"Much better, thank you," she said, closing the door behind her. "She's been taking her medicine like a good little girl."
"How about her mama? Has she been taking her vitamins like a good girl, too?"
"If you mean those horse pills the doctor prescribed, yes, when I can force them down my throat."
"I noticed they were on the large size."
Sophie heard a low throb of amusement in his tone and shot him a quick look. Sunlight flooded the upper floor through a large window fronting the stairwell, and the bright light was anything but kind to his wind-burned face. And yet, when he cocked his head and crinkled his eyes in her direction, she thought of sex, the tempestuous kind that made a woman's heart pound and her throat go dry. Turning abruptly, she headed for the stairs.
He is not your friend, she warned herself firmly, concentrating on each step. He's the enemy, remember that. It doesn't matter how nice he seems or how fast he makes your heart beat or how slippery you feel inside when he looks at you. He wears a badge on that wide, deep chest that looks so sexy in a uniform, and he's very good at his job.
The parlor was empty, but someone had turned on the Christmas tree lights, and they twinkled like brilliant chips of sunlit glass. One of the delicate glass balls that Katie had unwrapped from its nest of tissue paper so carefully only a week before had fallen to the carpet, and Sophie hastened to return it to an uppermost branch of the huge Douglas fir for safekeeping.
The branch was still supple, the needles crisp and smelling of winter snow and clean mountain air, even if the tree itself was sitting in a sprawling old-fashioned dowager of a house only twenty miles or so from the Atlantic Ocean. She found herself smiling at the thought of waking up Christmas morning to sunshine and balmy air instead of gray sides and rain. She turned around to find that Ford was watching her.
"It's a nice tree, don't you think?"
"Very nice." His drawl was whiskey and smoke, but it was the sudden heat in his eyes that had her thinking of a man's hot mouth skimming her breasts and a man's hard thigh nudging hers apart.
Even as she moved to the nearest chair and sat down, a sensuous heat was spreading inside her skin, pooling in warm secret places to taunt her.
"Guess you know the word's already out about the run-in you and I had with Rans last night," he said as he took the chair opposite and opened the folder.
"No, actually I didn't. I haven't been out of the house."
"Don't worry, sooner or later word will get back to you. Probably won't even sound remotely like what really happened. Before some of the gossips in this town get done, you'll probably end up being to blame for the whole thing."
Is that what happened when his parents died? she wondered. Speculation and innuendo taking the place of truth? She knew all too well how easily the truth can become distorted into a grotesque lie.
"I guess that's one of the bad things about living in a small town."
"Among others."
Ford selected a single typewritten page and handed it to her. "If you come across any inaccuracies, you can make your corrections in the margin," he said, offering her the pen he'd unclipped from his shirt pocket. Taking it, she discovered that it was still warm from the heat of his body.
Bending her head, she began to read. After only the first few lines, she found herself admiring the terse, unemotional style of a skilled observer. He'd organized her words into a cogent, accurate description that carried none of the terror she'd felt at the time, yet managed to convey Talley's underlying ruthlessness and intent to hurt her to get what he wanted. Remembering his filthy fingers clawing at her shoulder, she shivered in spite of her warm clothing.
"Something wrong?"
Glancing up, she found Ford studying her again, this time with a frown on those hard lips.
"I was just thinking about what happened." Instinctively, she lifted a hand to rub the still-sore flesh his fingers had bruised so easily.
His eyes went still, and she found herself tensing. She'd known bigger men. Men with more money, and men with more charm. But she'd never met one who exuded such quiet, unassuming authority. She knew suddenly that he was a small-town sheriff because that's what he'd chosen for himself, not because it was all that was available to him.
"He won't hurt you again," he said quietly. "You have my word."
Even though she believed that unequivocally, there was no need to say so. Ford wasn't looking for praise for simply doing his job. In fact, she suspected it would offend him.
"What about the man who sells the moonshine? Do you have any idea where he's, um, doing business?"
He shifted, stretching out his long legs as though suddenly restless. "My guess would be Deadman's Slough. The vegetation's thick as any jungle in there, and Frenchy knows every hill and hollow. It would take an army to find him, and even then, a search would make so much noise he and his still would be long gone."
Ford watched her absorb his words silently, her eyes growing larger as she reflected on them for a moment before returning to the report he'd given her. And then he watched the morning sunlight shimmering over her hair and imagined her small, lush body straining against his, skin against skin, lubricated by the sweat of a passion neither of them could control.
"No changes, no addition?" he asked when she returned his pen and the report.
"Not a one," she said, rising.
"That's a first." He tucked the pen into his pocket and reached down for the folder. After giving her signature a cursory glance, he returned the statement to the folder and stood.
"Sure there's nothing that needs changing?"
"You covered everything I told you without adding anything I didn't," she said, lifting her gaze to his.
"Did you think I would?" Though his tone was mild, his eyes were suddenly alert and trained intently on her face. It was as though he were probing her thoughts, her soul, searching for a flaw in her story or a secret evil in her heart. Even though she knew she was reacting more to the past than the present, her stomach roiled, and it took all her willpower to curve her lips into a casual smile.
"Actually I was trying to pay you a compliment, but somehow it came out sounding like I was critiquing a research paper. I guess it's just habit. Sorry," she said.
He regarded her in silence for a moment before his mouth relaxed into another of his almost smiles. "I have to tell you, Sophie, you sure don't look like any of the English teachers I had when I was sweatin' through high school."
She drew a quick breath, and tried to calm her suddenly galloping heartbeat. "Oh, but I told you I'm not a teacher," she insisted, trying hard to sound truthful without overdoing it. "I'm a waitress."
"A waitress who knows Voltaire from Virgil and can discuss the fine points of Shakespeare's more obscure plays with Camilla Martin over eggs and grits and hold her own just fine."
Sophie felt her jaw drop. "How do you know what I discuss with Mrs. Martin?"
He shrugged, drawing her attention to the breadth of those muscular shoulders. "I listened."
"Guess I'd better not spill any secrets around you," she said lightly.
"Depends on the secrets."
Careful, she warned herself silently. Whatever you do, don't overreact. "I'm not sure I have any, but if I do, they're bound to be pretty boring."
"Now that is a shame," Ford drawled, busy wondering what had put the stiffness in her shoulders all of a sudden. "'Course, what's borin' for one isn't always borin' for someone else."
"Believe me, Sheriff, I've lived a very mundane life." She paused to clear her throat of a sudden tightness. "Now you, I imagine your life has been a lot more exciting. Even Clover has its share of big-city crime and violence."
Ford had to admire the smooth way she'd managed to shift the attention away from herself. He'd seen Lucy do the same thing when she'd been busy feeling guilty about something she didn't want him to discover.
"Not so exciting," he told her with perfect candor. "For instance, I've never packed up and mo
ved clear across the country with a baby in my arms and no job waiting for me when I got there."
Her eyes flickered, a mere whisper of movement that he noted but didn't acknowledge. "Is this an interrogation, Sheriff, because if it is, I suggest you read me my rights." She was smiling, but her voice had come out a little more rushed than usual.
"Sorry, force of habit. Cops are just naturally nosy, I reckon."
"So I've noticed."
A car pulled into the driveway. A quick look told Ford it was only Arnie Maxwell's taxi. "Miss Fanny's home from her morning at the county food bank," Sophie murmured, her gaze softening into affection. "She and Miss Rose Ruth take turns helping out."
Ford watched her lips slide into a smile and felt his blood quicken. She had a passionate mouth, and a habit of gnawing at one corner when she was nervous.
"I hope nothing's wrong," she murmured, gazing intently through the window at Arnie's prized Impala. Reluctantly, Ford shifted his attention from her mouth to the window.
"Knowing both Miss Fanny and Arnie, I suspect they're not done tradin'."
Drawing her eyebrows together, she turned to look at him. "Trading what?"
"Gossip. If there's anything interesting going on within a fifty-mile radius of the town square, Arnie will know about it before nightfall."
"Oh, I see," she murmured, her expression clearing momentarily before clouding again. "So what's Miss Fanny trading him, then?"
"Most likely, her latest remedy for a bilious belly. Arnie tends toward problems in that general area. Last I heard, he was partial to a cup of aniseed tea mornin' and night."
"Aha," she exclaimed softly, her hand stealing toward her lips as though stifling a need to laugh.
Ford drew a breath, then shifted, suddenly restless. Who would have figured the scent of plain old Ivory soap could have the power to play hell with a man's imagination? he thought, feeling desire crawling into his belly.
He wanted desperately to strip off that baggy sweatshirt and run his hands over the warm soft skin underneath, lingering over the sweet, round breasts for a very long time before tracing the tidy curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, lower. He could almost feel the slippery barrier of her panties—
"I'll be goin' now," he said a bit too abruptly. "The county prosecutor will want to interview you before the arraignment. If you have any questions before then, feel free to call." Without waiting for an answer, he tucked the folder under his arm and fled.
Sophie had long since stopped asking Ford every morning if he wanted more coffee. It had taken her a few weeks to realize that, in spite of the early start he made on the day, he wasn't by nature a morning person. He needed coffee to wake up, lots of it. When he'd had his fill, he would let her know. Until then, she made sure she passed by with the pot every few minutes while he was eating his breakfast.
"How's Jessamine?" he asked the next morning as she was refilling his cup for the third time.
"When I left she was stuffing her mouth with banana and regaling the ladies with this fascinating story about trees."
"Trees?" He wrapped his big hand around the brimming cup and pulled it closer.
Sophie glanced at the counter where the cook put the food when it was ready and saw no sign of the biscuits and gravy Ford had ordered. Since Ford was her only customer at the moment, she rested the pot on the counter and treated herself to a breather.
"We think she was talking about trees," she explained. "Although I have to admit, we're not sure. Brilliant though she is, Jess hasn't quite mastered all the intricacies of English pronunciation."
His mouth slanted, and she was struck again by the subtle strength in his face. No doubt about it, he wasn't a handsome man. His face was too angular, his mouth too hard, but when he cocked his head and crinkled those deep-set eyes into an almost smile, it didn't matter.
"How do you know she's speakin' English?"
"I guess I don't," she acknowledged, then grinned. "Come to think of it, a lot of her words do sound more like Polish than English. Or maybe German—anyway, something with a lot of syllables strung together."
"There you go, then. For all you know, she's recitin' beautiful poetry, and you're just sittin' there thinkin' it's gibberish."
"Oh, no, I never said that," she exclaimed, laughing. "I just said I couldn't understand the words. Not that they weren't wonderfully clever, because of course, they are. Not that I'm prejudiced, you understand."
"'Course not."
"I'll have you know, Sheriff, that I am completely objective when it comes to my daughter."
"Is that right?"
"It just so happens that I've produced the world's cutest, cleverest, most beguiling child." Though her tone was light, she meant every word she said.
"A man would be a fool to argue with that, especially if he was settin' up to ask that child's mama to have supper with him tomorrow night."
Sophie felt emotion run through her. It felt like excitement. She told herself it was merely surprise. "That's very kind of you, but I don't date."
"Anyone, or just me?" When he tilted his head and looked up at her the way he was doing now, she wondered what it would feel like to see herself reflected in those steady gray eyes an instant before he kissed her. This time there was no mistaking the emotion she felt. Once experienced, the rush of sexual heat was unmistakable.
Before she could formulate an answer that wouldn't hurt either of them, the bell over the door tinkled, drawing his quick glance. The woman entering was tall, with sun-streaked blond curls cascading to her shoulders and the kind of taste in clothes and jewelry that came with old money and careful training.
Pausing just inside the door, the newcomer swept the room with a deliberate gaze, comfortable with the knowledge that she herself had become the object of all eyes. As soon as she saw Ford, she started toward him, a sexy, suggestive smile on her glossy lips.
"There you are, sugar. That cute little Vietnamese deputy down at your office told me you'd be here."
His smile came even more slowly than usual and had controlled edges. Sophie suspected that he was less than thrilled to be greeted so familiarly in public, especially when he was on duty.
"Somethin' special I can do for you this mornin', Ms. Tyrone, or are you just passin' through?" Ford asked.
"Passin' through. I'm on my way to Charleston for a weddin', but since you asked, there might just be one little old thing you can do for me better than anyone else. If you catch my drift."
Without giving Ford a chance to respond, she bent suddenly to plant a kiss full on his mouth. He froze, his eyes going glacial for an instant before turning lazy again. Shifting to one side, he dragged a folded white handkerchief from his pocket.
"Cecelia Tyrone, meet Sophie Reynolds," he drawled, before wiping the lipstick from his mouth.
"Call me Sissy," the woman said amiably.
Sophie managed a polite smile as those strikingly green eyes focused on hers. She decided that the vivid color had to be the result of tinted contact tenses, and then castigated herself for being catty.
"Can I get you a menu, Sissy?"
"Why sure thing, hon. And a cup of coffee with real cream, too, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"No trouble at all, especially for a friend of Sheriff Maguire's."
Sophie plucked a menu from the holder at the end of the counter and set it on the paper place mat as Sissy took the seat next to Ford's, managing to brush his shoulder with her breast as she slipped past him.
"Why that's right nice of you, Sophie. Thanks a bunch."
"Cut it out, Sissy," Ford ordered curtly. "You sound like you've been reading Gone With the Wind again."
Sissy shrugged. "What can I say? I'm just a dumb little old Southern belle?"
Ford caught Sophie's gaze. "Sissy makes her living selling real estate to rich Yankees lookin' to retire in the sunny South. Trudging around those dusty old houses down Clay City way has warped what little brain she had left after her daddy wasted ha
lf his considerable fortune on some fancy school in Switzerland."
"Now, Ford," Sissy declared petulantly, swatting his big hand. "Don't you go insultin' me. You know all you tall, dark and silent Southern boys like a little sugar with your mornin' grits." Smiling, she glanced at Sophie again and winked. "Right, Sophie?"
"Actually, Sheriff Maguire's the only tall, dark and silent Southern boy I've met so far," she said, picking up the coffeepot. "And he's issued strict orders never to serve him grits. Since he carries that big old gun with him everywhere he goes, I'm not about to argue with him."
Sissy's mouth popped open, and then she laughed. "Touché, sugar," she exclaimed easily. "As one smartass to another, I'd say you're gonna fit in right nicely down here in Dixie."
"I'm trying," Sophie said as she tipped the last of the coffee into Ford's cup, dregs and all. "I'll be right back with your coffee, Sissy. The real cream is in the kitchen."
"Take your time," Sissy said, giving Ford an arch look. "I'm in no hurry."
Sophie started to leave, but Ford stopped her by wrapping his hand around her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he exerted just enough pressure to show who was in control. His palm was warm and dry and callus-rough on the heel.
"I asked you a question a while back, remember?"
"I gave you my answer."
One side of his mouth lifted, but he let her go. "As I recall, we weren't real sure exactly what that answer meant."
She shifted her gaze to Sissy and manufactured a bright smile. "In case you're wondering, Sissy, Ford had just asked me to dinner a few minutes before you walked in. I turned him down, but he doesn't seem willing to accept my answer. Perhaps you might have better luck convincing him that he doesn't have any other choice."
Sissy's eyes darkened, then began sparkling with curiosity. "Lord almighty," she drawled, curving her glossy lips into a sexy grin that she turned on Ford like a spotlight. "So she's the one who's got your mind running hot? I figured it had to be someone like her. Sweet, and wholesome, you know? Just the opposite of your mama."
Ford's face flushed a dark red. "Be very careful what you say next, Sissy."
THE BACHELOR PARTY Page 8