“What?” Her voice screeched like a petulant child’s. “You took my money.”
“For evidence. You’re under arrest for speeding and trying to bribe an officer of the law. Now get out of the car.”
“You can’t do this.” She spat the words, her face set. And she didn’t budge.
“Get out of the car.” His voice matched his mood. Determined. Angry. And slam-damn out of patience.
Her expression locked in petulant mode, she slid out.
She was pretty, very pretty. As his dad would say, she was put together on a Sunday morning when God was in a good mood and the angels were singing in the background. A natural beauty, for sure—one that was enhanced by high maintenance. Big city, class and style flitted across his mind. Her slim, yet curvy body came up to his shoulders. He wasn’t sure why he was noticing those things. She was just another woman, and a very arrogant one at that.
Then he became aware of what she was wearing—a silky silver creation that looked like a bridesmaid’s dress. Evidently she was headed to a wedding. He purposely avoided looking at the tempting cleavage peeping above the bodice. The hem of the dress fluttered around her ankles. Jody would call it a frou-frou dress.
She stomped her foot. “Do you know who my mother is?”
Her defiant words poked through his thoughts. “No. Can’t say that I do.”
“She works for the governor of Texas and she’ll have your badge for this.”
He met her eyes. Five minutes ago, he was inclined to be lenient. Now he didn’t want to hear her excuses. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will he held against you in a court of law. You have the right—”
“You bastard.” The heat of her words stained her cheeks and tightened her perfect features.
He spared her a brief glance and continued her Miranda rights. When he finished, he asked, “Do you understand your rights?”
“Do you understand my mother will have your job?” she fired back.
He swallowed a curse word and tucked his ticket book under one arm. With a gentle nudge, he pointed her toward his squad car.
“What are you doing?” She stumbled trying to see his face.
He pulled his hat lower and opened the door to the back seat. “Get in.”
“I will not.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “Just write me a ticket and I’ll be on my way.”
The roar of the traffic was deafening, but he heard every word. “I might have been prepared to do that if you hadn’t tried to bribe me. That’s a serious offense and I don’t take it lightly. Now get in the car.”
The hot Texas sun caused suffocating waves of heat to roll from the asphalt, yet they stood there eyeing each other like two foes ready to do battle. He’d made up his mind. He wasn’t going to relent. This woman needed a dose of reality.
She stuck out her chin. “I have a right to call my mother, you big, overbearing oaf.”
“When we get to the jail, you may call whomever you wish, but not out here.” Cars continued to whiz by, the exhaust fumes mixed with the heat billowing around them.
“Jail!” The color drained from her face and he saw the first flicker of fear on her face. But it was only fleeting. Anger quickly overshadowed it. “I’m not getting in that car!”
From years of experience, he knew there was only one way to deal with people like Peyton Ross—show her he meant business. He unhooked the handcuffs from his belt.
“You’re not…” She took a step backward.
He reached for her hand and snapped a cuff on her delicate wrist. Her skin was soft and satiny. He hadn’t touched skin like that in a long time. Quickly he dismissed the sensation. He was an expert at masking his emotions. “Yes. I’m cuffing you.”
Before she could react, both wrists were in the cuffs. “As the saying goes, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Evidently you prefer the hard way.” Taking her arm, he angled her toward the open door.
Eyes blazing, she jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me, you bastard. You lowlife country bumpkin. You’ll pay for this.” Even as she blasted him in a voice hot enough to boil water, she lifted her skirt, revealing slim ankles in high heels, and slid into the car.
He slammed the door on her diatribe, threw his book onto his seat and walked back to her vehicle, where he gathered her purse and iPod, as well as a small overnight bag from the floor.
The interior of the car was white leather, and a delicate scent of gardenias reached his nostrils. Gardenias? Not a scent he would associate with the fiery hellcat. Something more exotic came to mind, like Opium or Chanel.
Now why would he think that? He wasn’t personally interested in the woman.
He searched the vehicle and didn’t find any other valuables, so he headed to his car. He slid into the driver’s seat, placing her things on the passenger’s side.
“You can’t leave my car out here,” she told him through the steel-mesh guard that separated the back seat from the front.
“I don’t plan to,” he replied, picking up his cell and punching out a number. “Bubba, there’s a red Lexus coupe on the northeast highway. Please pick it up—we’re impounding it.”
“Damn, that’s an expensive car. Did you catch a drug dealer?” Bubba asked with his usual overactive curiosity.
Wyatt sighed. “Just take care of the car. I’ll get with you later.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.”
Bubba was one of the Wiznowski family, and he owned a gas station and wrecker service in Horseshoe. Bubba had tried several times to become a deputy, but he never passed the physical because his six-foot-four-inch body weighed more than three hundred pounds. He spent too much time at his grandmother’s bakery. But he did help out when Wyatt needed someone to watch the office.
Silence filled the cab, and that was fine with Wyatt. He’d had all of her mouth he wanted. Placing his glasses on the dash, he glanced at his watch. He was late. Jody would be calling. Damn, damn!
Damn Peyton Ross for ruining his Sunday.
Chapter Two
Wyatt’s office and the jail were next to the courthouse. A covered walkway connected the two buildings, which had been built in the late 1800s. While there had been updates, basically the two structures stood as they had for years.
He parked the car and got out to open the back door. For a moment he thought Ms. Ross wasn’t going to budge. Then without a word, she scooted out and he guided her into his office. The fight seemed to have gone out of her. He hoped that meant she realized the seriousness of her situation.
They went through the room and down the hall to the jail. The tap-tap of her high heels on the concrete floor echoed through the quiet space. After removing the cuffs, he opened the cell door and she walked in, the soft rustle of her gown annoying him for some reason. As the steel bars clanged shut, she jumped, and her eyes brimmed with fire.
“You bastard. My mother will have your hide.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I want my phone.”
“Hey, fancy lady,” Zeke called from the next cell, his bearded face pressed between the bars to get a closer look. “Ya got a fella?”
“Cool it, Zeke,” Wyatt said. “And leave the woman alone. She’s not interested in you or marriage.”
Zeke was in for “drunk and disorderly”. He lived alone in the woods along the Brazos River. Every