A Lawman in Her Stocking (6 page)

That all depends on who’s doing the looking.

“Maybe,” he said, trying not to think about how pretty she was, or how soft and sweet her voice sounded. He reached into his hip pocket for his wallet, removed a couple of bills and handed them to her. “We’ve talked about my day. How was yours?”

“Pretty fantastic,” she said, pressing the buttons to total out the cash register. “Mrs. Worthington came by this afternoon with the most marvelous idea. She and the ladies of the Beautification Society have asked me to join the organization and head the project to decorate Main Street for the holidays. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Dylan felt like his heart landed on top of his boots. “Sure.” It’s just downright peachy, he thought sourly.

“You look awfully grim. Is something wrong?”

“No.” He hadn’t intended for the word to come out quite so quickly or with such force. But why did she have to go and join old Corny and her hens, and in the process, complicate his life that much more?

“I’m a good listener. Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?” she asked as she placed his painting supplies into a sack. “Sometimes it helps to get it out, put it behind you and move on.”

“Not really.”

If he told her about the mayor ordering him to remain in her class, in order to find out what the B.S. Club had up their sleeves, it would get things out and put something
behind
him all right—her foot behind him as she kicked his sorry butt
out
the door.

“If you change your mind, the offer stands,” she said, with a shrug. She walked around the room, turning off lights over display cases. “Oh, by the way, Granny called this afternoon. She wanted me to tell you that she and Pete took your truck and drove down to Alpine for dinner and a movie.”

“That’s just great,” Dylan said sarcastically. “It was Pete’s turn to cook.”

“I guess I could fix something for both of us,” Brenna said, looking uncertain.

His mood lightened considerably and he smiled for the first time since entering her shop. “That would be nice.”

He had no intention of questioning her. But if she volunteered information about the B.S. Club’s plans, he could tell Myron, then drop out of her class with a clear conscience.

But watching Brenna gather her purse and tote bag, he felt as if a weight settled over his shoulders. Why did the idea of not seeing her every Tuesday night bother him?

“Do you need help?” Dylan asked when they entered the house Brenna shared with her grandmother.

She shook her head as she turned on the television. “Why don’t you relax and watch the news while I get things started?”

When she left him alone, Dylan took off his hat and looked around the small, comfortably furnished room. From the ruffled curtains at the windows, to the lace doilies on the fragile-looking end tables, everything looked so feminine, he felt like a bull in a china shop.

Amused, he shook his head. Brenna’s house was nothing like the rustic cabin he shared with Pete—a place where a man wasn’t afraid to sit down.

A delicate, antique curio cabinet with a collection of porcelain cherubs, some of which looked quite old, drew Dylan’s attention and he walked over to take a look. Nestled among the figurines a brass frame displayed the photograph of a man and woman, their arms around each other.

“My mother and father,” Brenna said quietly, walking up to stand beside him. “That picture was taken shortly before their deaths.”

“What happened?”

“They were killed in a car accident almost ten years ago. When I was fifteen,” she said quietly.

His gut twisted into a tight knot at the haunted shadows clouding her wide blue eyes and the sadness in her soft voice. Without a second thought, he turned and took her into his arms.

He told himself he was only lending her comfort. But to be perfectly honest, he’d wanted to hold her body to his, to feel her breasts pressed to his chest since they’d danced together the other night at Luke’s.

When she wrapped her arms around his waist, he rested his cheek against the top of her head and they stood silently for several moments.

“What about your folks, Dylan?” she finally asked.

The sound of his name on her velvet voice did strange things to his insides. “Mom died when I was in college and Dad passed away about five years ago.”

“You’re an only child, too?”

He nodded. “My mother found out she was pregnant with me on her fortieth birthday, right after they’d given up any hope of ever having kids.”

Brenna pulled back to smile at him. “And look what they wound up with.”

He understood her need to lighten the mood. “What they wound up with is getting hungry, lady,” he said, laughing. He turned her loose, then stepped back. “When do we eat?”

Brenna took a deep breath. The moment of truth had arrived. She was going to have to go into the kitchen and give it her best shot. Or tell Dylan the truth and call for a pizza.

“I guess I’d better get started on dinner before you waste away to nothing.”

“I’ll help,” he offered, following her.

Walking to the refrigerator, she opened the door and stared inside as if the answer to her dilemma would somehow magically be revealed. Nothing materialized. Spying a carton of eggs, she hesitated. Her grandmother had always said anyone could make an omelette. She sure hoped Abigail was right.

“How does an omelette sound?” Brenna asked, hopefully.

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “Give me a knife and I’ll dice up whatever you have for the filling.”

“Filling?”

“Yeah, the stuff that goes inside, like ham, cheese, peppers….” He frowned. “You have made omelettes before, haven’t you?”

“Uh…sure,” Brenna lied. “Why don’t you relax
and watch television, or read the newspaper while I whip these up?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” She had to get him out of the kitchen so she could search for her grandmother’s cookbook. “You’ve had a hard day and it won’t take long for me to get these baked.”

He frowned. “Baked?”

“Cooked,” she said quickly. “I meant cooked.”

A sudden wave of panic swept through her as she watched him shrug and walk back into the living room. Her culinary skills barely included boiling water to make a cup of tea. What on earth had she been thinking when she’d offered to cook for them?

She stood motionless for a moment as she stared at the cabinets. Then spinning into action, she searched first one cabinet, then another for Abigail’s cookbook. Where had her grandmother put the darned thing?

When Brenna finally found the tattered book, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Omelettes,” she muttered, running her finger down the index. “Where are the recipes for omelettes?”

Dylan listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen over the low volume of the television. It sounded like a small war had broken out. Pans clattered and cabinet doors banged as Brenna moved around the compact kitchen. A loud splat followed by a heartfelt
damn
had him rising halfway out of the chair.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” he called.

“Everything’s under control.”

Uneasy about the strange sounds coming from the kitchen, he settled back into the chair. If things were fine, why did she sound so flustered? And why was she making all that noise?

A panicked shriek, followed closely by the screech of a smoke detector, suddenly caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand straight up, and a chill to race the length of his spine. Bolting from the chair, he collided with Brenna as she ran from the kitchen.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“The kitchen is on fire!”

He pushed past her and into the dense smoke that was rapidly filling the room. Flames licked at the bottom of a small skillet and a dark cloud of smoke billowed from the top of the electric range.

“Do you have a fire extinguisher?”

She coughed and pointed to the cabinet under the sink. “In there.”

Dylan quickly located the red cylinder strapped to the inside of the cabinet, jerked it loose, took aim and squeezed the handle. A cloud of white vapor instantly and efficiently put out the flame.

“Are you all right?” he asked when he turned to face her. His voice sounded more harsh than he’d intended, but the woman had scared him out of a good ten years of life.

His concern increased when Brenna stood silently in the doorway, tears streaming down her red face. Had she suffered a burn?

He walked over to her and searched for any signs that she’d been injured. When he found none, he took her into his arms. “How in the hell did you manage to set an electric stove on fire?”

“I have no idea.” Obviously embarrassed to tears, she buried her face against his chest and wailed, “I don’t know the first thing about cooking.”

An empty pizza box between them, Dylan and Brenna sat cross-legged on the living room floor. They’d scrubbed down the range top and washed the skillet, but an acrid scorched scent still lingered throughout the house.

“I wish we could get the smell out of here,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

She watched him move the box to the side, stretch his legs out in front of him, then lean back on one elbow. “That’s going to take some time. You really had the smoke rolling in there, darlin’.”

When she noticed his inquisitive look, she sighed. “I suppose you want to know why I didn’t tell you I’m one of the cooking impaired.”

He nodded and the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously, as if he were trying to keep from grinning.

“I didn’t think cooking an omelette would be
that
hard,” she said defensively.

“It’s not.”

“And I suppose you know how to cook?”

“Sure do,” he said, his grin breaking through.

“I might have known.” She frowned. “And you’re probably good at it, too.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he said, chuckling. He reached out and took her hand, then pulled her down onto the thick carpet beside him. “But I’m much better at other things,” he said, his drawl so warm and sexy that a shiver slid down her spine.

Her breath caught at the smoldering look in his eyes. He was going to kiss her again, and the thought both thrilled her and scared her to death at the same time.

“Dylan, I don’t think—”

He placed his index finger to her lips. “I’m not thinking right now either,” he said, lowering his head.

She tried to remind herself he was all wrong for her, that he was too macho, too controlling. But the moment his firm lips settled over hers, none of that seemed to matter.

Caught up in the maelstrom of sensation, she decided that whether it was wise or not, she wanted his kiss. She wanted him to once again make her aware of the differences between them, the complementing contrast of man to woman.

She reveled in his strength, the feel of his strong arms cradling her to him, his muscular legs tangled with hers. As his lips leisurely caressed hers that fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach took off at a gallop. But when Dylan parted her lips to deepen the kiss, the fluttering intensified, tightened and transformed into the sweet ache of pure desire.

Tiny jolts of electric current skipped along Brenna’s nerve endings as Dylan’s hands tangled in her hair. He pressed his hard length to her and the groan of pleasure rumbling up from deep in his chest, sent an answering need spreading throughout her body.

“Well now. This explains why the house smells like smoke, Abby,” Brenna heard Pete say. “Looks like the kids are playin’ with fire.”

“Or Brenna’s been trying to cook again,” her grandmother said.

The sensual fog around Brenna disappeared in an instant.

“To tell you the truth, it’s a combination of both,” Dylan said, raising his head to look up at them.

Brenna pushed against Dylan’s wide chest. Thank goodness, her grandmother and Pete had shown up before she did something stupid.

But the sight of the elderly couple’s
we-know-what-you’ve-been-doing
smiles had her immediately trying to bury her face in Dylan’s wide chest, and wishing with all her heart that she could get her hands on a Hershey bar.

H
is mind occupied with the gentle sway of Brenna’s hips as she moved from table to table around the community room, Dylan failed to catch what the woman next to him had said. “What’s that, Mildred?”

She pointed to the streak of paint that looked like a big, fat comma on the wooden plaque he was painting. “I said, you do the brush strokes so well that you should think about helping the Beautification Society with our Main Street Project.”

His left eyebrow twitched at the mention of the B.S. Club’s project. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mildred,” he said, careful to keep his voice low. “The guys over at Luke’s—”

“Oh, how silly of me,” Mildred interrupted with a laugh. She placed her wrinkled hand on his arm, her expression sympathetic. “Of course, you
wouldn’t be able to help. The Beautification Society is a women’s organization. I forgot about you being a man.”

Nodding, Dylan managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace before turning his attention back to his painting. How much more was his ego supposed to endure for the sake of the town anyway? Not only had the guys over at Luke’s given him a hard time about taking a damned painting class with old Corny and her hens, he’d just been neutered by a sweet little sixty-year-old lady he’d known all of his life.

“You’re doing a wonderful job, Dylan. I’m very impressed with your progress.”

At the sound of Brenna’s soft voice, he raised his head and anything he might have said about not giving a damn whether he was good at the technique or not, lodged in his throat. The smile she gave him was so encouraging, he forgot all about the guys over at Luke’s or that he’d just been stripped of his gender by Mildred. All he could think of was how soft Brenna’s lips looked and how he’d like nothing more than to taste them again, to feel them beneath his as he kissed her.

“Would you like to go over to Luke’s for a cup of coffee after class?” he blurted out without thinking of where he was, or that he had an audience.

The background buzz of female voices suddenly stopped as if they awaited Brenna’s answer, and when he glanced around the room, Dylan barely controlled the urge to squirm. The knowing smiles on the women’s faces sent heat creeping up his neck to spread across his cheeks. He’d just the same as an
nounced an interest in Brenna to an entire roomful of world-class gossips.

But as the women continued to grin at him, he decided there was no sense denying it any longer—not to himself or anyone else. He
was
interested in Brenna and not because he’d been ordered to take her class, or for the information she might pass on about the B.S. Club project.

Whether he liked it or not, the more he was around Brenna, the more he wanted to know about her, and the more he wanted to explore the attraction that seemed to draw them together like a magnet. He’d just have to make sure he kept it casual. That shouldn’t be difficult, he decided.

Coming to terms with the realization, and his decision, he grinned back at the roomful of women, not giving a damn what they thought. “So what do you say?” he asked, turning his attention back to Brenna. “Want to go for coffee after class?”

Her cheeks colored a pretty pink as she glared at him. “I don’t think—”

Before Brenna could finish turning him down, old Corny came to his rescue by jumping to her feet and announcing, “Girls, it’s time to quit for the evening.”

He watched Brenna look helplessly around the room at the women gathering their painting supplies. “But class isn’t over. We still have another fifteen minutes, ladies.”

“Brenna, dear, will you be available tomorrow evening for a meeting of the Beautification Society’s planning committee?” Cornelia asked as she hurriedly stuffed bottles of acrylic paint into a small box.

As Brenna’s disapproving expression turned to an
ticipation, a tight knot formed in the pit of Dylan’s belly and his eyebrow twitched. He could tell she not only looked forward to being part of the Main Street Project, she was eager to get started.

“What time should I be here, Mrs. Worthington?” she asked.

“Seven is our usual meeting time,” Corny said, picking up the basket of painting supplies and heading for the door. The old gal stopped to send a wink his way. “The meeting will be over around eight-thirty, in case someone wants to give her a ride home, Dylan.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, grinning back at the older woman.

The women cleared the room in record time, and when the last one closed the door behind her, Brenna turned to glare at Dylan. “I hope you’re happy, Sheriff. You’ve single-handedly destroyed my first Folk Art class.”

“Nope.” His unrepentant grin took her by surprise. “As far as I could tell, it was a huge success.”

“How can you say that?” she asked incredulously. “Everyone left before they’d completed the project.”

He stood, then rounding the table, stopped in front of her. “Anything that can keep Cornelia Worthington as quiet as she was this evening when she practiced the painting techniques you taught, is nothing short of miraculous.”

His sexy smile and the rhythm of his deep voice made Brenna’s heart skip a beat. But when he reached out to draw her into his arms, she shook her head to clear it. “Dylan, this isn’t a good idea.”

“What?” he asked, pulling her close.

“You. Me.” His lips brushed hers, sending a wave of shivers coursing through her. “I don’t think it’s…wise.”

“Darlin’, whether it’s wise or not, it’s not going to go away.”

He nibbled kisses along her jawline to the hollow of her ear, and instead of pushing him away, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “It might.”

His deep chuckle caused her pulse to race. “I don’t think so, Brenna. I’ve tried ignoring it for the past week and it’s just gotten stronger.”

“Try harder,” she said, wondering if the community center had candy machines with a good selection of chocolate bars.

“Do you really want me to do that, darlin’?” he asked, nuzzling the sensitive skin along the side of her neck.

“Yes.” Even she could detect the lack of conviction in her tone.

“Liar.” He leaned back to look down at her and the heat in his gaze took her breath. “I’m going to kiss you, Brenna. And afterward, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel something drawing us together.”

Before she could protest, he lowered his mouth to hers and she felt every ounce of her resistance drain away. Even the intense desire for something chocolate to sooth her jangled nerves faded to nothingness as she melted against him.

He caught her to his wide chest, then ran his hands from her back down to cup her bottom in his large hands. Lifting her to him, he let her feel his strong arousal at the same time he parted her lips with a
thrust of his tongue. It felt as if a herd of butterflies were suddenly set free inside her lower stomach. As he stroked, tasted and explored her with a mastery that made her lightheaded, the fluttering tightened into a coil of deep need and Brenna had to cling to his strong biceps for support.

Dylan eased the kiss in slow degrees and by the time he lifted his mouth from hers, she felt as if her world had changed and nothing would ever be the same again. Whether she liked it or not, there was no denying the truth any longer. Maybe it was chemistry. Maybe it was magnetism. She wasn’t sure. But whatever it was called, there was something between her and Dylan that was far more explosive than anything she’d ever shared with Tom. And it scared the daylights out of her.

“Now, tell me you didn’t feel that, too,” Dylan said, resting his forehead against hers.

“I…I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t feel anything,” she said shakily. “But I won’t give up my independence or my identity for the opportunity to find out what it is. I won’t give another man that kind of power over me ever again.”

Brenna suddenly clamped her lips together and when she looked up at him, the shadows in her expressive blue eyes caused a knot to form in Dylan’s gut. “Who did this to you, darlin’?”

Her gaze skittered away. “Did what?”

“Who gave you the idea that men want to control women, want them to be dependent?” he demanded. If he could get his hands on the man who gave her that impression, Dylan would cheerfully throttle the stupid jerk.

“It’s…not important,” she said, pulling herself from his arms. “Just suffice it to say, I learned my lesson well.”

“Dammit, Brenna, it is important,” Dylan said, reaching out to place his hands on her shoulders. “If I’m being compared to another man, I’d like to know why.”

Just when he thought she was going to ignore his request, she took a deep breath. “I met Tom in my senior year in college. He was a struggling law student and I was well on my way to a degree in business administration. To make a long story short, we started seeing each other and fell in love.” She shook her head. “That’s not right. I thought I was in love and he thought that gave him the right to manipulate and control me.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed heavily. “Over time, he convinced me to dress a certain way, told me how I should wear my hair and when I should go on a diet.” When she laughed, the self-deprecating sound caused Dylan to wince. “I was naive and wanted to please the man I loved, so I went along with the changes. Then after I graduated, he even talked me into helping him financially with his last year of law school.”

Dylan felt his chest tighten. He had a good idea what was coming next and he didn’t like it one damned bit. “How long before—”

“Before he dumped me?”

“I wasn’t going to put it that way,” Dylan said gently. She looked so vulnerable, he pulled her back into his arms.

“You might as well put it that way,” she said,
shrugging. “Because that’s exactly what happened—right after he passed the bar.” She pulled back to look up at him. “I trusted Tom when he said the money I gave him for his schooling was an investment in our future.”

Dylan’s gut twisted into a tight knot at the pain and humiliation the conniving jerk had caused Brenna. If he could have gotten his hands on this Tom character at that very moment, Dylan would have made the bum sorry he’d ever been born.

Cupping her face with his hands, Dylan gazed into her pretty blue eyes. “Darlin’, I promise you that’s one thing you’ll never have to worry about with me. I’m not a control freak. I like you just the way you are. And I don’t want anything more from you than the pleasure of your company.”

She stared up at him for several long seconds before she stepped back, then walked to the front of the room to pack her tote bag. They had more in common than he would have thought. Apparently he wasn’t the only one with a past he’d rather not repeat.

Walking up behind her, Dylan wrapped his arms around her midriff, then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Let’s just take this one step at a time and see what happens.”

“But—”

“One step at a time, darlin’.” He turned her to face him. “But I think I’d better warn you. I have every intention of asking you to go with me to Luke’s Saturday night.” Smiling, he took a step back to keep her from feeling crowded. “You know, I think I’m going to live dangerously tonight and have a piece of apple pie with my coffee. How about you?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment before she finally asked, “Do you think Luke would happen to have a slice of chocolate pie in that pie case?”

The first Saturday in December, Brenna waited for the members of the Beautification Society to gather around her on the sidewalk in front of her craft store. Fortunately, winters in southwest Texas were very mild and today was testament to how beautiful the weather could be. The sun was shining brightly, the temperature was in the upper sixties and humidity was almost nonexistent—ideal weather for paint to dry.

“Okay, ladies, I think it would be best to work in pairs,” she said, checking her list. She glanced up to count the number of women who had shown up for the first phase of the Main Street Project. “Mildred, you have a notation here that one side of Main Street has an extra hydrant.”

Mildred Bruner stepped forward as she hitched up her patched blue jeans. “That’s right. There’s one on the west side that’s stuck in the middle of the block.” Her cackling laughter broke the early morning silence as she pointed down the street. “Right in front of the Fire Department and Sheriff’s office.”

Brenna laughed. “I don’t guess it would do for the Fire Department to catch fire.” She glanced at her clipboard again. “We have enough teams to do all of them, except for that one. I suppose I could paint it after I get everyone else started.”

“Oh, that’s a marvelous idea, since you and Dylan are courting,” Mrs. Worthington said excitedly. “Don’t you think it would be appropriate to put a star
on that one’s chest and make it look like Dylan in a Santa suit?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” one of the women said, causing the entire group to nod their heads in eager agreement.

Brenna smiled wanly. If her grandmother’s comments about her seeing Dylan weren’t enough, now the women of Tranquillity were jumping on the bandwagon. But she was reasonably sure they wouldn’t be taking it to the extreme her grandmother had. Just that morning, before Brenna left to start the first phase of the Main Street Project, Abigail had gone so far as to ask what flavor of punch Brenna preferred for the wedding reception.

“I think painting the fire hydrants like our men in Santa suits is a fantastic idea,” Emily Taylor said. She gave Brenna a sly grin, then pointed down the block. “I intend to make the one in front of our hardware store look just like my Ed.”

Helen Washburn nodded vigorously. “And I’ll paint the one in front of our place to look like Luke.” She glanced at her watch. “Brenna, do you really think we can get all these done today?”

“That’s the plan,” Brenna said, smiling.

“Oh, good,” Helen said, clearly excited. “It being Saturday and all, everyone will be coming to the dance at our place tonight. It’s going to be the perfect opportunity to show off the first phase of our Christmas project.”

“Then let’s begin,” Cornelia said, grabbing a box filled with jars of paint and brushes. “Brenna, dear, how should we go about this?”