Lara headed toward the bar, and nearly collided with the bartender who glided from the opposite direction like a great white smelling fresh blood in the water.
Powerful shoulders the breadth of a two-by-four, a Flight Risk T-shirt pulled taut over toned abs and pecs, muscled legs that fed a pair of biker boots. And black jeans too snug to slip a wallet--or a condom--into the back pocket.
Lara jerked her focus upward. Eyes the color of ice chips flicked over her with the predatory awareness of a shark.
Holy heart-stopping Hannah, she thought, we're gonna need a bigger boat.
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