A Lawman in Her Stocking (5 page)

Brenna felt the butterflies in her lower abdomen go absolutely wild, and her breath came out in short, little puffs at the feel of Dylan’s strong arousal pressed to her lower abdomen. His wide chest blocked out everything around her, and even though they were far from alone, she felt as if they were a million miles from the nearest living soul.

Her arms had automatically encircled his neck when she’d been shoved into him, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself from threading her fingers in the thick, ebony hair at his collar. Her eyes drifted shut and she sighed as the soft fabric of Dylan’s shirt brushed her cheek. His steely muscles quivered in response to the moist heat of her breath and the movement caused her legs to grow weak.

It would definitely be in her best interest to put some distance between them and seek out a candy machine. Having something chocolate was much safer than wanting to have the sheriff.

His hands caressed the small of her back.

She really should move away.

His lips grazed her temple.

In another moment or two, she’d—

The music stopped suddenly and the room became unnaturally quiet a moment before Pete Winstead’s angry voice reverberated across the dance floor. “I said to leave my woman the hell alone, Ira!”

Dylan’s muscles spasmed in protest as he released Brenna and shouldered his way through the crush of people. “What’s up, Uncle Pete?” he demanded when he reached the elderly couple.

“This here dog-eared jackass won’t leave Abby alone,” Pete said, his doubled fist threatening the other man’s nose.

“Granny, what’s going on?” Brenna asked from behind Dylan.

Abigail’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Isn’t this radical?”

“All I wanted was to dance with her,” Ira said sullenly, his own fists held in a ready position.

“Then why did you go and call her an old biddy?” Pete asked, his voice accusing.

“I think you both had better settle down,” Dylan advised. Mindful of the attention they were drawing from the crowd, he nodded toward the exit. “Let’s step outside and see if we can get this straightened out. Ladies?” He held the door as Brenna, Abigail and the two old gentlemen filed past. Once they stood under the neon sign outside Luke’s, Dylan turned to Abigail. “What happened, Mrs. Montgomery?”

Abigail pointed to Ira. “This man asked me to dance and I politely refused. When he wouldn’t take no for an answer, I told him I preferred a man with a pulse and for him to buzz off. That’s when he called me an old biddy.”

For having been insulted, Dylan thought Abigail’s voice sounded suspiciously pleased. He looked at Ira Jennings and his uncle Pete. Both were seventy and much too old to contemplate a fistfight. Yet here they
were, ready to do battle over Abigail. And the old girl was as happy about it as a kid at Christmas.

Dylan’s mouth twitched and he struggled to stifle his laughter. Clearing his throat, he tried to sound stern as he stared at the three septuagenarians. “I should probably run all of you in for disturbing the peace.”

The guilty parties suddenly tried to speak at the same time.

“Now, Dylan, all I wanted was to dance—”

“Whoa, boy! Me and Abby—”

“Pete and I didn’t start—”

Dylan placed two fingers to his lips and let loose with a loud, piercing whistle. When the three fell silent, he asked, “If I let all of you off with a warning, do you think you can go back in there and behave yourselves for the rest of the evening?”

Ira Jennings nodded and beat as hasty a retreat back into the building as his age and arthritis would allow.

Dylan leaned his shoulder against the side of the building and crossed his arms over his chest. “What about you two?”

Abigail reached for Pete’s hand and pulled him along behind her as she headed toward Luke’s parking lot. “We were about to leave anyway.”

“Where are you going?” Brenna asked.

“Home.” Abigail continued on to Brenna’s car with Pete in tow. Handing him a set of keys, she turned back to wink. “We’re going to make out on the couch.”

“We are?” Pete asked, his step quickening. Not waiting for an answer, he opened the driver’s door and slid inside with a speed that belied his age.

Abigail turned back to Brenna and grinned. “If there’s a handkerchief tied to the front doorknob when you come home, drive around the block a few times.”

“Granny!”

Dylan watched Brenna’s cheeks turn a deep shade of rose as she looked around to see if anyone had overheard her grandmother’s declaration.

When Pete popped the clutch on the Toyota and spewed gravel as they sped from the parking lot, Dylan pushed away from the building. “Don’t worry. At their age, at least we won’t have to worry about a shotgun wedding.”

She stared in the direction the two had disappeared. “I guess you have a point.”

“Let’s go back inside,” he suggested, holding the door for her.

They hadn’t been settled at their table more than ten minutes when Susie tapped him on the shoulder. “You have a phone call.”

He sighed heavily. The whole evening had been a comedy of errors from the very beginning. “I suppose Jason told you it was urgent?”

Susie shook her head. “It isn’t Jason.”

“This had better be important,” Dylan grumbled, making his way to the bar. He covered one ear to block out the rowdy sounds and listened intently. A tight coil of fear twisted his gut a moment before he slammed the receiver back onto its cradle with a succinct curse.

“What is it?” Brenna asked when he walked back to their table.

“We have to leave.” He took her by the elbow and ushered her toward the exit.

“What’s wrong?” she asked once they were outside.

The brisk, night air whipped Brenna’s hair around her face and she had to trot to keep up with his long strides. He slowed his pace a bit and helped her into the cab when they reached the truck. “You’ll see when we get to your place.”

Brenna sucked in a sharp breath. “Has something happened to Granny? Or Pete?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both. They’ve had a wreck.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Pete said they’re both all right.”

Brenna held on tight as Dylan navigated the deserted streets as if the hounds of hell chased them, and in no time they were slowing down to turn into her drive. When he brought the antique truck to a sliding stop, she gasped at the sight in front of them. One side of the front porch sagged precariously over the crumpled front end of her Toyota.

“Where’s Granny and Pete?” she asked, jumping from the cab of Dylan’s truck. She reached for her grandmother when the elderly pair stepped from the shadows. “Are you okay?” She looked from Abigail to Pete. “Do either of you need to see a doctor?”

“We’re both fine.” Abigail hugged Brenna, then pointed to the wreckage. “The car is a little banged up and I think the porch will need a new support post, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

“How did this happen?” Dylan demanded.

Pete shuffled his feet and stared off into the darkness. “Well…I…that is…”

Abigail winked. “I put my hand on his thigh, and instead of hitting the brake, he floored it. But it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done.” She looped her arm through Pete’s. “We’ll go make coffee, while you kids figure out what to do about getting the car off the porch.”

“I’m real sorry,” Pete said, his blue eyes apologetic.

When the elderly pair walked around to the back of the house, Brenna sighed. “What am I going to do with her? It’s like dealing with a teenager.”

Staring at the destruction, Dylan shook his head. “It’s worse.”

Brenna nodded. “I think you’re right. It’s not like we can ground them or anything.”

“I wouldn’t want to try.” Laughing, he draped a companionable arm across her shoulders. “Let’s see what kind of damage the two delinquents have left in their wake and what we’ll have to do in order to fix it.”

B
renna had just put the finishing touches to the black Geisha girl wig when Abigail tapped lightly on the bedroom door. “Studly’s here.”

“Who?”

Abigail grinned. “Dylan.”

“Why?”

Her grandmother walked over and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “It’s my guess he has the hots for you.”

“Please tell me you didn’t ask him to give me a ride to the school,” Brenna pleaded.

“Nope.” Abigail smiled beatifically. “Bright boy, that Dylan Chandler. It was all his idea. He said since Pete wrecked your car it was only right that he drive you to work until it’s repaired.”

The thought of seeing Dylan again made Brenna’s pulse quicken. And that wasn’t good. Not good at all.

Since her ill-fated relationship with Tom ended almost a year ago, she’d been very careful to avoid becoming involved with another man. And especially one like Dylan Chandler.

His take-charge personality made her nervous and reminded her of why she’d moved to Texas in the first place. She was making a fresh start, becoming a new, self-assured woman who controlled her own life and made her own choices. Never again would she allow a man to manipulate her into doing what he wanted or what he thought was best for her.

Dylan’s decision to drive her to the grade school for story hour might be a minor point, but it was an important one. Instead of asking her if she wanted him to give her a ride, he’d just assumed that she would go along with his plan.

“Tell him thanks, but I prefer to walk. I need the exercise.”

“Oh, cellulite be damned.” Abigail jerked her thumb at the window. “There’s a good-looking man out there who obviously wants to be with you, and if you don’t get the lead out, you’re going to be late anyway.”

Brenna glanced at her watch and cursed herself for hitting the snooze button on her alarm one too many times. If she didn’t hurry, the Story Lady would be the second graders least favorite person in about ten minutes.

“Tell Dylan I’ll be right out,” she said, deciding that whether she liked it or not, accepting a ride to the school was the only way she’d arrive on time.

“Outstanding decision.” Abigail smiled trium
phantly as she headed for the door. “It’s a relief to know I didn’t raise a total ditz.”

Brenna ignored her grandmother’s comment and hurriedly gathered her bag of craft supplies and the book she’d chosen to read to the children. Glancing at herself in the mirror on the back of her closet door to make sure her kimono was straight, she shook her head. “It’s no big deal. You’re not interested in him. He’s just giving you a ride to the school. Nothing more.”

But when she stepped outside and spied Dylan leaning against the fender of a black-and-white SUV with Sheriff’s Patrol painted on the sides, her pulse fluttered and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to dig through her handbag for a chocolate bar.

He was wearing aviator sunglasses and a black leather bomber jacket. Combined with his black cowboy hat and snug jeans, he looked better than any man had the right to look. And especially at eight in the morning.

As Brenna approached, Dylan unfolded his arms to point to her costume. “Why do you wear those getups?”

“The children enjoy seeing costumes that go along with the stories I read and the crafts we make afterward.” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with that…Sheriff?”

“None at all,” Dylan lied, opening the passenger door. He couldn’t tell her that whether she represented a truckload of trouble or not, he hated seeing her luscious curves covered up with the outlandish garbs. She wouldn’t appreciate it one bit. Hell, he wasn’t even comfortable with the way he felt about it him
self. “What time do you close your shop this afternoon?”

“Five.” She hitched her kimono up to her knees and climbed into the Explorer. “Why?”

When he caught sight of her shapely legs, he had to swallow several times before he finally managed, “I’ll be by to give you a ride home.” Walking around the front of the vehicle, he slid behind the wheel, then radioing his deputy that he would return to the office in a few minutes, signed off.

“Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate it. But I prefer to walk,” she said, sounding quite firm about the matter. “I’m getting soft in my old age and I need the exercise.”

“You’re not old.” He backed the SUV out onto the street, then let his gaze travel from her pretty face to her little feet. Before he could stop himself, he added, “And soft is nice. Real nice.”

Her cheeks colored a pretty pink. “Dylan—”

The sudden crackle of the police radio, followed by his deputy’s excited voice, intruded. “Dylan, Mayor Worthington is here to see you and he’s as mad as an old wet hen.”

Dylan cursed and reached for the radio’s microphone. “Calm down, Jason. Get Myron a cup of coffee and tell him to relax. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

He replaced the handheld mike and drove the distance to the grade school in silence. What the hell had he been thinking when he told her he liked her softness? If Jason hadn’t interrupted him, there was no telling what he would have ended up saying.

And why was he insisting on taking her home this
afternoon? Why did it bother him that she preferred to walk, rather than accept a ride with him?

He should be down on his hands and knees thanking the good Lord above that she had the good sense to turn him down. But the memory of how she’d felt in his arms when they’d danced at Luke’s the other night, the taste of her sweet lips beneath his when he’d brought her home from painting class, had haunted him for the better part of a week. And whether it was smart or not, Dylan wanted to feel her soft curves against his body once again, wanted to kiss her until they both required oxygen.

“I’ll see you at five,” he said, pulling to a stop in front of the school.

“I’d rather—”

“This isn’t negotiable. I’ll take you home,” he said. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to gently run the back of his hand along the side of her soft cheek. “Do you need a ride from the school to your shop after story hour?”

“No, it’s only a couple of blocks,” she said, sounding breathless.

Satisfied that she wasn’t going to protest further, he smiled as she got out of the truck. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Brenna.”

Dylan watched Myron bluster and sputter about the Beautification Society’s latest scheme to improve the town, and he had to admit the excitable little man had a valid point. “Myron, I agree with you one hundred percent. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Myron stopped his pacing to peer at Dylan as if
he’d sprouted another head. “Boy, ain’t you heard a word I’ve said? Cornelia and them hens of hers are fixin’ to turn this town into a laughingstock. Hell. We’ll probably be the biggest joke in Texas.”

Dylan calmly left his chair to pour himself and Myron another cup of coffee. “The only way it can happen is if they get the store owners to go along with the idea. And what chance do you think they’ll have with Luke Washburn or Ed Taylor? Can you honestly say you think they’ll replace their neon signs with painted, wooden ones?”

The rotund little mayor sat down heavily in the chair across from Dylan’s desk. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that I know Cornelia. Once she sets her mind to something, ain’t nothin’ or nobody gonna change it.”

“In this case, she’ll have to.” Dylan returned to his chair. Leaning back, he propped his boots on the edge of the desk. “If the store owners don’t want to change their signs, there’s no way the B.S. Club can force the issue.”

“I sure as hell hope not.” Myron thoughtfully sipped his coffee. “I noticed you and that little Montgomery gal were at Luke’s Saturday night. Did you find out anything?”

Dylan shook his head warily as he watched the mayor take another sip. Myron’s beady little eyes peering at him over the edge of the coffee mug made the hair on the back of Dylan’s neck crawl and reminded him of the way a rattlesnake looked just before it strikes.

“You two seem to be mighty friendly,” Myron said, giving him a smile that caused Dylan to grind
his back teeth. “That might be a good way to find out what we need to know.”

“You can forget that angle, Myron.” Dylan narrowed his eyes to let the man know he meant business. “We both happened to be at Luke’s and shared a dance. Nothing more. Besides, Brenna has nothing to do with the B.S. Club or any of their hare-brained schemes.”

Long after the mayor left his office, Dylan stared off into space. He didn’t like that Myron or anyone else would even suggest that he see Brenna in order to gain information about the B.S. Club. Dylan had something similar happen to him a few years back and he knew exactly how it felt to be used to further someone’s cause.

Thinking back on that time, he still couldn’t believe what a fool he’d been. He’d fallen hook, line and sinker for the beautiful young woman who had breezed into Tranquillity on the pretense of buying property to open a bed-and-breakfast. But he’d found out the hard way she was only using his attraction to her in order to gain information she needed about the town for a much bigger venture.

He’d quickly learned how much he meant to her when she showed up at a town council meeting and revealed that she’d been collecting facts and figures for a development deal that would have turned Tranquillity into a resort for the rich to “get back to nature.” She’d thrown out statistics and talked about how the town should capitalize on its location at the base of the Davis Mountains. She’d pressed the councilmen to pass zoning laws requiring the shop owners along Main Street to upgrade their businesses or close
their doors. And had she been successful, the cost of living in Tranquillity would have skyrocketed, making it impossible for the longtime residents to afford to stay there.

But the worst of it had been when she indicated that Dylan supported the changes and the new resort her development firm intended to build at the edge of town. She’d even gone so far as to pull out a nice, fat check for his part in the research and feasibility study, and tried to give it to him in front of Myron and the rest of the council. That’s when all hell broke loose.

The council rejected her proposal outright and she’d left town without a backward glance. But the damage had been done. Dylan’s reputation with the people of Tranquillity, not to mention his ego, had taken a hell of a beating that night. And for the first time in his life, his integrity had been thrown into question.

It had taken him months to regain the town’s trust and respect, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d ever treat anyone to that brand of humiliation or betray their trust in such a callous manner. And especially not Brenna.

Dylan shook his head. It was a moot point anyway. She wasn’t a member of the B.S. Club and had no knowledge of what the old hens were up to.

He reached inside his desk drawer to pull out the list of supplies for Brenna’s class. He’d follow orders and go through the motions of learning to paint. If he overheard the women talking about the project, he’d tell Myron. And if he didn’t, the mayor would just have to gain the information he wanted elsewhere.

But either way, Dylan had every intention of distancing himself from the whole situation as soon as possible.

Dylan entered Brenna’s craft store about fifteen minutes before closing and stopped dead in his tracks. Several things about her seemed to register with him all at once. She’d changed from the Oriental costume she’d worn that morning into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, forest-green T-shirt. She’d taken off the Japanese-styled, black wig and her long copper hair hung in a single braid down the middle of her back. But most of all, he noticed how her little rump looked when she bent over to help old Mrs. Pennington with something on the bottom shelf of a wall filled with skeins of yarn. Damn, but Brenna had a fine-looking rear end.

The bell over the door had alerted her of his arrival, and looking over her shoulder, she smiled. “Is it five already?”

He shrugged as he tried to get his vocal cords to work. “Close enough,” he finally managed. “Where would I find the supplies for the painting class?”

She pointed to a shelf filled with paints, brushes and wood cut into all kinds of shapes. “Everything you’ll need is grouped together by project. If you need help, just let me know.”

Dylan nodded, then forced his feet to move in the direction she’d indicated. He needed help all right, but not the kind she was talking about. The sight of her delightful bottom had his heart pounding against his rib cage like a jungle drum and had brought him to full arousal so fast he felt light-headed.

Picking up a basket, he held it in front of him and tried to will himself to calm down as he filled it with little plastic bottles of acrylic paint. If he didn’t get hold of himself, and damned quick, he’d be a raving lunatic in short order.

“Are you finding everything you need?” she asked from beside him.

He looked around. Mrs. Pennington was gone and they were alone. Why hadn’t he heard the bell over the door when the elderly woman left, or the sound of Brenna’s approach?

“I’m pretty sure I have everything on the list,” he said, holding out the basket for her inspection.

She gazed at the items, then smiled. “Looks like you’re right.”

When she reached out to take hold of the handle her hand brushed his and Dylan felt a streak of electricity run up his arm, then down through his chest and straight to his groin. It took every ounce of will-power he possessed to keep from dropping the basket, pulling her into his arms and kissing her as senseless as he felt.

They stared at each other for several long seconds before she took the basket from him. “I’ll start totaling these so we can get out of here.” She walked behind the counter to remove the supplies from the basket. “How was your day?”

Thinking of his meeting with Myron helped Dylan get his mind off the gentle sway of her hips and back to the reason he was buying painting supplies in the first place. “I’ve had better.”

“I’m sure it couldn’t have been all that bad,” she
said, smiling up at him. “Things will probably look a lot different tomorrow.”