Lining up his cue stick, he lifted his face to look at me. “Baseball?”

“Sure.”

He hit the ball and several balls split off, two sinking into pockets.

Thank goodness I didn’t make that wager. “So how would I do it?”

Moving around the side of the table, he shrugged. “You can do it online. Lots of people do these days.”

“What if I want to bet in person?”

He bent over the table and winked. “Then I guess you need me, don’t ya?”

“How does it work?”

“Well, first you have to figure out what team you want to bet on. Do you even know any baseball teams?”

I grabbed my beer bottle to stall, surprised that I’d already finished it. How many was that?

Skeeter waved with a finger toward the bar.

“Um, I know the Little Rock Travelers.”

He laughed and shot again, another ball going into the pocket. “They’re minor league, although you can bet on them too. But most people don’t. Most people bet on major league teams.”

A waitress brought over two beer bottles, handing one to me.

“Oh, no.” I waved my hands in front of me.

Skeeter motioned for her to put the bottle down.

“How do you know so much about this?” I perched in a chair, not an easy task given the fact I was a bit unsteady.

“Because, Jane…” He moved closer to me, making me sorry I’d sat down. He had me cornered. “If you want to place a bet, I’m who you need to talk to.”

“Oh.”

He picked up my beer and handed it to me. “Tell you what, I’m feeling generous tonight. How about I help you place a bet, without this pool wager?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Okay.”

His grin shifted from amused to calculating. “It’s your shot. I missed.”

Did he? I thought he’d got another one in.

He grabbed my elbow and accompanied me to the table, handing me the pool stick I’d forgotten. “There’s a perfect shot for you right there.” He pointed with his finger, his hand still holding his beer. “See it?”

I was having trouble focusing, let alone seeing the perfect shot. “No.”

He set his beer aside. Pushing gently on my back so I leaned over the table, he lifted the cue stick and placed it on the edge next to me. Skeeter squatted beside me, his face inches from mine. “Pool is physics. Were you any good at physics in school?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s all about trajectory and rotation.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It kind of is.”

“Is being a bookie complicated?”

He smirked. “Do you always say what pops into your head?”

“Only when I drink a lot of beer.”

“Then you definitely need more beer.”

I most definitely didn’t. “Well, is it?”

“Is what it?”

“Is being a bookie complicated?”

“It has its moments. Right now you need to focus on this shot.” He rested his chest on my back, his arms extending next to mine. “Look down the cue stick and aim it for the right side of the ball, not the middle. See?”

I squinted one eye shut. “I think so.”

“If you aim for the edge, the ball will shoot off in the opposite direction and hit that green ball on the side and send it into that corner pocket. Do you see it now?”

“I think so.”

His hand curled over mine, holding the cue. “Now, nice and smooth.” He slid my arm back then forward, and the tip of the stick hit the edge of the white ball. It spun away to the left and struck the green one, which rolled into the corner pocket.

My peripheral vision faded. I was getting a vision. No! I saw my hand throw a bottle across the room and a string of obscenities filled my ears. “That was a sure bet.” Skeeter said in my vision. “I don’t take losing thousands of dollars lightly. Somebody’s gonna pay for this mistake.”

“You’re gonna lose a lot of money,” I said, then scrunched my eyes closed in terror.

He stood, pulling me up with him and turning me around to face him. His eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

Warnings were going off in my head and I tried to back away, but his body and arms had me pinned against the table.

“Why’re you so interested in betting, Jane?”

Jane? Oh, right. I was Jane. I obviously wasn’t very good at this undercover stuff. “I told you. It was on my list of things to do.”

“People who place bets just place ’em. They’re not interested in the business of it. Even if this is an act, you seem too naïve to be a cop. Who are you?”

“I told you—”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t get where I am today by letting things get past me. What are you doin’ here?” He leaned over me, still sounding amused, but his eyes had a hard edge.

“I think I want to go now.”

“Not until I get some answers.”

“I believe the lady said she wanted to go,” a deep voice challenged. Turning my attention to the voice, my eyes bulged when I saw Mason Deveraux III holding a pool cue in one hand, a no-nonsense look on his face.

What had I gotten into now?

Chapter Twenty

“Who the hell are you?” Skeeter tensed, his body still pressed against mine.