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."