Sam followed Chris’ gaze and spotted Josie on the dance floor wrapped in the arms of an older cowboy. A lightning bolt of want slammed through Sam with so much force he dropped his beer. The glass bottle shattered into a million pieces and people jumped to avoid the mess. Everyone in the vicinity turned to stare and, for once, he couldn’t have cared less that he was the center of attention. The dance floor had emptied out somewhat giving him a clear view of Josie and her partner.

Willie Carson had his right arm snug up against Josie, his palm resting on her hip. He held her left hand in his as they two-stepped. His suspiciously black handlebar mustache kept moving up and down to the beat, no doubt he was telling her when to step. Despite Willie’s direction, Josie faltered, thrown off by her partner’s double fancy spin. She tossed her head back and laughed, the live band covered the sound, but Sam heard it anyway. His hands curled into fists. He didn’t care if Willie Carson was old enough to be his father, he was going to knock him on his ass if he didn’t stop touching her.

“You’d better clean up your mess or they’ll kick us out.” Chris swiped a rag from the bar and tossed it to Sam.

Brought back to reality, he gathered up the bigger chunks of glass right as one of the bartenders rounded the bar with a plastic bucket and a broom. “Sorry about that.”

Sam dumped the glass into the bucket.

“Shit happens, man. I got it.” With a few flicks of the bartender’s broom the glass disappeared into the bucket.

An ear-splitting whistle blared. “Josie!” Chris waved at Josie who had just exited the dance floor.

Her face flushed, she whispered something into Willie’s ear, then made her way through the crowd to them. How she managed to move in those tight jeans Sam had no idea.

His gaze roved higher to the black Western-style shirt unbuttoned to the third button and his fingers itched to test the strength of that third button, an impulse he stuffed down. Josie was the enemy. No matter what she’d told him in the office earlier, he knew she was holding out on him. Treasure hunters had been after Rebecca’s Bounty for years, he wouldn’t help — not even if the hunter in this case was more intelligent and sexy than the others.

Avery Flynn is a pseudonym for the author who, at least for now, prefers to remain behind the scenes. She believes having Avery as her alter ego is a very good thing because, as she says, “Pen name Avery is way cooler than me. Her favorite color is hot pink. She drinks single malt scotch on the rocks. She loves the Argentinean tango and stays at Iceland’s Ice Hotel.”

Author Avery has been writing since she was a child and her father gave her a baby blue Brother typewriter. She couldn’t read but nonetheless wrote numerous stories about her stuffed animals in gibberish. She hasn’t stopped since, though she maintains that her spelling has gotten much better and she now prefers to write in English.

Today she’s enjoying her own happily ever after with her dashing husband, three crazy kids and two arthritic dogs. She dreams of one day having a floor-to-ceiling library à la Beauty and the Beast and is working to perfect the coffee IV drip.

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