“No, no mistake.” Samantha stood and stretched while Bret averted his eyes. “My rat-fink ex-boyfriend told me so. Trust me, I didn’t misunderstand a word. He made it painfully clear.” She looked at the drying mud caked to her black jeans and sweater. “Any idea when the key for the cuffs will show up?”
“Ed promised to drive it back as soon as Paige delivers, first thing tomorrow morning, at the latest.” He bent his knees to look into her blue eyes. “Would you like to shower off some of that mud?”
Her small smile looked grateful. “Great. Then it can be your turn. No offense, but you’re a mess.”
“None taken. I’ll call my grandmother—she’s the cook for the jail—and have her bring over some food as soon as she finishes supper at the bed-and-breakfast she runs. Gram should be here by the time we get cleaned up.” He dug in his pocket for his cell and punched in numbers.
Samantha narrowed her eyes. “She doesn’t, by chance, run the Christmas Inn B and B, does she?”
Bret laughed. “Naw, that’s her old rival, Nick. Gram’s place is the White Dove. Don’t tell me you’re staying with Nick? I’m just kidding,” he said when she looked alarmed. “It’s a nice place. Bigger than the Dove, but, of course, the Dove has better food.” They slowly made their way to the back of the jail. “Hey, Gram, it’s Bret,” he said into his phone, “I have a prisoner here and would surely appreciate it if you could bring us some supper.” He frowned. “No, I’m not kidding. I’ll tell you about it later. Thanks, see you soon.”
Samantha stopped just inside the shower-room door as he laid his phone on the property desk, jerking Bret’s progress to a halt. “I can’t shower in there.” She turned wide eyes on him. “It’s just a room. There’s not even a shower curtain.”
“It’s not like you’ll be naked,” he said, lifting their joined arms. “These things make undressing impossible. Now what? It’s clean, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No. It’s just that, well…” She took a deep breath, during which Bret averted his eyes. Well, he should have, anyway. “So you’re telling me I should shower in all my clothes? Then I’ll be all wet.”
“You’re not exactly dry now. And you’re also covered in mud. I figure at least this way you could get some of the mud washed off.”
After some effort, they removed their boots, but it was clear his prisoner still had misgivings.
“I could catch cold sitting in wet clothes in the cell all night waiting for your cousin to bring the key,” she pointed out.
“Not likely,” he said through clenched teeth. “Colds are caused by a virus. Being wet and/or cold has nothing to do with it. Believe me, I know these things. I’m a science teacher.”
“You said you were a deputy.” Her eyes narrowed again. The woman had a suspicious streak a mile wide.
“No, I said I was acting sheriff while my cousin was off. He deputized me, but I’m Bret Bayne, a seventh-grade science teacher in real life. Nice way to spend my Christmas break, don’t you think?” White teeth flashed at Sam when he grinned.
He reached past her to turn on the multiple showerheads.
Steam and warm mist enveloped their feet.
“I can’t do this,” Samantha said, stepping back, the momentum dragging him along with her. It was bad enough just being so close to the man, inhaling the mouthwatering cologne. Water would only increase its potency…and possibly make her do things she normally would not do. “I’ll just stay in my muddy clothes until your cousin gets here.”
She watched a muscle in his jaw flex. He reached out with his free hand as he stepped back and pulled her into the warm shower spray.
Samantha shrieked and then choked on inhaled water.
“Suit yourself,” he said in a clipped tone, “but I want to get some of this mud off me.” He made a big production of scrubbing at the muddy streaks on his jeans.
She narrowed her eyes against the stinging spray and then quickly rubbed as much mud from the front of her sweater as possible, given the short amount of time her jailer allowed.
Bret knew he should look somewhere, anywhere else. But his eyes had a will of their own and were locked on the small hands scrubbing at a rack that made his mouth water like a bluetick hound. Despite the steam and dark fabric of her sweater, he could clearly see the pebbled tips of her breasts. At least, he thought he could. Which was the problem. Where Samantha Harrison was concerned, his imagination was working overtime.
He swallowed a groan and as discreetly as possible rearranged his expanding package as he reached across her to twist the controls to the off position.
“That’s about as clean as we’ll get.” His attempt at a jovial tone echoed in his ears. “May as well go back to the office to wait for supper.” He strode past her, eyes averted, tugging her in his wake.
Trotting behind his broad back, slipping and sliding on the tile, Sam had the urge to stick out her tongue. She was the wronged party here. He had no business arresting her for simply trying to get her dog back. Cuffing her to him was overkill. He wasn’t even a real policeman. Then, to make matters worse, he’d gone and lost the stupid key to the handcuffs. She stretched and tried to ease the knotted muscles in her back without tugging on his arm.
He tossed a threadbare towel over his shoulder to land on her head. She grabbed it before she lost her balance, wiping as much moisture from her face and clothing as she could without breaking stride.
Yes, sir, it was turning into an all-around crappy start to Christmas.
8
“Evening, deputy,” a small woman with wild white hair said with a sassy smile as she elbowed her way through the front door half an hour later, carrying a huge wicker basket. “I just heard all about your apprehension of the dangerous felon out at Wileys’ place.”
She walked to the desk, where they’d been playing cards, rising on her toes to plunk the basket on the surface. “Move those things before the whole basket falls plumb off onto the floor.” She glanced over his shoulder at Samantha. “That the perp?” She made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort of laughter. “D’you think it’s safe to allow her to roam free out here like that?”
He shot her an annoyed look and silently raised their cuffed arms, tugging Sam to his side. “Not a problem,” he said.
“Aren’t you the cutest little thing?” the woman said, stepping closer. “You don’t look like a hardened-criminal type.”
“I’m beginning to think she’s a professional gambler,” Bret grumbled. “She’s already won all my money.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” the woman said. “He never could play cards worth a damn. What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Samantha Harrison.” She straightened to her full five foot one and a half inches. “And I’m not a professional gambler or a criminal,” she declared with all the sincere dignity she could muster. It was difficult to radiate sincerity when one was dripping wet and handcuffed. “I was just trying to get my dog back. She was dognapped.”
The old woman’s eyes, which bore a striking resemblance to the ones of her arresting officer, widened. “Mercy! Who on Earth would steal your dog?”
“She claims Bambi has it,” Dudley supplied.
“Bambi! I’ve never known Bambi Donner to steal anything.” She leaned closer, her peppermint-scented breath wafting out to envelope Sam in a sense of well-being. “Are you sure it was Bambi, honey?”
What the heck was so great about Bambi-the-homewrecker/ dog-thief Donner that everyone was so willing to leap to her defense?
Sam swallowed her outrage and unclamped her jaw to say in a quiet voice, “Yes, ma’am, I am. Sean—he’s my scumbag ex-boyfriend—told me he’d fallen in love with her when he broke up with me.” She blinked back tears she didn’t try to hide. “I had to get out of the apartment.”
“Of course you did, honey.” The old woman patted Samantha’s shoulder. “You poor little thing.”
“I told him I wanted him to pack and get out whil
e I was gone.” Sam sniffed. “When I came home, Rhetta was gone, too.”
“Rhetta’s her dog,” the deputy interjected.
“Of course it’s her dog, silly, I got that. What I don’t get is why on Earth Bambi would get mixed up with such a lowlife as Samantha’s boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Sam and Bret said at the same time.
The woman shook her head as she reached into the basket to begin unloading. “I still can’t get my mind wrapped around Bambi doing such a thing. Why, I’ve known the Donners since before Bambi was born. Fine people. Upstanding, God-fearing—”
“I get it.” Samantha interrupted, earning a startled look from the woman and a glare from her grandson. “You don’t believe it. No one believes it.” She shrugged and reached for a piece of fried chicken. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s true.” Searching for an end to the uncomfortable silence, she bit into the succulent drumstick, its flavor exploding on her tongue. She swallowed her moan of pleasure along with the meat. “This is wonderful. You’re a very good cook, Mrs.—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Oh! Where are my manners?” The woman set down a covered bowl and swatted Bret before reaching for Samantha’s hand. “I’m Hannah Strong, Bret’s grandmother. And you said your name was Samantha?”
She had a strong handshake for an old lady. Samantha appreciated it and smiled as she shook the woman’s hand. “Hi. Yes, ma’am. Samantha Harrison.”
“What a lovely name.” Hannah glanced meaningfully at her grandson. “Don’t you think so, Bret?” She leaned closer. “You and your boyfriend recently split up, is that right?” Sam nodded, earning a dazzling smile from Hannah. “So you’re not currently seeing anyone?”
“Gram!” Bret’s cheeks looked distinctly ruddy.
“What? I’m just getting to know your little friend.”
“She’s not my friend,” Bret said through clenched teeth, a muscle ticking along his jaw. “She’s my prisoner. I arrested her for breaking into the Wileys’ house.”
“Oh, pooh.” Hannah waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re not even a real deputy—”
“I am, too! Ed deputized me before he left—” Bret’s hand gesture sent Sam’s chicken leg flying across the room.
“Hey!” Sam elbowed him. “I was eating that!”
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry.
“Bret, pass your friend another piece of chicken. And don’t you think you would be safe to uncuff the poor thing?” She clucked at her grandson, shaking her head. “I think you’re taking this whole thing a little too seriously.”
“He lost the key, and his cousin has the spare,” Sam supplied, earning a scowl from Bret. “We’re stuck like this until at least tomorrow morning.”
“Of all the lamebrain stunts.” Hannah began picking up the dinner and repacking the basket. “Bret Hadley Bayne, you get that poor thing something warm to cover up with and march yourself home right this minute.”
“Gram, I can’t go home. Remember?” He held up their joined arms, waving a little for emphasis. “I’m not any more thrilled about spending the night in jail than she is, believe me.”
“Then take her home with you. Don’t look at me like that. You know you’d both be much more comfortable at your place, not to mention warmer.”
“But as an officer of the law—”
“Oh, Bret, dear, put a sock in it. No one is here. No one will know or care.” She hefted the basket. “If you want any food, it will be on your kitchen table.”
“Wait!” The idea of spending any time in the privacy of Bret’s home struck panic in Samantha. “Bret said you own a B and B—maybe we could stay there with you?”
Hannah shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Full up. What with the holidays and the parade on the Gulf, I’ve been booked for months. In fact, it would be a help to me for you to stay at Bret’s place. I don’t really have time to cook for the jail right now. He has plenty of food and knows how to cook.” She reached for the door and shot her grandson a pointed look. “I’ll expect you to follow directly as soon as you can get the place locked up for the night.”
Bret and Sam stared at each other after the door clicked shut.
“Well.” Sam broke the silence. “Looks like we can either starve or you have a houseguest. And as I just realized I’m famished, lead the way.”
9
Samantha lagged behind Bret’s broad back as much as possible to protect her face from the stinging rain. Making him more miserably wet than they already were was just a perk.
“Why can’t we drive?” she asked again, tugging his wrist with the cuff in an effort to renew circulation to her own wrist.
He turned and circled her shivering shoulders with his warm arm. Being handcuffed caused their bodies to bump against each other in a most disconcerting way. Before she had a chance to decide if she should be outraged, he tugged her a little closer. It would be so easy to cuddle up to the warmth he offered. Heck, who was she kidding? It would be so easy to take him up on just about any offer right about now.
Sleep deprived. That’s what she was, and it had to be the reason she was noticing all the things she should not be noticing about her arresting officer. Yes, she definitely needed to voice her objection.
But before she could think of anything to say, any stinging rebukes, he beat her to the punch and started talking.
“Because we’re already here.”
Immediately, she noticed two things. All right, three, but the fact that he was incredibly hot and smelled so good she wanted to lick him didn’t count because she’d noticed that before. The first thing was he hadn’t been pulling her into his embrace—not that she’d have allowed it—he’d been leaning to open his door and dragged her along with his momentum. Because of the second thing, she felt compelled to say, “This is a bank.”
“No, it’s not.” Was it just her, or did he sound more than a tad irritated? “It used to be a bank. F.B.C.—First Bank of Christmas—built a big, new place out by the interstate back when I was in high school. This place has been vacant ever since, so, naturally, when I decided to move back and found out it was still available, I bought it.”
“Oh, yeah, naturally,” she mocked. “We all have an unbearable urge to live in an old, abandoned bank.” She stepped through the open, ornate, beveled glass double doors, squinting in the darkness while her eyes struggled to adjust. “There aren’t any rats or anything, right?”
“Not anymore.” He reached and flipped a switch. Lights blazed, causing Samantha to recoil.
Once she was reasonably certain her retinas weren’t burned out, she glanced around.
“Wow. You actually live in a bank…” Beneath the elaborate chandeliers, marble floors gleamed despite their obvious age. “The floor is…spectacular.” She met his gaze. “You don’t find things like this anymore.”
He seemed pleased, nodding as he looked around with obvious pride. “No, you don’t. That’s why I had to buy it. I remember coming into this bank with my grandmother when I was a little boy and thinking it was a palace.” He pulled her farther into the open area, pointing to several medallions inlaid into the marble. “That’s where the deposit-slip desks used to be.”
To the right was a cozy-looking sectional with a big, square, padded ottoman facing a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall over a dark wood console cabinet. To the left of the TV was a round, ornate brass door.
“Is that the safe?” Sam wondered if he’d let her see inside it.
“One of them. There’s another one upstairs—it’s a little smaller than this one—in what used to be the bank president’s office and a small one through the French doors at the end of the room in the old loan offices. I use this one as a bar and wine cellar. I’ll open it up and show it to you after supper.”
“What’s over there?” Samantha pointed to the row of gleaming brass bars inserted into a half wall and wondered if there was a back way out. Maybe she could escape once the handcuffs
were off.
He walked with her when she tugged. “It’s the old teller cages. There was a break room directly behind this area, so it was easy to make it into my kitchen and the teller area a dining room.” He flipped another switch as they walked through a swinging oak gate. “The counters the tellers had used work well for a serving area, and I built storage underneath.”
“You did that yourself?” She ran her free hand along the worn wooden counter, trying not to be impressed. In spite of his attractiveness, she needed to remember the man was not a potential boyfriend or even a friend. Escaping was not personal. Heck, he probably wouldn’t even care because he was just subbing for the real sheriff. But it wouldn’t hurt to play nice and be sociable. Maybe he’d let his guard down. “You did a great job. I never would have realized they weren’t attached to the counters originally.”
“Thanks. The actual kitchen is in the old break room, right through this door.” They skirted around a gleaming banquet-sized table, and then he pushed open a swinging door with his free hand, flipping another switch. “I had to totally gut and rebuild. Took me most of the summer before I transferred here.”
“So you just moved here? I’m confused. I thought you said you’d come into this bank as a little boy.”
“I did. Born and raised in Christmas. After college I took a teaching job in Corpus Christi.”
“Corpus is beautiful. Why would you want to move?”
He shrugged. “It just made me homesick for the beach I grew up on and all the people who know me. Then I found this place and couldn’t wait to make the move. I think this is my favorite project.” He gestured, drawing her attention back to the kitchen.
Espresso-colored cabinets with gleaming black granite countertops outlined the large room. Beneath a lone window was an oversize triple stainless-steel sink with an industrial-looking faucet. A professional-looking cooktop graced the top of a wide island. Assorted stainless-steel appliances winked at her from around the room.
“Do you cook?” She shook her head before he could answer. “Sorry, stupid question. Of course you do.” What she wouldn’t give to have a kitchen like that one. Of course, she’d also like to win the lotto so she could stay home and enjoy it. And that wasn’t likely to happen.
Under The Covers Page 20