“You work in a pig sty.”
“I like it, so don’t even think about touching anything,” he said quietly. “I know where everything is. I have my own method of filing things.”
“You think.”
He flashed a warning look from eyes aged the color of pewter.
“All right! I won’t touch.”
Beside the gun cabinet, a long, narrow table rose on spindly legs and was burdened with an ancient Mr. Coffee Maker and a small bowl with an assortment of packaged creamers and sweeteners poking up from it.
A foul stench from the over-done coffee rose from the glass carafe. Lacey barely stifled a shudder, doubtful anyone was daring enough to sample the witch’s brew.
To her left and farther back in the room a single cell with dull metal bars lay in graveyard shadows, lying in wait like a gaping, black hole. Past that, and to the right, she could see a half-opened door and the ambiguous porcelain of a commode. A little further down the hall a smaller desk was pressed into service and weighed down with dispatch equipment. It appeared no one was home at the unit.
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.” The lawman’s voice rang sharply drawing her out of her inventory of the office.
“I didn’t touch anything!”
“I asked you who you are.”
Annoyance spread across his face. He wasn’t happy she was taking so long to answer him. Tough. That was the first word that came to mind, quickly followed by her stammering reply, “Lacey Weston. I—I’m Lacey Weston.”
Lacey clenched her fists, frustrated. Dammit! She didn’t want this man knowing even the basic information about her, but she couldn’t figure out a way to avoid it.
He gave the barest of nods. “Sheriff Danger Blackstone. Where are you from, Miss Weston?”
“Danger? Ha!” she snorted. “Pull the other one, why don’t you?”
Not a flicker of humor on his stone face. He just stood there staring at her with those wintry gray eyes that sent her goose bumps dive-bombing into overdrive. Hmm. Maybe the man didn’t have a sense of appreciation for the absurd after all.
Lacey blinked, attempting to pick up the threads of his interrogation.
“From?” she managed to ask.
His steady gaze flared with impatience. “Yes. Where are you from?”
“Uhh.” She stalled, but nothing came to mind except the truth. “You want to know where I’m from.”
She licked her lips nervously. Inwardly, she cringed. She had to stop acting like a babbling idiot. But she was babbling, and she knew it. She couldn’t seem to drag her thoughts into any kind of coherent order.
“Dammit, don’t act blonde.”
“I am blonde. Sort of. Kind of blonde. More like honey, if you want to get technical. Reddish—honey—blonde. Strawberry, really.”
She stifled a moan. God, she had diarrhea of the mouth. Surely, as a journalist, she could act and sound professional.
“Danger?”
Oh, well, that was much better. Very professional.
Why couldn’t she just get past his name?
She clapped a hand over her mouth, but in spite of it, laughter bubbled to the surface and spilled out of her. Maybe it was the entire night, the surreal, bizarreness of the whole thing or simply the need to relieve the stress like when people laughed at funerals, but she couldn’t help herself. A bad ass named Danger. There had to be a movie somewhere in that, like in the movie, ‘A Man Named Horse’.
Wasn’t it just her luck after witnessing a murder, she ended up kidnapped by a man named Danger? How much weirder could the night get?
She cleared her throat, gained control of her laughter and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just so—so—well it’s your name. . .unbelievable.”
Apparently, Hiawatha had lost what sense of humor he possessed, because his face now looked dark as a rain cloud and he sure didn’t look like a man interested in making peace.
“Now that you’ve had a good laugh, Miss Weston, perhaps you could answer the question. Yes, I’d like to know where you’re from. You are going to tell me. And yes, my name is Danger. A family joke. Not as funny as you seem to find it, but still, it’s my name. Now, may we proceed?”
She could do this. Right? Sure. No problem. She could make up any place, be from wherever she chose. He would never know the difference. Would he?
She didn’t have to tell him the truth. Did she?
“I’m waiting, Miss Weston. And take that damned cap off so I can see your face.”
Lacey jumped as his voice exploded with command. She wasted a perfectly good glare because he didn’t even notice she shot him a drop-dead look. With a huff, she yanked off the Braves baseball cap. She barely registered the soft gasp he gave as her hair tumbled across her shoulders and slid past her breasts.
She twisted the cap in her hands, her fingers digging into the stiff material, and wished fervently it was his neck. She glanced up in time to see his lips twitch, and wondered again at his sense of humor.
Did the man have no shame?
“Better?” she asked sweetly.
His gaze flickered from her hair to her mouth. He shifted and cleared his throat, still his voice rumbled, “You’re not from here.”
“Whoopee, give the man another chicken feather!” She scooped back her hair and shot him an angelic look. “Why do you think that?”
“Don’t try so hard to sound so damned sweet and innocent.” He narrowed his eyes. “There isn’t one thing angelic about you.” He glanced at the cap she continued wringing in her hands and then back at her. “It’s pretty obvious to me you want to run me over, preferably with a tank.”
“Oh, please. You hit me.”
“You bit me,” he shot back and rubbed his thigh. “You’re probably rabid. If ever there was a wildcat in need of taming, it’s you.”
He slanted his gaze at his thigh as if he thought he could see through the denim to where she’d bitten him. “I probably need a shot to counteract whatever venom you injected into my body.” He looked up, searching her face. “Have you had your rabies shots?”
“I can’t seem to remember.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said, you’re not from around here. You’re definitely not someone I’m likely to forget meeting.” He lifted a brow. “With that slow, honey and molasses drawl, I’d guess the South. But that encompasses a lot of space, sweetheart. I’d like a more detailed picture.”
Lacey recognized the banked heat in his eyes, and for some ridiculous reason, her throat snapped shut. Jesus, her brain felt as thick and sludgy as that coffee across the room smelled. She couldn’t think. It was unreasonable to expect a lady to think straight when a stud muffin, hung like a swamp donkey, stood right in front of her very eyes. But the image of him killing that girl wouldn’t get out of her head.
“I bet you would.” She bared her teeth in a smile that felt more like rigor mortis had set in than a genuine smile. The flare of awareness that brightened his intimidating gaze blazed with something she couldn’t quite determine.
Something undomesticated— Oh yeah, he thought she needed taming? Ha! Something that alerted her senses to a new peril she now faced—Uh-huh, a man named Danger, no brainier there and a definite peril—a Montana man, hard-bodied...long, hot nights...gave a whole new meaning to the Wild West.
Something that was raw and wild and somehow threatening—not life threatening, no, not life threatening—heart and soul threatening, and as elemental as time itself.
He remained motionless, but his eyes were as alive and alert as a predator’s. His whole body silently shouted, ‘I’m wary of you, woman. Suspicious. Don’t even consider lying to me.’
She felt her nerves stretch to the breaking point. Gosh, but the man could remain as still and silent as a mountain cat. Watchful. Damned watchful.
Lacey swallowed hard, pushing past the dry lump in her throat. “G-Georgia. I’m from Georgia.”
Way to go, Lacey. Spill your stammering gu
ts. That will certainly make things difficult for him.
“What the hell kind of name is Danger?” she blurted, unable to keep quiet about it any longer.
“The kind that should caution little cats like you to stay out of my territory. It’s hunting season.”
Too late.
If she didn’t miss her guess, she’d already made the mistake of wandering onto his cherished domain. She had a feeling she was in deep shit here. Oh, yeah, very deep ca-ca.
And it got deeper by the minute.
“Hu—hunting season?”
Damn, she sounded just like a petrified, Victorian miss. Lacey squared her shoulders and did her best to look tough, not an easy accomplishment for a delicate flower from the South. She drew her brows together in a hard scowl, tightened her lips. She didn’t know if any of it fazed him, well, actually, she was pretty darn certain her brooding glares rolled right off his broad shoulders, but she didn’t dare let him know what a timid woman she was. Why, he’d annihilate her if he thought she didn’t have a backbone of steel.
“Stalking wildcats is one of my favorite sports.”
Great. Well, time to make an exit. She definitely had to get out of here. To hell with a steel backbone. It was nothing but a bunch of shiny, stainless metal anyway. First chance, she was out the door. Adios. Hasta La Vista, baby. And she wouldn’t be back.
But he was a big man. His powerful build alone was enough to persuade her to reconsider any plan to do battle with him. The aura of authority that surrounded him, cautioned her not to try. There was silent warning in those battleship-gray eyes, a flinty hardness that informed her he was just waiting for her to make a mistake. As wary as a bad-tempered wolf, he remained poised in the doorway. Attentive. Vigilant. Waiting.
He had her cornered, and he knew it. The animal.
Instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use any means necessary to prevent her getting past him. Uncertain whether she should risk it anyway or simply wait for a better opportunity, Lacey hesitated, wary of making a move toward him.
She might be a meek and timid person, but it simply wasn’t in her nature to give up. Though her hesitation was minimal, she saw his eyes flicker with understanding. Then cold warning silently frosted the gray depths.
“Don’t. There’s no way in hell you can get by me. No way in hell I’ll let you. Give it up, little cat, because if you don’t, I’m going to handcuff you to that chair behind you.”
Lacey lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She drew a deep breath and started toward him. He was moving out of her way or else. Only problem—she didn’t know what the ‘or else’ would be.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. His nostrils flared. “Come and get it, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She noted the slight tensing of his body. Oh, boy. He was just waiting for her to make the ultimate mistake of attacking him again. Her self-protective instincts kicked in. She halted and backed up a step. “I believe you, sugar.”
He looked at her sharply. Annoyance leapt to his eyes. She had the disconcerting feeling he purely hated her being here. She fought a smile. Mr. Tall, Dark and Studly would rue the day he ever tangled with Lacey Weston, she guaran-damn-teed-it.
Hands fisted on her hips, Lacey flung back her head in challenge. “Well, sugar, we seem to have a teeny little problem here. A stalemate.”
A dark brow arched.
“The way I see it, I want through the door you’re standing in front of, and you obviously aren’t happy with the idea.” She grinned. “I believe what we have here, is what you cowboys deem a ‘Mexican stand-off’.”
The predatory gleam in his eyes darkened. A wicked grin split his lips. He folded his arms across his mountainous chest and cocked one hip against the doorframe. “Nah. What we have here, sugar,” he drawled in mock imitation of her Southern accent, “is Custer’s Last Stand, and I’m Chief Sitting Bull.” He moved toward her with a slow, lethal walk. “Guess who won that battle, bright eyes? Sheath your claws little cat, because this is another battle where the paleface loses.”
In The Arms Of Danger
Chapter Two
“I was hostile to the white man. . . I was not allowed to remain quiet. I was tired of fighting . . . They tried to confine me . . . and a soldier ran his bayonet into me.”
Crazy Horse
Rimrock Sheriff’s Dept. Sat.2:00 a.m.
Lacey tapped one booted foot, counted to ten, huffed, and darted a glare at the sheriff whose wide shoulders seemed to take up what space there was inside the tiny office.
“Let’s get something straight here, Chief Crazy Horse. I’m not your average little cat. I keep my claws sharpened and extended at all times.”
He glanced down at her tapping boot. When he looked up, a grin played about his mouth. “Natives restless tonight, little cat?”
“That would fall under your expertise, not mine. I have to confess I have a major problem with someone who hauls me around, then blocks my way of escape. No, no.” She held up a hand as if to warn him away and shook her head. “Now I admit I’m a sweet-natured sort of gal, but if I start a war, I aim to win.”
She frowned. Heck, if the man could mock her drawl, then, she figured she could copy his mannerisms. “Just so you know, I’m not the barefoot, pregnant, obey-the-macho-male-type, either.”
His gaze settled on her belly for the longest moment, then moved back up to meet her gaze. He arched a silken brow. “Pity.”
Lacey muttered under her breath. “I’m not some little petunia you can trample all over with those moccasins.” Outraged, Lacey plastered her fists to her hips and narrowed her gaze. “I think you must be under the mistaken delusion that I might be your idea of an all day sucker.”
He snorted. “Believe me, Miss Weston, when it comes to you, I’m not under any delusions, mistaken or otherwise, and I’d never mistake you for a frail petunia.”
“Why—you devil. Are you laughing at me?”
“What makes you think that?”
Her mouth opened, but before she could speak, he interrupted. “Interesting you should call me Crazy Horse, such a magnificent, Lakota warrior. Brave. Fierce. Didn’t take shit from anyone, especially little cats with hot tempers and sharp tongues.”
“He was also stabbed in the back with a bayonet.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be sure not to turn my back on you, bright eyes.”
Lacey’s mouth snapped shut. She glared at him, fumed for a moment, then sent him a look meant to sear his socks. “I haven’t stabbed anyone—lately, but you never know, I might have to dig out my trusty bayonet.”
Lord, give me strength. I swear I’m trying hard to be nice. “The devilish man simply won’t let me.”
“Devilish man?”
She looked up to see laughter sparkling in his eyes. Darn, she hadn’t meant to say those words aloud.
“You do realize, little cat, I can arrest you for threatening an officer of the law with a bayonet? But then, I might lose the opportunity to discover just what it takes to make you purr.”
“Ooo!” The man was just plain ornery as a cornered snake. Why, it was enough to make Satan’s daughter throw fireballs at him. “Arrest me? I haven’t done anything to you—yet.”
She should never have made that comment about bare feet and pregnancy. Talk about leaving herself wide open for smart-ass remarks. Make her purr, indeed. He seemed to have a warped fixation with her and animals. The man was obviously a sick-o.
No one wore war paint this day and age, other than a Hollywood actor in a western, but they were hell and gone from Tinsel Town, so that left out that possibility.
And who the crap wore chicken feathers in their hair?
Poor chicken. He probably scalped it.
Lacey took a moment to mull that over. Best be nice to him. Insane people were unpredictable at best. A woman couldn’t be too careful when she dealt with the mentally unstable. “Before you arrest me, could
you wait until I actually run you through?”
She fluttered her lashes and plastered an innocent smile on her lips.
***
Danger choked. Damn, but her mind worked like a computer chip. She was witty, intelligent and saucy as hell. Sparks flashed in her eyes as she darted lethal glares at him. The little honey had a temper, and she didn’t mind displaying it either.
She had claws all right—and more gall than he would have given her credit for. Yeah, the woman was in serious need of taming. He wanted to be the man who tamed her. Staying on his toes with her would be a challenge.
In The Arms Of Danger Page 4