybody smart enough to have a bunch of initials after their name should be able to learn a simple game."

"All right. What's the bet?"

"I win, we go out to my truck and neck. I'm really hankering for a taste of you."

She took a slow breath, made sure her eyes stayed cool. "And if I win?"

"What's your pleasure?"

She considered, then smiled. "When I move my equipment over to the farm, you'll help me with my project, on a purely professional level."

"Sure." With the confidence of a veteran hustler, he rose and led her over to the table. "Since you're a beginner, I'll spot you two balls."

"That's generous," she said, without having a clue whether it was or not.

Being a fair man, and one who rarely lost at this particular game, he explained the procedure carefully. That also gave him the opportunity to snuggle up behind her, his mouth at her ear as he gave her instructions on how to hold and use the cue.

"You want control," he told her, sniffing her hair. "But you don't want to force it. Keep the stroke smooth."

She tried to ignore the fact that her bottom was snug against him and, following his guiding hands, struck the cue ball.

"Nice," he murmured. "You've got good form. And great ears." He nipped at one before she straightened. But when she turned, rather than backing away, he set his hands comfortably on her hips. "Why don't we pretend we played and just go neck?"

"A bet's a bet. Back off, farm boy."

"I can wait," he said cheerfully. He could already imagine wrapping himself around her and steaming up the windows in the truck. "You want to break?"

"I'll leave that to you." She stepped away, chalked her cue as he did.

The rules were simple enough, she mused. You were either solid or striped, depending on which type of ball you managed to sink first. Then you just kept sinking them, avoiding the black eight ball. If you hit that in before the rest were dispatched—unless you struck it with another ball first—you lost.

Otherwise, whoever sank all their balls first, then the eight, won.

She watched Shane lean over the table, long legs, long arms, big hands. The look of him distracted her enough that she didn't see how he broke the triangle of balls, but she did see the results. Three balls thumped into pockets, and he called solids.

Lips pursed, she studied his technique, the speed and direction of balls rolling over the green felt. She'd seen the game played, of course. There was a billiard table in the country club where her parents had a membership. But she'd never paid much attention.

It was obviously simple geometry and applied physics, she decided. Quick calculations, a steady hand and a good eye were all that was required.

Shane pocketed another two balls before he glanced at her. Her brow was furrowed, her head cocked. It was interesting to watch her think, he mused. It would be even more interesting to watch her feel. But it wasn't quite fair to run the table on her when she hadn't even had a chance to shoot.

To balance the scales a bit, he attempted a nearly impossible shot. He nearly made it, but his ball kissed the corner of the pocket and rolled clear.

"You're up, Doc."

He moved around the table to help her with her stance, but she shrugged him away. "I'd rather do it myself."

"Fine." He smiled at her with affection, and superiority. "You should go for the one with the yellow stripe. It's a clean shot into the side pocket."

"I see it." Muttering to herself, she leaned over the table, took careful aim, squinting a bit to keep the balls in focus, and sent it in.

"Nice." Genuinely pleased, he walked back to their table to fetch the beer. "You even left your cue ball in good position for the next shot. If you—"

She lifted her head, aimed a bland look in his direction. "Do you mind?"

"Hey." He lifted a hand, palm out. "Just trying to help. You go on ahead."

He did cluck his tongue a bit as she set up for a bank shot. Couldn't the woman see her three ball was clear? He lifted his beer to hide his grin. At this rate, he was going to have her exactly where he wanted in five minutes.

Then his mouth dropped open. She banked the ball against the side and sent it at a clean angle into the corner pocket. She didn't so much as smile, never glanced up, but went directly back to work.

A few customers roused themselves to wander over to watch, and to kibitz. They might have been as invisible as her ghosts.

She played systematically, pausing only briefly between shots, with her brows knit and her eyes unfocused, as she circled the table. He forgot the beer that was dangling from his fingers, suffered the elbow nudges and comments from onlookers as she quickly, quietly, and without a hitch, cleaned house.

To add insult to injury, she used one of his own balls, the one he could—and should—have sent home when he was feeling sorry for her, to knock the eight ball into the pocket and trounce him at his own game.

Lips pursed, she straightened, scanned the table. "Is that it?"

There were hoots of laugher. Several men patted her shoulder and offered to buy her a beer. Shane merely propped his cue on the table.

"Is this how you worked your way through college? Hustling pool?"

Flushed with success now that the work was done, she beamed at him. "No, I had numerous scholarships, and a generous college fund. I've never played pool before in my life."

"I'll be damned." He dipped his hands in his pockets, studying her. "You ran the table. That wasn't luck, beginner's or otherwise."

"No, it wasn't. It was science. The game is based on angles and velocity, isn't it?" Delighted with the fresh knowledge, she ran a hand through her hair. "Want to play again? I could spot you two balls this time."

He started to swear, but couldn't resist the laugh. "What the hell! We'll go for two out of three."

Chapter Seven

So we played pool." Rebecca was busily adjusting one of her cameras in Shane's kitchen while Regan looked on. "He's really very good. We ended up closing the place down."

Regan waited a moment, tugged her ear as if to clear it. "You played pool—at Duff's."

"Uh-huh. We were just going to play one game, then it was two out of three, and three out of five, and so forth. It's great fun. But I couldn't let all those men buy me beers. I'd have been flat on my face."