A Lawman in Her Stocking

“No, thanks,” she said stubbornly. “I’d rather walk.”

He stared down at her. Damn, but she was a feisty little thing. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her right then and there. Instead, he opened the driver’s door, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her into the truck.

She let out an alarmed squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Seeing that you get home safely,” he said, climbing in beside her.

“This is totally uncalled for.” Glaring at him, she slid over to the passenger side. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.” He gave her a stern look in an effort to stop any further protest, but she completely ignored it. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he jammed the key into the ignition.

“Are you this controlling with everyone?” she asked.

Dylan tried counting to ten, then twenty. At thirty he gave up. “Lady, you could drive Job over the edge. You complain about an old man’s innocent gesture of friendship and then go walking down a dark street at night, inviting all kinds of trouble.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

Gunning the engine, he spun gravel and squealed the tires as he steered the truck away from the curb. He cringed as he imagined the chips the rocks had made in the paint job. He and his dad had spent several years restoring the old Chevy, and Jack Chandler was probably looking down from heaven right now, ready to sling a couple of lightning bolts Dylan’s way for treating the truck with such irreverence.

He glanced over at the woman beside him. And it was all her fault, too. She was making him crazy and causing him to do things he hadn’t done in years. The last time he’d laid rubber had been when he was nineteen and full of more piss and vinegar than good sense.

Fuming, Brenna stared out the passenger window. Dylan was probably right about her walking home alone in the dark, but she’d be darned if she let him know it.

Why did men think they knew what was best for a woman? What made them think that a woman was incapable of making her own decisions?

Tom had always been that way, had always tried to tell her what she should do. And it appeared Dylan Chandler was cut from the same cloth.

When he pulled up in front of her house, she prepared to get out of the truck. “Thank you for the ride. But I have to tell you, your behavior borders on Neanderthal, Sheriff. I—”

“That may be,” he interrupted. “But I’m proud to say this caveman can go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.” At her raised eyebrow, he had the audacity to grin. “I saw that you got home safe and sound.”

“Before you know it, you’ll be spouting the code of chivalry, straight from the Round Table,” she retorted.

As she reached for the door handle, Dylan caught her wrist and leaned close. “There’s nothing wrong with a man protecting a woman from the dangers she’s either too naive or too stubborn to recognize for herself.”

“The woman in question might just be a black belt in karate, and able to take care of herself,” she bluffed, trying to ignore the tingling sensations from his touch, his nearness.

The close confines of the truck cab seemed to grow even smaller and a crazy fluttering started deep in her stomach. His lips were only a few inches from hers. She needed space.

“I appreciate your concern, but—”

“Hush,” Dylan said, his deep baritone vibrating against her lips a moment before his mouth brushed hers.

At first he teased with featherlight kisses, nibbling, testing her willingness to allow the caress to continue. But when he traced her lips with his tongue, all thought of putting distance between them ceased. Her own tongue automatically darted out to ease the tingling friction of his exploration, but coming into contact with the rough tip of his, the flutters in her stomach went absolutely wild.

At the moment, it didn’t seem to matter that she shouldn’t be kissing him, tasting him with eager abandon. She was too caught up in the many sensations racing through her to even breathe. When she finally did, the mingled scents of leather, spicy cologne and Dylan caused her nostrils to flare. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything quite so sensuous, so sexy, so wonderful as the man gathering her to him.

He pulled her unresisting body closer and, trapped between them, her hands clenched his shirt. The firm muscles beneath flexed and bunched at her touch, and his heart pounded against her fingertips. Heat and excitement simultaneously coursed through her when Dylan’s tongue penetrated the inner recesses of her mouth. Exploring. Claiming.

Dylan Chandler was the very last man she should be kissing, she thought, her sanity intruding. He was arrogant, controlling and macho from the top of his handsome head, all the way to his big, booted feet. And he was kissing her like she’d never been kissed before.

The intensity of passion might have gotten the better of Dylan, had the steering wheel digging into his ribs not reminded him of where they were. He hadn’t necked in the cab of a pickup truck since his senior year in high school. He briefly wished he’d driven the Explorer to town, instead of the truck. It had more room to maneuver. But then, Corny and her hens would have had a field day talking about the sheriff making out in the sheriff’s patrol car with the new painting teacher.

Regaining control of his sanity, he leisurely broke the kiss. He’d kissed his share of women, but nothing in his past experience could compare with the wild, untamed feelings he had coursing through him now. He felt like pounding his chest and bench pressing a dump truck.

Hell, he just might have to in order to work off the adrenaline. There were kisses, and then there were kisses. And on a scale of one to ten, he’d have to rate this one a fifteen. Maybe even a twenty. Definitely an off-the-scale experience.

His hand shook slightly as he cupped the back of Brenna’s head and gently pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Wow!”

“That shouldn’t have happened,” she said breathlessly.

“No, it shouldn’t have,” he said honestly.

What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman was trouble from the top of her pretty head all the way to her little feet. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago?

The best thing he could do would be to see that she got into the house, then get back in his truck and put as many miles between them as the old Chevy would take him.

“I’ll walk you to the porch,” he said, releasing her.

She reached for the door handle. “It isn’t necessary.”

But Dylan was out of the cab and around the front of the truck in a flash. When he opened the door and helped her down from the bench seat, he could tell she was going to protest again.

Placing his hand at her back, he ushered her toward the front porch. “My dad made me promise a long time ago that I’d be a gentleman at all times. And that includes walking a lady to the door when I take her home.”

“But you were only giving me a ride.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said stubbornly. “You’re a lady. I drove you home. I walk you to the door. It’s as simple as that.”

When they reached the porch steps, he glanced down at her and felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. This was the way she was meant to look—soft, her hair slightly mussed from having his fingers tangled in the silky strands, a blush of desire coloring her porcelain cheeks.

He had to have lost every ounce of sense he possessed, but he wasn’t one bit sorry he was the man to cause that look. His body tightened and he figured it was time to beat a hasty retreat before he did something stupid like kiss her again.

Just as he started to bid her a good evening, the sudden brightness of the porch light made him blink. “What the hell?”

“Brenna? Is that you?”

“You know darned well it is,” she muttered, quickly stepping away from him.

An elderly woman around the same age as his uncle Pete, stepped out onto the porch. “Of course I do.” The old gal winked at him. “But since it’s obvious you aren’t going to ask this handsome young man inside, I had to come up with an excuse to meet him.”

Removing his hat, Dylan extended his hand. “Dylan Chandler, ma’am. You must be Brenna’s grandmother. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Abigail Montgomery. Won’t you come in for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking his hand and treating Brenna to an impish grin.

Brenna gripped the strap on her tote bag so tight she was surprised it didn’t snap in two. The smile on her grandmother’s face and the delighted twinkle in her eyes promised days of questions, teasing and anything but subtle innuendo.

“Granny, I’m sure Sheriff Chandler has more important matters to attend to.” She gave Dylan a pointed look. “Don’t you, Sheriff?”

He nodded. “Maybe another time, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Abigail smiled pleasantly. “Maybe Brenna can cook dinner for you some evening.”

Brenna couldn’t help it. Her mouth dropped open at her grandmother’s ridiculous statement.

“Shut your mouth before you catch a bug, kiddo,” Abigail advised.

“I’d better say good-night and let you ladies get inside,” Dylan said, sounding anxious to make his getaway.

“Thanks again for the ride,” Brenna said when her grandmother elbowed her in the ribs.

“No problem,” he called, walking out to the truck. “Good night, ladies.”

“Night,” Abigail said. Once Dylan had started his truck, she steered Brenna through the door. “Let’s go inside. You have a lot to tell me. And I’m warning you. This time, I want the straight poop.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Brenna said, closing the door to secure the lock.

“Oh, yes there is,” Abigail shot back. “You told me you didn’t like Darren Chancellor.”

“Dylan Chandler.”

“Whatever,” Abigail said, waving her hand. “You told me you had no interest in him.”

“I don’t.”

Abigail snorted. “Yeah, and the Grand Canyon is nothing but a big drainage ditch. Get real.”

“Dylan just gave me a ride home.” At her grandmother’s dubious expression, Brenna added, “He’s not my type.”

“Sure looked like he is.” Abigail laughed delightedly. “It takes some pretty heavy breathing to fog up windows that fast. And I don’t blame you one bit. That man’s the sexiest stud muffin I’ve seen come down the pike in a long time.”

When her grandmother began humming “Here Comes the Bride,” Brenna turned on her heel, walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. She sank down on the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer of her nightstand and pulled the object of her search from inside. Peeling back the wrapper, she bit into the chocolate bar.

As the rich, smooth taste spread throughout her mouth, she sighed heavily. Life with her grandmother could be trying at best, but now that she’d met Dylan Chandler, it was going to be downright impossible.

Three

Dylan rested his chin on his palm and stared off into space. It had been four days since he’d agreed to take Brenna’s painting class. Four days since he’d taken her home. And four days that he’d been useless to himself and everyone else.

Oh, he’d gone through the motions of tending to business. But more times than he cared to count, he found himself staring off into space. Like now.

When he’d kissed her, he’d only meant to silence her. But he’d been the one at a loss for words when the kiss ended.

He shook his head as he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. The last time he’d made the mistake of letting his hormones overrule his good sense he’d come out looking like a complete fool. He had no intention of letting anything like that happen again. And the best way to see that it didn’t would be to remove himself from temptation.

Next Tuesday night, instead of going to that damned painting class, he’d be over at Luke’s with the rest of the guys doing what they always did—playing poker in the back room.

His decision made, Dylan settled down to the paperwork in front of him. He’d only gotten as far as the middle of the first page when Myron Worthington rushed into his office and plopped his bulk into the chair in front of Dylan’s desk.

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