“Yep. Go ahead and Mirandize Emmett Barnes, then charge him with aggravated assault and aggravated battery on a police officer. I didn’t find anything on him, but just to be sure, why don’t you frisk him again?”
“What about Hayden?”
Dylan returned his gaze to Hope. “Did you see who swung first?”
“The short guy.”
“Hayden can go home.”
“Are you going to come into the station?” Lewis asked.
“No. Adam is at home with a sitter, so I’ll do the paperwork in the morning.”
“See ya in the morning, then.” Lewis held up his hand in an abbreviated wave.
Dylan watched his deputy pull Emmett to his feet, then turned to look into Hope’s face. She was still a bit pale and her eyes still a bit glazed, but she didn’t appear too upset by her experience at the Buckhorn. “Do you want to go to the station and make a statement tonight, or would you prefer to come in tomorrow morning?”
“I just want to go home.”
Someone plugged the juke back in, the lights were once again turned low, and Deputy Plummer escorted Emmett Barnes from the bar. It was ten o’clock, two hours before closing time. Just enough time for those still around to polish off a few more beers.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asked Hope as Conway Twitty once again poured from the juke.
She glanced down at herself, and Dylan glanced, too. At her tight spandex shorts and sports bra. Light from a Coors sign flashed from across the bar and lit up her flat stomach. “I jogged here,” she said.
Dylan forced his gaze from the blue light shining on her belly button. “Let me get my cuffs from Burley and I’ll take you home.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Dylan,” he reminded her.
“Dylan.” Then it happened. For the first time since she’d driven her little sports car into town, she smiled at him. Her full lips curved upward and she flashed him the straightest teeth he’d seen since leaving L.A. He figured relief from her ordeal must have warmed her up. Most women tended to get real weepy or real grateful after an ordeal.
From behind, someone placed a caressing hand around Dylan’s arm, and he looked over his shoulder and down into the shadows hiding Dixie Howe’s eyes. “Here’s your hat, Dylan.”
“Thanks, Dixie.” He brushed his hair back and replaced his hat.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Afraid so.”
“Can’t you stay for a game of pool? I heard you tell Lewis that Adam is home with a sitter.”
“Not tonight.” He tried to pull his arm from her grasp, but her grip tightened. She pressed one big breast into his arm, and he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t an accident. He’d known Dixie most of his life. He’d dated her sister, and he’d remembered her as a scrawny kid. Life hadn’t been real kind to either Howe sister, and he felt bad about that, about the way they’d grown up, but he felt nothing more. “I have to take Ms. Spencer home.”
Dixie cast a quick glance in Hope’s direction, then once again focused her attention on Dylan. “You remember my offer the other night?”
Of course he remembered. There hadn’t been many times in his life when a woman had walked up to him at a T-ball game and blatantly offered oral sex.
“Any time.” She finally released her grasp and Dylan pulled free.
“Good night, Dixie,” he said and moved to the bar before she could grab hold again. Hope followed beside him, and while he quickly retrieved his handcuffs from Hayden’s wrists, he had to listen to her express her appreciation to Hayden for his “heroic intervention.”
As far as Dylan was concerned, she laid it on too thick and gushed too much. She had the poor fool blushing and stammering about how it had been his pleasure to get his nose broken for her. Hope had been in town for five days, he’d run into her three times, and she hadn’t smiled at him until five minutes ago. He guessed he now knew what it took to make her smile. It took getting hit in the face.
As they left the bar, a cool breeze loosened tendrils of blond hair from Hope’s ponytail and blew them across her smooth cheeks. His gaze lowered from her face to her arms and the very distinct points in the front of her top. Dylan’s chest got tight, his left eye throbbed, and he looked away.
He helped her into the sheriff’s Blazer, and on the short drive to Timberline Road, he wondered what kind of woman dressed in spandex, walked into a redneck bar, and provoked a man like Emmett.
Someone who thought she was a badass. The Terminator.
“Who was that woman in the bar?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“There were several women in the bar. Which one do you mean?”
“Blond. Big hair. Big breasts.”
His brows lifted and he winced. “Dixie Howe,” he answered and gingerly touched his cheekbone just beneath his eye.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.” Damn, his face had started to swell. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
He looked over at her, the light from the switch panel illuminating half her face. Her ponytail was a bit ragged. She smelled strongly of beer. “Curious if I have a girlfriend?”
“No, curious about what she offered you.”
He turned the Blazer onto Timberline Road and said, “Now, that would be telling.”
“I bet I can guess.”
He laughed and pulled the Chevy into her dark drive. “Maybe she just wanted to talk.”
“Yeah, maybe through the bone phone?”
He slammed on the brakes, and if the vehicle hadn’t already been slowing, he would have put her through the windshield. “What?”
She put her hands on the dash to stop herself. “Maybe she wants to talk through-”
“Jesus H. I heard you the first time.” He stared at her and suddenly it all made perfect sense. Her glassy eyes, easy smiles, and the stench of beer he’d assumed had spilled on her. Relief hadn’t warmed her up to him at all. “How many beers did you drink?”
“Hmm? Well, usually I’m not much of a drinker, but it was twofer night.”
“How many?”
“I must have had four.”
“In how many hours?”
“Two.” She reached for the door handle and was out of the car before he’d even shut off the engine. “I probably should have eaten dinner before I had anything to drink,” she continued as she walked across the dirt yard.
Dylan tossed his hat on the passenger seat and followed. The house was completely dark. No light spilled into the yard from the porch or windows. The full moon provided the only illumination, and it shone on Hope’s hair, turning it gold. She stopped at the top of the steps and stared at her front door.
“Where is your key?” he asked as he came to stand behind her.
“I wasn’t going to be gone long, so I didn’t leave any lights on.” She fished around in her fanny pack and said, “This is kind of spooky.”
Dylan unhooked the MAG-LITE from his duty belt and shined it on the front door. It was slightly ajar. “Did you leave your door open?”
She looked up, and with the keys in her palm said, “No, I always lock it when I leave.”
“It’s still locked, so you probably just didn’t pull it shut all the way.” He stepped back and trained the light on the windows and the front of the house. Nothing was broken. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked around the house and shined the flashlight on the windows. He checked the back door, but it was locked and there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary. “Yeah, I think you just didn’t shut the door tight,” he said after he’d once again moved to stand beside her.
“Yeah, maybe.” She quickly stepped behind him. “You first.”
He’d already planned on checking out the house for her, but what he hadn’t planned on was her hooking her hand around the back of his belt and urging him forward like a human shield. Now, there were times in Dylan’s life when he hadn’
t minded women using his body, but they’d always been naked at the time. He didn’t know how he felt about being used as a target so Hope could run like hell if anything hit him first.
Her knuckles poked the small of his back and urged him forward. He entered the house and flipped on the lights. “Anything out of place?”
She raised up on her toes and her breasts pressed into his back as she looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” she said right next to his left ear.
Her breath warmed the side of his neck and turned his blood hot. “Jesus.”
She dropped to her heels and her knuckles once again urged him forward. She steered him toward the dining room and he turned on the light. The room had been buffed and polished and on the long table sat a closed laptop, a printer, a scanner, and a fax machine. Stacks of books and magazines and newspapers sat next to a computer. Things Dylan imagined a writer would need, but to write what was still the question.
“Everything okay in here?”
This time she leaned to the right and peeked around his shoulder. “Yes.” Her knuckles poked his spine again and they headed to the kitchen. Like the dining room, it, too, was spotless. The pots and pans hanging on the rack had been polished, the floor buffed, and the windows cleaned. All the furniture had been placed in the house recently.
One of the last times he’d been standing in the kitchen, the FBI had been here, too. They’d swarmed the place shortly after Hiram killed himself, and they’d taken most everything that hadn’t been nailed down. Dylan wondered what Hope would think if he told her that when they’d found Hiram dead, they’d also found red crotchless panties and a bullwhip hanging from that rack. The significance of those items became clear only after viewing the photographs and videotapes Hiram Donnelly had made of himself.
The thud of Dylan’s bootheels and the squeak of Hope’s running shoes directly behind him were the only sounds on their way to the back door. For her peace of mind, he checked it again; then they moved into the living room. When he turned on the lights, she did that raising-on-her-toes thing and pressed into his back again. Pure fire shot straight to his groin and he went from semi to stiff in less than a second. He wondered what she would do if he slid one hand around her waist, and stuck his tongue down her throat. His blood throbbed in his veins and he wondered if she’d melt into him. If she’d let him touch her breasts and feel between her legs. If he took her hand and pressed her palm into his erection.
“Everything looks good from here,” she said and dropped to her heels. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He knew he should step away, put his hands in the air, and leave the area, but he couldn’t quite force himself to do what he knew he should. Not yet. “You stay down here.”
“Don’t you think I should go with you?”
He looked over his shoulder and into her upturned face a few inches from his own. His gaze slid over her smooth forehead and perfect blond brows to her big, slightly out-of-focus blue eyes. He studied the bow of her top lip, and he said, just above her mouth, “Do you want me to check out your bed?”
“Yes,” she said and he about popped a vessel. “And then look behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. I don’t want to take a shower and get stabbed by Norman Bates.”
“Jesus, stay here.” His head spinning, he removed her hand from the back of his belt and walked away. “You should definitely stay here.”
He moved upstairs and quickly checked for intruders. He couldn’t say why, but he was glad to see that she hadn’t chosen the master bedroom. Glad she wasn’t sleeping in the same room where old Hiram had been tied up and spanked. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen the videos, hadn’t seen the faces of teenage girls, he wouldn’t see the taint of it now.
When Dylan came to the room she’d chosen for her bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. The way she’d decorated, it was obvious the woman lived alone. Everything was covered in white lace and purple flowers, like she slept in some sort of overrun garden. He seriously doubted the realtor who rented the property had placed that stuff in the house.
He shut the door before he started picturing her naked, on the white downy comforter, her hair all tousled, her lips parted and wet from his kiss, and her legs all tangled with his. He walked down the hall to the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain as she’d asked. He turned to the mirror above the sink and stared at the deep red splotch beneath his left eye. The center was already beginning to turn blue. He touched it and carefully pulled down his bottom lid to look at his eyeball.
While he had absolutely no problem imagining Hope naked, any kind of involvement was out of the question. She was beautiful and the way she filled out spandex had to be a sin, but there were a lot of beautiful women in the world. Women who didn’t threaten the life he’d made and the security of his son.
He knew little about Hope, other than she had a rare talent for pissing people off and, in all likelihood, had lied about why she’d moved to Gospel. Ms. Hope Spencer was a mystery he had no intention of solving. If she kept her nose clean, she could keep her secrets from him and everyone else. Just as he intended to keep his-especially from her.
He’d seen another side of Hope tonight. She was more relaxed, less uptight, more approachable. Softer. Drunk. And in all honesty, he had to say he preferred the drunk. His attraction to her was purely physical and turned his thoughts to hot, sweaty things that were never going to happen. The way his body reacted to her didn’t worry him. It made him uncomfortable, yes, but it didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.
Dylan moved out into the hall. He’d bet by morning, everyone in town would know he’d given Hope a ride home. They’d likely start placing bets on how long he’d stayed. Dylan had to be very careful where he parked his truck, which was probably the reason that he hadn’t parked it in a long time.
Growing up, he’d had a wild reputation. A reputation he’d deserved, but he was the sheriff now. An elected official. The father of a young son, and he could no longer afford negative gossip or speculation about his sex life. He had his own past to live down, as well as that of the former sheriff’s. Sometimes he wondered if the citizens of Gospel were all watching, waiting for him to mess up.
When he returned downstairs, he found Hope in the kitchen, wrapping a towel around a bag of ice.
Her back was to him; he let his gaze slide down her spine to the curve of her sweet spandex-covered butt. Maybe Iona was right. Maybe MZBHAVN wore thong undies.
She turned and smiled at him again and he felt it tighten his chest. “How’s your eye?”
It was obviously past time for him to go home. “It hurts like a bitch.”
She handed him the towel, and he figured since she’d gone to such trouble for him, he could stay a minute or two. “I thought this might help.”
Dylan leaned his behind against the counter and crossed one foot over the other. “You’ve really cleaned the place up. It looks nice.”
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “It took me a few days to get rid of all the dust and dirt.”
He raised the towel to the corner of his eye. “And bats.”
“And bats.” She nodded.
“Shelly told me about the bloodstain. Did you know the late Sheriff Donnelly?”
“Sure. I was one of his deputies.”
“Then you know why he killed himself?”
“Yep.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she prompted, “Well… why?”
He figured that anything he told her, she could probably find out if she dug deep enough. “He had a fondness for kinky sex. Real dominance-and-submission stuff. He liked women to dress up in red lace and stilettos, and he’d videotape himself getting his droopy butt flogged.”
“Weird, but nothing to kill yourself over.”
“You didn’t know Hiram.” The old sheriff had been a real hard-assed lawman. “Are you thinking of writing an article about him?”
“I’m thinking about it.” She drew her brows together. “I usually don�
�t like to write about real people, but yeah. Maybe. How do you feel about helping me get the police report?”
“Can’t help you with that. The FBI was in charge of the case. We got wind of it about the same time Hiram did. By the time anyone got here, he was already dead.”
She sighed. “So I’ll have to send an FOIA request to the Feds, and that could take a few weeks or several months.”
She obviously knew the system. “Call and pester them,” he advised. Despite her statement of not usually writing about real people, he wouldn’t mind if her attention was distracted by the old story. That way, she wouldn’t be snooping around and looking to report a new one. The late sheriff was still a favorite topic in the county, and if the people in town found out she was writing a story about Hiram, they’d form a line and talk her into a coma. “You might ask around. Get information from people who knew Hiram.”
“I don’t think people will talk to me. They haven’t been exactly friendly.”
“Give them another chance. They’ll probably help you out.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll do what I can,” he volunteered, then figured it was time he changed the subject completely. “Tell me something, is there a Mr. Spencer?”
Hope cocked her head to one side and studied the tall cowboy standing in her kitchen. His left eye had begun to swell a bit and a shadow of beard darkened his chin and jaw. He kind of had a glow about him, and she wondered if it was the trick of the light or the Budweiser. She felt good and free, and she was old enough to recognize she’d had more than her share to drink. She was buzzed, all right, but not the kind of drunk that made the room spin or her stomach heave. The kind that made everything okay. Like in a dream, where all her problems receded into the background, and where a big, strong man saved the day, broke up fights, and checked out her spooky house for her. The kind that had a handsome cowboy standing in her kitchen and offering to help her with a story she just might write. None of it seemed quite real. “There is,” she finally answered. “But he’s someone else’s Mr. Spencer these days.”
“How long were you married?”
The answer to that question was easy. “Seven years.”
True Confessions Page 8