Excerpt of A Night of Southern Comfort by Robin Covington

Mr. Sex–on–a–Stick took his last shot and accepted the congratulatory thumps on the back from his friends. He didn't smile in response, just quirked his full, sensual lips and turned to face her head–on with an expression full of hot promise. Catcalls and low whistles from his friends drifted across the crowded bar.

Come on, handsome. Don't let me strike out at my first real bar pickup.

The breath she didn't realize she was holding whooshed out as he separated himself from his friends and headed over to her. His movements were precise, controlled, and deliciously predatory. He possessed the confident demeanor of either military or law enforcement. He definitely wasn't a paper–pushing warlord or a politico. Years of experience trained her to spot those guys a mile away. No, his mask of control was one born of the need for survival, much like hers.

Okay, big boy. You let me peek behind yours and I'll let you peek behind mine.

He stopped in front of her, his thigh brushing her leg and setting off a series of sparks underneath her skin. His chocolate brown eyes met hers, filled with the assurance of decadent possibilities.

Michaela opened her mouth and shut it again. Now that he was here, she had no idea what to say. What would Angelina do? Channel your inner Jolie.

She cleared her throat. The result was a sultry, sexy voice she didn't know she possessed. "May I buy you a drink?"

He glanced at the glass in her hand and nodded.

"A Southern Comfort." She spoke in the general direction of the bartender, unable to tear herself away from her companion. "Neat."

He slid onto the stool next her, his leg still against hers and her temperature hovering near the boiling point. He leaned on the bar, creating their own intimate circle as the noise of the busy bar faded into the background. His lips curved into a slight smile.

"Is there something funny?"

"No. Not at all." His deep voice rumbled in her ear, his warm breath grazed her cheek. "I didn't take you for the whiskey type."

"And what type am I?"

He leaned back, examining her ice–blue satin, strapless cocktail dress and matching Manolo Blahnik pumps. She squirmed in her seat as her body responded to the desire pulsing between them.

"Honestly?" He cocked his head. "You strike me as the chardonnay type. A proper drink for a proper lady."

She laughed. Any other night, his description would have been close to the mark. "Whiskey's a drink of control and power." She took another sip and caught his stare over the rim of her glass.

"I see." He lifted his glass and downed the contents, then turned his full attention back to her. "So...why are you drinking alone?"

"I'm not drinking alone. Now." Michaela gestured toward his drink and ordered him another when he nodded.

"Okay, so you're here...?"

"Celebrating my new life."

"Aahhh." He lifted his glass to her in salute. "Let me be the first to say that your ex–husband is an idiot."