A Lawman in Her Stocking (4 page)

Trouble or not, Dylan wanted to take Brenna in his arms and kiss her senseless.

“Where’s your car parked?” he asked.

“My grandmother borrowed it for the evening.” She glanced at her watch. “But it’s probably at home by now.” She started down the street. “See you in class next week.”

He caught her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. “You walked?”

Nodding, she shrugged out of his grip. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s dark.”

“It gets that way at night,” she said, dryly. “And that’s a problem, because…?”

“It’s not safe.”

She met his frown with one of her own. “You’ve just spent the last half hour telling me what a friendly place Tranquillity is. Now you’re telling me it’s not safe to walk the streets?” She folded her arms and glared up at him. “Make up your mind, Sheriff. What kind of place is this?”

“For the most part, Tranquillity is about as safe as any place can be,” he admitted, trying not to stare at the way her full breasts rested on her folded arms. He focused his gaze on the safer area of her forehead. “But once in a while a cowboy from one of the ranches around here gets tanked up and starts to thinking he’s Don Juan.”

Taking her by the elbow, Dylan hustled her toward his restored ’49 Chevy pickup parked across the deserted street. “I’ve already gotten one complaint from you today. I’d just as soon skip the second.”

“No, thanks,” she said stubbornly. “I’d rather walk.”

He stared down at her. Damn, but she was a feisty
little thing. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her right then and there. Instead, he opened the driver’s door, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her into the truck.

She let out an alarmed squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Seeing that you get home safely,” he said, climbing in beside her.

“This is totally uncalled for.” Glaring at him, she slid over to the passenger side. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.” He gave her a stern look in an effort to stop any further protest, but she completely ignored it. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he jammed the key into the ignition.

“Are you this controlling with everyone?” she asked.

Dylan tried counting to ten, then twenty. At thirty he gave up. “Lady, you could drive Job over the edge. You complain about an old man’s innocent gesture of friendship and then go walking down a dark street at night, inviting all kinds of trouble.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

Gunning the engine, he spun gravel and squealed the tires as he steered the truck away from the curb. He cringed as he imagined the chips the rocks had made in the paint job. He and his dad had spent several years restoring the old Chevy, and Jack Chandler was probably looking down from heaven right now,
ready to sling a couple of lightning bolts Dylan’s way for treating the truck with such irreverence.

He glanced over at the woman beside him. And it was all her fault, too. She was making him crazy and causing him to do things he hadn’t done in years. The last time he’d laid rubber had been when he was nineteen and full of more piss and vinegar than good sense.

Fuming, Brenna stared out the passenger window. Dylan was probably right about her walking home alone in the dark, but she’d be darned if she let him know it.

Why did men think they knew what was best for a woman? What made them think that a woman was incapable of making her own decisions?

Tom had always been that way, had always tried to tell her what she should do. And it appeared Dylan Chandler was cut from the same cloth.

When he pulled up in front of her house, she prepared to get out of the truck. “Thank you for the ride. But I have to tell you, your behavior borders on Neanderthal, Sheriff. I—”

“That may be,” he interrupted. “But I’m proud to say this caveman can go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.” At her raised eyebrow, he had the audacity to grin. “I saw that you got home safe and sound.”

“Before you know it, you’ll be spouting the code of chivalry, straight from the Round Table,” she retorted.

As she reached for the door handle, Dylan caught her wrist and leaned close. “There’s nothing wrong
with a man protecting a woman from the dangers she’s either too naive or too stubborn to recognize for herself.”

“The woman in question might just be a black belt in karate, and able to take care of herself,” she bluffed, trying to ignore the tingling sensations from his touch, his nearness.

The close confines of the truck cab seemed to grow even smaller and a crazy fluttering started deep in her stomach. His lips were only a few inches from hers. She needed space.

“I appreciate your concern, but—”

“Hush,” Dylan said, his deep baritone vibrating against her lips a moment before his mouth brushed hers.

At first he teased with featherlight kisses, nibbling, testing her willingness to allow the caress to continue. But when he traced her lips with his tongue, all thought of putting distance between them ceased. Her own tongue automatically darted out to ease the tingling friction of his exploration, but coming into contact with the rough tip of his, the flutters in her stomach went absolutely wild.

At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she shouldn’t be kissing him, tasting him with eager abandon. She was too caught up in the many sensations racing through her to even breathe. When she finally did, the mingled scents of leather, spicy cologne and Dylan caused her nostrils to flare. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything quite so sensuous, so sexy, so wonderful as the man gathering her to him.

He pulled her unresisting body closer and, trapped between them, her hands clenched his shirt. The firm
muscles beneath flexed and bunched at her touch, and his heart pounded against her fingertips. Heat and excitement simultaneously coursed through her when Dylan’s tongue penetrated the inner recesses of her mouth. Exploring. Claiming.

Dylan Chandler was the very last man she should be kissing, she thought, her sanity intruding. He was arrogant, controlling and macho from the top of his handsome head, all the way to his big, booted feet. And he was kissing her like she’d never been kissed before.

The intensity of passion might have gotten the better of Dylan, had the steering wheel digging into his ribs not reminded him of where they were. He hadn’t necked in the cab of a pickup truck since his senior year in high school. He briefly wished he’d driven the Explorer to town, instead of the truck. It had more room to maneuver. But then, Corny and her hens would have had a field day talking about the sheriff making out in the sheriff’s patrol car with the new painting teacher.

Regaining control of his sanity, he leisurely broke the kiss. He’d kissed his share of women, but nothing in his past experience could compare with the wild, untamed feelings he had coursing through him now. He felt like pounding his chest and bench pressing a dump truck.

Hell, he just might have to in order to work off the adrenaline. There were kisses, and then there were
kisses.
And on a scale of one to ten, he’d have to rate this one a fifteen. Maybe even a twenty. Definitely an off-the-scale experience.

His hand shook slightly as he cupped the back of
Brenna’s head and gently pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Wow!”

“That shouldn’t have happened,” she said breathlessly.

“No, it shouldn’t have,” he said honestly.

What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman was trouble from the top of her pretty head all the way to her little feet. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago?

The best thing he could do would be to see that she got into the house, then get back in his truck and put as many miles between them as the old Chevy would take him.

“I’ll walk you to the porch,” he said, releasing her.

She reached for the door handle. “It isn’t necessary.”

But Dylan was out of the cab and around the front of the truck in a flash. When he opened the door and helped her down from the bench seat, he could tell she was going to protest again.

Placing his hand at her back, he ushered her toward the front porch. “My dad made me promise a long time ago that I’d be a gentleman at all times. And that includes walking a lady to the door when I take her home.”

“But you were only giving me a ride.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said stubbornly. “You’re a lady. I drove you home. I walk you to the door. It’s as simple as that.”

When they reached the porch steps, he glanced down at her and felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. This was the way she was meant to look—soft, her hair slightly mussed from having his fingers
tangled in the silky strands, a blush of desire coloring her porcelain cheeks.

He had to have lost every ounce of sense he possessed, but he wasn’t one bit sorry he was the man to cause that look. His body tightened and he figured it was time to beat a hasty retreat before he did something stupid like kiss her again.

Just as he started to bid her a good evening, the sudden brightness of the porch light made him blink. “What the hell?”

“Brenna? Is that you?”

“You know darned well it is,” she muttered, quickly stepping away from him.

An elderly woman around the same age as his uncle Pete, stepped out onto the porch. “Of course I do.” The old gal winked at him. “But since it’s obvious you aren’t going to ask this handsome young man inside, I had to come up with an excuse to meet him.”

Removing his hat, Dylan extended his hand. “Dylan Chandler, ma’am. You must be Brenna’s grandmother. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Abigail Montgomery. Won’t you come in for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking his hand and treating Brenna to an impish grin.

Brenna gripped the strap on her tote bag so tight she was surprised it didn’t snap in two. The smile on her grandmother’s face and the delighted twinkle in her eyes promised days of questions, teasing and anything but subtle innuendo.

“Granny, I’m sure Sheriff Chandler has more important matters to attend to.” She gave Dylan a pointed look. “Don’t you, Sheriff?”

He nodded. “Maybe another time, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Abigail smiled pleasantly. “Maybe Brenna can cook dinner for you some evening.”

Brenna couldn’t help it. Her mouth dropped open at her grandmother’s ridiculous statement.

“Shut your mouth before you catch a bug, kiddo,” Abigail advised.

“I’d better say good-night and let you ladies get inside,” Dylan said, sounding anxious to make his getaway.

“Thanks again for the ride,” Brenna said when her grandmother elbowed her in the ribs.

“No problem,” he called, walking out to the truck. “Good night, ladies.”

“Night,” Abigail said. Once Dylan had started his truck, she steered Brenna through the door. “Let’s go inside. You have a lot to tell me. And I’m warning you. This time, I want the straight poop.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Brenna said, closing the door to secure the lock.

“Oh, yes there is,” Abigail shot back. “You told me you didn’t like Darren Chancellor.”

“Dylan Chandler.”

“Whatever,” Abigail said, waving her hand. “You told me you had no interest in him.”

“I don’t.”

Abigail snorted. “Yeah, and the Grand Canyon is nothing but a big drainage ditch. Get real.”

“Dylan just gave me a ride home.” At her grandmother’s dubious expression, Brenna added, “He’s not my type.”

“Sure looked like he is.” Abigail laughed delightedly. “It takes some pretty heavy breathing to fog up windows that fast. And I don’t blame you one bit. That man’s the sexiest stud muffin I’ve seen come down the pike in a long time.”

When her grandmother began humming “Here Comes the Bride,” Brenna turned on her heel, walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. She sank down on the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer of her nightstand and pulled the object of her search from inside. Peeling back the wrapper, she bit into the chocolate bar.

As the rich, smooth taste spread throughout her mouth, she sighed heavily. Life with her grandmother could be trying at best, but now that she’d met Dylan Chandler, it was going to be downright impossible.

D
ylan rested his chin on his palm and stared off into space. It had been four days since he’d agreed to take Brenna’s painting class. Four days since he’d taken her home. And four days that he’d been useless to himself and everyone else.

Oh, he’d gone through the motions of tending to business. But more times than he cared to count, he found himself staring off into space. Like now.

When he’d kissed her, he’d only meant to silence her. But he’d been the one at a loss for words when the kiss ended.

He shook his head as he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. The last time he’d made the mistake of letting his hormones overrule his good sense he’d come out looking like a complete fool. He had no intention of letting anything like that happen
again. And the best way to see that it didn’t would be to remove himself from temptation.

Next Tuesday night, instead of going to that damned painting class, he’d be over at Luke’s with the rest of the guys doing what they always did—playing poker in the back room.

His decision made, Dylan settled down to the paperwork in front of him. He’d only gotten as far as the middle of the first page when Myron Worthington rushed into his office and plopped his bulk into the chair in front of Dylan’s desk.

“We’ve got big trouble brewin’, boy.”

“What makes you think that, Myron?” Dylan asked calmly, accustomed to the mayor’s excited outbursts.

“Cornelia and them hens of hers are up to somethin’,” Myron answered. He fidgeted with his bolo tie every time he talked about his wife, but this time, Dylan thought the man might strangle himself with it.

“You mean the B.S. Club is discussing something more complicated than what refreshments to serve at their next meeting or who they’ll get to help them decorate the community room for the Christmas Jamboree?” he asked.

Myron sat forward and nodded vigorously. “This mornin’ at breakfast, Cornelia just up and tells me they’re gonna redo Main Street in time for the Jamboree, then after that they’re gonna do somethin’ special for every holiday.”

Dylan leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and propped his boots on the edge of his desk. “Besides holding a weekly meeting, the B.S. Club hasn’t done a single thing in the past twenty years
besides make cookies and punch for the Christmas Jamboree and decide who they’ll coerce into being elves when you play Santa Claus for the kids. What makes you think they’ll get anything accomplished in the next month?”

“Because Cornelia told me they already decided to use that artsy-fartsy stuff they’re learnin’ on Tuesday nights to do it,” Myron shot back.

Dylan’s stomach clenched at the mention of Brenna’s painting class. “Did she tell you what they have planned?”

“No. And that’s what’s got me worried.” Myron removed his wide-brimmed Resistol and ran an exasperated hand over his bald head. “As long as Cornelia’s talkin’, she ain’t doin’. It’s when she finally shuts up that you gotta watch out.”

“Did she tell you when they plan to get started?”

Myron shook his head. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” Dylan’s boots hit the floor with a thud as he sat up straight. “What have I got to do with all this?”

“You’re takin’ that class ain’t you?”

“No.”

Myron glared at him. “Cornelia said you was. She even tried to get me to join in the damned thing.”

Dylan felt heat begin to creep up his neck. “I was there Tuesday night, but I don’t intend to go back.”

“You have to,” Myron insisted.

The heat spread upward to Dylan’s cheeks. “Why?”

Myron rose from his chair to pace back and forth. “We have to find out what the B.S. Club’s got up
their sleeves. And when they plan to get started on it.”

“Just ask your wife,” Dylan said reasonably.

Myron stopped pacing to peer at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “You don’t know one damned thing ’bout women, do you, boy?”

Dylan laughed. “I know enough to get by.”

“I’m not talkin’ about snugglin’ up to a gal,” Myron said, exasperated. He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I’m talkin’ about the way they think.”

“How
do
they think, Myron?”

The man splayed his pudgy hands. “Damned if I know. I’ve been married to Cornelia for thirty years and I still ain’t got her figured out. But I do know when she’s got her mind set on somethin’, there ain’t nothin’ or nobody gonna change it. And she’s fixed her sights on overhaulin’ Main Street.”

“Well, you’ll have to get your information some other way,” Dylan said firmly. “I don’t get along with the teacher.”

“That ought to make it easy then,” Myron said, looking relieved.

“Forget it, Myron.” Dylan shook his head. “I’m not going back to that class.”

Myron gave him a measuring look. “I don’t ever recall havin’ to do this, boy. But it looks like there ain’t no other way.”

Dylan’s stomach twisted into a knot. He knew what the man was driving at. But before he could stop him, Myron announced, “As the mayor, and your boss, I’m givin’ you a direct order to stay in that class and find out what them hens are up to before they make
Tranquillity the laughingstock of the whole damned state.”

Having pronounced sentence, Myron plunked his hat on his shiny, bald pate and walked out of the office with all the authority of a rotund, little monarch.

Dylan propped his elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. He didn’t like the turn of events one damned bit. The role of spy just wasn’t his style. And seeing Brenna every Tuesday night for the next month wasn’t going to help him forget that kiss, either.

But orders were orders. He’d always taken pride in his job, and short of resigning as sheriff, Dylan didn’t see where he had any other choice.

Brenna took a deep breath, opened the back door and readied herself to face her grandmother once again. Since meeting Dylan four days ago, Abigail had dispensed with any pretense of subtlety and had even gone so far as to try to get Brenna to discuss the number of guests she’d like to invite to the wedding.

“I’m in the living room,” Abigail called, when Brenna entered the kitchen. “Come and see who’s dropped by for a visit.”

Seated beside Abigail on the living room sofa, Pete Winstead treated Brenna to a big grin as he smoothed his mussed hair and replaced his battered cowboy hat. “Nice to see you again, Miss Brenna.”

Brenna’s eyes widened when her grandmother patted Pete’s thigh. “He stopped by to apologize for
frightening you the other day,” Abigail announced. “Didn’t you, Pete?”

“Uh…yeah,” he agreed. Brenna thought he looked anything but repentant when he added, “I’m mighty sorry I scared you.”

Abigail rose and walked over to Brenna. “I can’t believe you thought this old goat tried to put the moves on you.” Eyeing Pete up and down, she looped her arm through Brenna’s and gave her a sly grin. “It’s my guess he’s too old to have anything but fond memories.”

Brenna’s cheeks burned. “Granny!”

Pete got to his feet, his grin wide. “Oh, don’t you worry nothin’ about it, gal.” He turned his attention to Abigail, took off his hat and pointed to his thick white hair. “Looks can fool you, sugar. There may be snow on the roof, but there’s still one hell of a fire burnin’ in the furnace.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Abigail shot back. “I’m not that cold, yet.”

At a loss for words, Brenna looked at her grandmother. Abigail’s wrinkled cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She was having the time of her life.

Pete laughed. “How ’bout goin’ with me to Luke’s this evenin’, sugar? Some of the men get together on Saturday nights to play their guitars and fiddles. The music ain’t too bad and it beats sittin’ at home.”

“Doesn’t that sound like a hoot?” Abigail asked Brenna. Turning back to Pete, her voice took on a teasing note. “We’d love to go. But we’re modern women. We’ll meet you there.”

Brenna felt like she’d just entered the Twilight
Zone. Not only had Abigail just accepted a date with Pete, she’d included Brenna as part of the package. “I don’t think—”

“Hush, Brenna.” Abigail hurried Pete toward the door. “If we don’t let this old fossil go, we’ll never get ready in time.”

“Old fossil!” Pete laughed as he stepped out onto the porch. “I ain’t much older than you, sugar. And just wait till tonight. I’ll dance your feet plumb off.”

“He’ll probably stomp all over them,” Abigail confided, closing the door. She breezed past Brenna on her way to the bedroom. “I wonder what the accepted duds are for a place like Kook’s?”

“Luke’s,” Brenna corrected. “The place is called Luke’s.”

“Whatever.”

Brenna followed Abigail down the hall. It was just as well her grandmother included her as part of the date. No telling what kind of trouble the geriatric duo would get themselves into.

“Pete thinks he’s going to outdance me, but I’ve got news for the old buzzard. By the time I’m finished with him, his cowboy boots will be smoking.” Abigail rummaged through her dresser drawers. “Have you seen my blue scarf?”

“No,” Brenna said, distracted. She couldn’t believe after twenty years of widowhood, Abigail had finally found a man she wanted to see socially.

A sudden thought had her smiling. If her grandmother’s mind was on her own love life, she wouldn’t have time to concentrate on Brenna’s.

As if she could read minds, Abigail stopped search
ing for the scarf to give Brenna a wicked grin. “Maybe Stud Muffin will be there tonight.”

“Give it up, Granny,” Brenna said, refusing to believe the sudden flutter in her stomach had anything to do with Abigail’s reference to Dylan. “I’m not interested in the man.”

Taking a swig of his beer, Dylan listened contentedly to the band play an offbeat version of a George Strait song. Since his talk with the mayor, he’d had time to think, time to put things in perspective about the kiss he’d shared with Brenna. His reaction to her hadn’t been all that unusual. It had been a while since he’d enjoyed the warmth of a woman’s body, and given the same set of circumstances, a saint would have been tempted.

But the minute he saw Brenna walk through Luke’s door, Dylan’s mouth went as dry as a desert in a drought. Her pink sweater and designer jeans outlined a body made for sin. The way her hips swayed when she moved made his body tighten and his own jeans feel like they were at least two sizes too small.

Trouble had never looked so good or so tempting. And apparently he wasn’t the only man to notice. Several cowboys at the bar nudged each other, their expressions changing from idle curiosity to open appreciation as they watched her cross the room.

Dylan had the inexplicable urge to punch something when one of the men grabbed her by the shoulder. But, bless her heart, Abigail took one look at the guy, whacked him across the knuckles with her handbag, then steered Brenna toward the table Dylan shared with Pete.

“Well, would you look who’s here?” Pete declared, a grin spreading across his wrinkled face.

“Brenna, this table only has two chairs. Why don’t you and Dillard find yourself one of your own?” Abigail suggested. Her eyes danced merrily as she pointed to the far corner of the room. “That one over in the shadows would give you two the chance to pick up where you left off the other night.”

Dylan watched embarrassment stain Brenna’s cheeks as several of Luke’s patrons turned to openly stare at the old gal’s outrageous statement. Something deep inside Dylan’s gut twisted and made him want to shelter her from the prying eyes.

“You two kids have fun,” Pete said, giving Dylan a meaningful look as he seated Abigail in the chair Dylan had been sitting in.

With the choice taken out of his hands, Dylan touched Brenna’s elbow. “It’s too noisy to talk here anyway. Let’s find a table farther away from the dance floor.”

He guided her through the Saturday night crowd and over to an unoccupied table in the corner. Holding the chair for her, he was aware that nearly every eye in the place watched them.

Apparently, the B.S. Club had activated their phone tree after class the other night and spread the word—the sheriff had shown an interest in the new painting teacher. Unfortunately, Abigail had just reinforced the erroneous rumors.

“Need another beer, Dylan?” a young waitress asked as she approached the table.

Dylan smiled at his deputy, Jason’s, girlfriend. “I’m fine. Thanks, Susie.” Turning his attention to
the silent woman beside him, he asked, “Would you like something, Brenna?”

“A diet cola,” she murmured quietly.

“Be right back,” Susie called over her shoulder as she threaded her way through the tables.

Dylan waited until Brenna’s drink arrived before he commented on her somber mood. “You might as well get over it. Your grandmother isn’t going to change at this stage of the game.”

“You’re probably right,” Brenna said with a sigh.

Dylan shrugged. “I have the same problem with Uncle Pete. He says what he damned well pleases and to hell with what other people think.”

“Granny says it’s one of the perks of being older,” Brenna agreed. “But I wish she’d use a little more discretion.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t count on that happening.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, her smile resigned.

After several moments of awkward silence, the band began to play a ballad. Reaching for her hand, Dylan pulled Brenna to her feet. “Let’s dance.”

He couldn’t dance worth a hoot to the faster songs, but he could sway in time to the slower ones. Besides it was better than just staring at each other for the rest of the evening.

But when they reached the dance floor, the crowd swelled and Brenna was pushed against him. Wrapping his arms around her to keep her from falling, Dylan gulped hard. Even though she was quite a bit shorter, she fit him perfectly and his body was already responding in a very X-rated way.

As he held her close, he tried to ignore the feel of
her soft breasts pressed tightly to his chest, the touch of her thighs as they grazed his own. The friction of her lower body rubbing intimately against his caused him to swallow convulsively. Pressed so closely together, there was no way he could hide the fact that he was harder than hell.