eyelashes a foot long and one of those perfectly sculpted faces she’d only seen on young Greek men. She hated to admit it, but the guy took her breath away.
A pity about the name.
Who could seriously consider anyone named Horace P. Pfannepatter?
“What does the P. stand for?”
He stared at her in a sort of slack-jawed way that made Carrie wonder if his mother had married her first cousin. Mostly his eyes seemed to zero in on her bare legs. From his expression, you’d have thought he’d never seen a woman in shorts before. She yanked off her sunglasses and tapped her foot impatiently.
His eyes finally made it back to her face, and he gave himself a little shake. “Pardon?”
“What does the P. stand for?” she said a little louder, thinking maybe he had a hearing problem.
He gave her another out-to-lunch look, then frowned. “The P.?”
Despite his good looks, this guy didn’t seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. What did it take to get elected to JP around here—being able to sit up and take nourishment?
“The P. in Horace P. Pfannepatter. What does it stand for?”
“Oh. Puffer. It’s a family name.”
Figured. A real shame. A real shame, too, about the gold wedding ring he wore.
“Your eyes are…very unusual,” he said, squinting at her. “I—I suppose you hear that a lot.”
She smiled. “A lot.”
After a slow trip down her body, his gaze went back to her legs. She almost reconsidered paying the ticket. Twenty to one that with a little sweet talk, she could get Horace to dismiss it, especially with the photo of the sign and the parked semi she had taken—and given his preoccupation with her exposed skin.
Better not. Resigned to her earlier decision, she sighed. “I need to pay a ticket.”
“A ticket? Oh. Maureen can help you with that.”
“Maureen?”
“Yes. At the desk out front.”
“Nobody was there when I came in.”
“Let’s see if we can find her,” he said, standing.
If Carrie thought he looked good sitting, on his feet he was dynamite. He must have been six-two or-three and no slouch in the body department. When he touched her back to usher her from his office, she felt as if she’d been zapped with a cattle prod.
Odd.
Static electricity, she was sure. He was married for goshsakes.
He smiled and her knees wobbled. He had a mouth full of perfect white teeth and a killer of a lopsided smile. “Ah, there’s Maureen. She can help you.”
A middle-aged blonde, with a half inch of black roots, stood, a distressed look on her face. “Oh, Judge, I’m sorry. I was in the storeroom looking for another box.”
“No problem. This lady needs to pay a ticket.”
“Yes, sir. Here’s the one I found.” Maureen handed him an empty carton.
“Thanks. This is perfect.”
The judge went back to his office, and Carrie shelled out eighty-seven bucks to Maureen. The ticket paid, she hightailed it toward the Twilight Inn. She was tired and thirsty and eager to get settled in at the place that would be home for a while.
FRANK OUTLAW, judge of the County Court-at-Law of Naconiche County, stood at the window, absently fingering his wedding ring as he watched the white BMW pull away. He couldn’t believe that the woman had shaken him the way she had. He hadn’t experienced that kind of mind-blowing reaction to a woman since he was a teenager—probably not since he’d first kissed Susan when they were about fourteen. He hadn’t even thought about a woman in sexual terms since his wife died, and that had been two years before.
But something about the dark-haired, purple-eyed vixen who had just strolled into Horace’s office had sure revved up his motor. He’d been so dumbfounded that he hadn’t been able to string a coherent sentence together. She probably thought he was a blithering idiot.
He’d always been a leg man, and she’d had the longest, prettiest legs he’d ever seen. Hell, she was gorgeous all over. Tall and slender with those startling eyes and kiss-me lips, she was a knockout. Not even the slightly crooked front tooth or the small scar on the side of her chin detracted from her looks. In fact, the small imperfections only seemed to make her more intriguing and heighten her sensuality. And she was sexy. It oozed from her skin and clung to her like a cloud of low morning fog on the river bottom. He was getting aroused just thinking about her. It was a strange feeling.
Frank chuckled to himself. Good thing his brother J.J. wasn’t around, or he’d never hear the end of it. J.J. was always after him to take out this woman or that, eager to jump-start his sex life, but Frank simply hadn’t been interested. Susan had been the love of his life, and when she’d been killed, something had died in Frank as well.
Good thing, too, that the woman was probably passing through on her way to someplace besides Naconiche. A woman like her could deal a man some misery.
There was a rap on the door, and Maureen stuck in her head. “I’m sorry about the interruption, Judge. That’s the third ticket Otis Purvis has issued in the same spot today. And there’s a truck broken down on the side of the highway blocking the sign. I noticed it on my way to work this morning. I told Miss Campbell she had a right to appeal, but she insisted on paying the ticket.”
“Miss Campbell?”
“Carolyn Campbell. From Houston. But she’s staying at the Twilight Inn while she’s in town. I gave her directions.”
Frank felt his gut twist. The Twilight Inn was the motel run by his soon to be sister-in-law, Mary Beth Parker. It was on his way home. He nodded. “I have to be back at the courthouse by two, and I need to get a move on. I’ll be through packing up here in a few minutes, Maureen, and I’ll take Horace’s things to Ida.”
“I’m sure she appreciates that.”
“It’s the least I can do for an old friend, and I know Fletcher is anxious to move in and get started.”
“Things just won’t be the same without Horace around,” Maureen said. “He’d been JP since I was a kid.”
“I know. We’ll all miss him.”
Maureen went back to her desk, and Frank went back to packing. He tried his best to keep his mind off Carolyn Campbell and her legs. He didn’t have much luck.
CARRIE FOUND the Twilight Inn without any problem. It was an old-fashioned motel, but it seemed quite neat and charming with its new coat of paint and window boxes filled with red geraniums. There was a sign on a nearby building identifying The Twilight Tearoom. She hoped the food was good. She’d missed lunch, and she was famished. Pulling to a stop in front of the unit that looked like an office, she got out and went inside.
Four old guys sat at a card table playing dominoes. All of them gave her the once-over, and one rose when she entered. “Hep ya?” he said, walking to the counter and giving her a big denture smile.
“I’m Carrie Campbell. I have a reservation.”
“Yes sir-ree bob. I’ve got you right here in the book. You’re in number five. I’m Will, and these fellers are Curtis, B.D. and Howard. We’re the biggest part of the staff of the Twilight Inn.” He produced a key. “If you’ll sign the register, B.D. will get your bags.” He handed her a pen.
“I can handle my luggage, but thanks anyhow.”
“No problem. All part of the service. And B.D. is stronger than he looks.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” one of the other