He’d Always Been A Sucker When It Came To Redheads And Ladies In Distress. And Brenna Montgomery Was Both—All Wrapped Up Into One Neat Little Package.

He didn’t doubt for a minute that the incident with Pete had scared her. Her pale complexion and the tremor in her voice had been quite genuine.

But he’d dealt with Brenna Montgomery’s brand of trouble before and wanted no part of it. Her kind moved in and started trying to change everything in sight. Her complaint was proof enough of that. She hadn’t even been a resident of Tranquillity two full weeks, and she was already trying to stop his uncle Pete’s friendly tradition of welcoming newcomers to town by kissing them on the cheek.

Dylan shook his head. No doubt about it. That little lady was going to be trouble with a great, big capital T. Unfortunately, Brenna Montgomery had to be the best-looking trouble he’d ever laid eyes on….

Dear Reader,

Wondering what to put on your holiday wish list? How about six passionate, powerful and provocative new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

This month, bestselling author Barbara Boswell returns to Desire with our MAN OF THE MONTH, SD #1471, All in the Game, featuring a TV reality-show contestant who rekindles an off-screen romance with the chief cameraman while her identical twin wonders what’s going on.

In SD #1472, Expecting…and In Danger by Eileen Wilks, a Connelly hero tries to protect and win the trust of a secretive, pregnant lover. It’s the latest episode in the DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS series—the saga of a wealthy Chicago-based clan.

A desert prince loses his heart to a feisty intern in SD #1473, Delaney’s Desert Sheikh by award-winning author Brenda Jackson. This title marks Jackson’s debut as a Desire author. In SD #1474, Taming the Prince by Elizabeth Bevarly, a blue-collar bachelor trades his hard hat for a crown…and a wedding ring? This is the second Desire installment in the exciting CROWN AND GLORY series.

Matchmaking relatives unite an unlikely couple in SD #1475, A Lawman in Her Stocking by Kathie DeNosky. And SD #1476, Do You Take This Enemy? by reader favorite Sara Orwig, is a marriage-of-convenience story featuring a pregnant heroine whose groom is from a feuding family. This title is the first in Orwig’s compelling STALLION PASS miniseries.

Make sure you get all six of Silhouette Desire’s hot November romances.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

A Lawman in Her Stocking
Kathie DeNosky

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATHIE DENOSKY

lives in her native southern Illinois with her husband, three children and two very spoiled dogs. She writes highly sensual stories with a generous amount of humor. Kathie’s books have appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. She enjoys going to rodeos, traveling to research settings for her books and listening to country music. She often starts her day at 2:00 a.m., so she can write without interruption, before the rest of the family is up and about. You may write to Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, IL 62948-5264 or e-mail her at kathie@kathiedenosky.com.

To Rox, Belinda and Ginny.

Thanks for sharing the laughter and fun. Love you guys.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

One

“Sheriff? Are you in here?”

At the sound of the female voice echoing through the cavernous firehouse side of Tranquillity’s Sheriff’s Office and Fire Department, Dylan Chandler’s stomach twisted into a tight knot and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He hated when a woman used that tone—fear tinged with indignation. In all his years as an officer of the law, he’d never seen it fail to be the prelude to big trouble.

He gripped the rafter with his gloved hand to steady himself, glanced down over his bare shoulder and stifled a groan. He’d been right in his assessment. Tranquillity’s newest resident, Brenna Montgomery, looked like she’d seen a ghost, and it appeared that she’d been thoroughly pissed off by the encounter, too.

Dylan had only seen her once before, and that had been from a distance. He’d arrived late the night she’d shown up at the town council meeting to apply for a permit to open her craft shop, so they hadn’t been formally introduced. And if her expression held any clue to the nature of her visit now, he didn’t think he’d be able to work up much enthusiasm for getting acquainted.

Maybe if he remained silent, she wouldn’t notice him dangling from a rope high above her head and wander back into the adjoining sheriff’s office. At least long enough for him to climb down and put on his shirt.

But sure as shootin’, she spotted the end of the rope dangling close to the wall, her gaze following it to his less than dignified position among the rafters of the firehouse. He groaned. Nothing left to do now but introduce himself.

“I’m Sheriff Chandler. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

He braced his feet against the wall, rappelled down to where she stood, and grabbed his shirt. Shrugging into it, he jammed the tail into his jeans as he waited for her to say something.

When she remained silent and continued to stare at him, he decided she probably thought he was some kind of a nut. Either that, or his fly was open. He made a show of glancing at his boots. His zipper was closed, but he still wore the climbing harness around his waist and upper thighs. Snug as it was, the webbed straps pulled his jeans tight and brought the male parts of his anatomy into stark relief.

“What did you need, Ms. Montgomery?” he prompted as he hastily removed the nylon straps and tossed them on the chair where his shirt had been.

The dazed look in her pretty blue eyes suddenly cleared and her cheeks colored a rosy pink. Averting her astonished gaze to the rafters, she asked, “Why on earth were you hanging from the ceiling?”

Hot damn! She’d been checking him out.

In an effort to hide the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, he used the cuff of his sleeve to buff a spot of imaginary dust from the silver star pinned to his chambray shirt. “I had to test some new climbing equipment for the Search and Rescue Team.”

She nodded, but kept silent as she glanced around the firehouse. He almost laughed out loud. It seemed the lady was having trouble looking him in the eye.

After several moments of awkward silence, Dylan placed his hand at her lower back and guided her through the door into the adjoining sheriff’s office. Walking behind the desk, he flexed his hand in an effort to stop the tingling that ran the length of his arm and spread throughout his torso. He’d probably been gripping the rope too tight, he decided. It was just plain ridiculous to think it had anything to do with feeling the warmth of her skin through the crisp fabric of her blouse.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Ms. Montgomery?” he suggested, removing his wide-brimmed Resistol from a hook on the wall. He jammed it onto his head before turning to face her.

While he waited for her to collect her thoughts, his gaze traveled to her copper-colored hair. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she’d piled it on top of her head in that god-awful knot. It looked like a baseball plopped down in the middle of a bird’s nest.

“I want to report an elderly gentleman—” She stopped abruptly. “Sheriff, are you listening to me?”

She’d planted her fists on her shapely hips, drawing his attention to her feminine form. She expected him to listen with a distraction like that?

“Now what was that about an old man?” he managed to ask.

“I said there’s an elderly gentleman accosting women on Main Street.”

“Here? In Tranquillity? Are you sure?”

Dylan watched her cheeks flush with indignation at his dubious questions. The color highlighted the few golden freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. Her big blue eyes and perfectly shaped lips made him think of long winter nights snuggled beneath the covers of his king-size bed.

He shook his head to dislodge the wayward thought. She’d said something else, but he’d missed it again. Damn! He’d better get his mind off the woman’s looks and back to the business at hand.

“What was that?”

“I told you the old guy just grabbed me and kissed me,” she stated, her patience clearly wearing thinner by the minute.

Dylan heaved a sigh as he looked over the top of her head to stare out the plate-glass window of his orderly office. What had happened to the pleasant lady who charmed the socks off the all-male town council? All the mayor and town council members had been able to talk about for the past week was what a sweet little gal that Montgomery woman was.

He shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him how a female could be so amiable when things went her way and how quarrelsome she could get when they didn’t.

Turning his attention back to the woman standing on the other side of the desk, he silently cursed. He could deal with her insistence and tone of voice easy enough. It was the way she looked that made sweat pop out on his forehead and upper lip. Why did Brenna Montgomery have to be so darned…cute?

But what was up with her clothes? he wondered when her long skirt rustled. Her white, ruffled collar went clear up to her chin and her black skirt just barely cleared the floor. Dressed as she was, she reminded him of the schoolmarms in the old, western movies he’d watched as a kid.

“That’s all there was to it?” he finally asked. “Just a simple kiss?”

“Wasn’t that enough?” When he remained silent, she looked incredulous. “Surely you don’t think I’d make up something like this?”

“No.”

His stomach did a back flip. It didn’t matter how her hair was styled, what kind of clothes she wore, or how kissable her lips looked; he’d always been a sucker when it came to redheads and ladies in distress. And Brenna Montgomery was both—all wrapped up into one neat little package.

Brenna felt a shiver slither up her spine and her tendency to crave chocolate whenever she became nervous rushed forward as the sheriff’s brilliant, green gaze narrowed on her upturned face. She’d been so shocked to find the man shirtless and dangling from the firehouse ceiling, she hadn’t noticed anything about him beyond his various muscle groups.

And what impressive, well-defined muscle groups they were, too. Bulging biceps, a ridged stomach and all that masculine bare skin had taken her by surprise. But the sight of the webbed harness pulling the denim tight across his impressive attributes had struck her absolutely speechless.

Sheriff Dylan Chandler certainly wasn’t the average, run-of-the-mill, civil servant. In fact, she couldn’t find one darned thing average or ordinary about the man.

His badge certified he was supposed to be one of the good guys. But didn’t they wear white hats? His cowboy hat was outlaw-black, and combined with the lock of ebony hair hanging low on his forehead and the five o’clock shadow covering his lean cheeks, he appeared a little wild, relatively dangerous and totally fascinating.

Irritated with herself for giving the man’s rugged good looks and bulging muscle mass a second thought, she took a deep breath, shored up her courage and asked, “What do you intend to do about this?”

Dylan pushed back the brim of his Resistol with his thumb, then folded his arms across his chest. He’d stopped several barroom bawls before they ever got started with that narrow-eyed stare he’d just given her. And for a second or two, he’d thought she might back down. But it was clear she wasn’t intimidated by him. Nope. Not even a little bit.

He almost smiled. For the first time in six years, his bluff had been called. And by a cute little redhead with freckles, no less. Amazing!

“Do you want to file a formal complaint, Ms. Montgomery?”

When she carefully avoided his gaze, he decided that he might not be losing his touch after all.

“No, I’m not going to file a complaint,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. “The old guy didn’t exactly threaten me.” She squared her shoulders and finally met his gaze head-on. “But I don’t want it to happen again. I found it very frightening to have a total stranger grab me in a bear hug and kiss me. Even if it was on the cheek.”

“I understand, Ms. Montgomery. Did the old gent hand you a rose just before he kissed you?” When she nodded, Dylan grinned. “I have a good idea who you’re talking about, and believe me, you were in no danger. I’ll ask him about it, but it’s my bet you’ve just been officially welcomed to town by Pete Winstead.”

“I don’t care who he is,” she said. “The man scared the bejeebers out of me.”

Dylan frowned. “It was only a little peck on the cheek.”

“Yes, but you have no idea how frightening something like that can be for a woman.” She seemed to be gathering a full head of steam as she stared at him, and the heightening color on her pale cheeks fascinated the hell out of him. “Where I come from, his actions might even be considered an…” She paused as if searching for the right word, then glaring at him, finished, “…an assault.”

Dylan couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud. “Did the old geezer say anything during this alleged assault?”

The glare she sent his way was so heated it could have fried bacon. “Yes, but I was so frightened, I didn’t understand what he said.” She wrinkled her cute little nose. “Besides, he smelled like beer.”

Dylan’s grin instantly disappeared. “You have something against a man drinking a beer after a hard day’s work?”

“Well…no—”

“Then let me clue you in on the way things are around these parts, Ms. Montgomery. Nearly every man in town stops by Luke’s Bar and Grill after work for a beer and the latest gossip. It’s a tradition—drink a beer, swap a story or two and go home.” Dylan shrugged. “Pete’s no different than the rest of us. He goes to Luke’s regularly. But I’ve never known him to drink more than two beers at one sitting.”

“I realize this is a tight-knit, little community and, believe me, I want to be a part of it just like everyone else.” Her ankle-length skirt rustled like a bed of dry leaves when she tapped her toe. “But Pete Winstead’s drinking habits aren’t the issue here. When a stranger grabs a woman and kisses her, it can be very frightening. It’s your job to prevent things like that from happening.”

Dylan’s arms dropped to his sides, his hands flexing in frustration. He was good at his job and he didn’t need a high-strung, big-city female telling him how to do it. He’d had that happen once, he wasn’t going to allow it to happen a second time.

He leaned forward and braced his hands on the polished surface of the desk. “I said I’d talk to him. Now, is there anything else you feel the need to complain about, Ms. Montgomery?”

“It wouldn’t do me any good if I did, now would it, Sheriff?” She’d managed to make his title sound like a dirty word.

Before he had a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her so hard that the plate-glass window rattled ominously.

Shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, Dylan silently watched her march across the street, gather the yards of her ridiculous skirt into a bunch around her knees and stuff it all into an aging Toyota.

He didn’t doubt for a minute that the incident with Pete had scared the hell out of her. Her pale complexion and the tremor in her voice when she walked into the firehouse had been quite genuine.

But he’d dealt with Brenna Montgomery’s brand of trouble before and wanted no part of it. Her kind moved in and started trying to change everything in sight. Her complaint was proof enough of that. She hadn’t even been a resident of Tranquillity two full weeks and she was already trying to stop his uncle Pete’s friendly tradition.

Dylan shook his head. No doubt about it. That little lady was going to be trouble with a great big, capital T. Unfortunately, even in those weird clothes Brenna Montgomery had to be the best-looking trouble he’d ever laid eyes on.

And he had a feeling if she stayed in town, Tranquillity would never be the same.

“Get a grip, Brenna. The sheriff’s probably right about old Deke,” Abigail Montgomery said.

“Pete,” Brenna corrected her grandmother. “The old man’s name is Pete.”

Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’m not interested in the old goat. I want to know more about the hunk wearing the badge.”

Brenna sighed. She and her grandmother had been down this road before. “What’s to tell? He listened to my complaint, then gave me his biased opinion.”

Abigail’s bright orange curls danced as she shook her head. “You know what I mean. What color are his eyes and hair? How tall is he? Is he a super stud or a major dud?”

Exasperated, Brenna stared at the woman. Since her retirement a little over a year ago as a high school guidance counselor, Abigail had made it her sole purpose in life to find Brenna a husband. She’d even gone so far as to sell the house she and Brenna had shared since the death of Brenna’s parents ten years ago to move to Tranquillity, Texas, with Brenna in order to keep up the pressure.

“Granny, every time I meet a man, we go through this same inquisition. Aren’t you getting a little tired of it?”

“Brenna Elaine Montgomery, you’re almost twenty-six years old and the only thing you’ve had that even resembles a serious relationship was a college fling with that jerk, Tim Miller.”

“Tom Mitchell,” Brenna said, making a face. “And he taught me a valuable lesson—men use women, then cast them aside when they’re done.”

“If you’ll remember, I told you from the beginning he reminded me of a weasel. And when he talked you into helping him get through law school, I knew I was right.” Abigail shook her head. “But don’t judge all men by that loser.”

Brenna felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Well, I haven’t seen a man yet who could tempt me into finding out if my first assessment was wrong.”

Abigail gave her a knowing look. “Maybe old Devin—”

“Dylan.”

“Whatever. Maybe he’ll prove you wrong.” Her grandmother’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “You know, that’s probably why you’re so uptight all the time. You need a man like Darwin in your life and a little hanky-panky to help you unwind.”

“Granny!”

“I just call it the way I see it.” Abigail pushed the sleeves of her hot-pink, nylon warm-up jacket to her elbows and leaned forward in the ladder-back chair. “Now, tell me about Sheriff Chancellor. You know I never get tired of talking about good-looking men.”

“His name is Chandler.”

“Whatever.”

Brenna frowned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Abigail winked. “I’ll bet my new Reeboks this guy is a real stud. Probably better-looking than Mel Gibson and muscled up like Ronald Schwasenhoofer.”

“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“Whatever.”

Brenna rose from the table to place her plate in the dishwasher. She was only delaying the inevitable. Abigail Montgomery could have been a top-notch interrogator for the CIA.

“Just how did you arrive at your conclusion that the sheriff had to be something special?”

“I didn’t deal with teenagers for over forty years and not learn to recognize a hedge job when I see one,” Abigail shot back. “You think he’s a hunk.”

“I do not.”

“Do too. Now spill it.”

Brenna threw up her hands, as much in exasperation as in surrender. “He’s tall—”

“How tall?” Abigail pressed.

“I’d say he’s a little over six feet tall and has black hair and green eyes.” When her grandmother frowned at the lack of information, Brenna tried to sound indifferent. “He looks to be somewhere in his early thirties. Now, that’s all I know about the man. And all I care to know.”

“Uh-oh! He must have a spare tire around his waist.” Abigail shook her head. “Don’t worry. The way you cook, the extra weight will drop off the poor man like leaves from a tree.”

Brenna ignored the remark about her lack of cooking skills as she remembered the sheriff’s assortment of lean muscles. Her mouth went dry. “His stomach is actually quite flat.”

“No teeth?”

A picture of his devastating smile flitted through Brenna’s mind. “He has beautiful teeth.”

“Got a real honker, huh?”

“Granny, will you stop?” Brenna placed her hands on her hips as she fought back a smile. “He doesn’t have a big nose. And even if he did, I doubt that it would detract from his good looks.”

“Ah-ha!” Abigail cried triumphantly. “Now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty. He’s that good-looking, huh?” She gave Brenna a wink and a wicked grin. “I’ll bet he’s a hell of a kisser, too.”

“Granny—”

“Are you going to need the car tonight?” Abigail asked, suddenly.

Dazed at how fast her grandmother had changed subjects, Brenna shook her head. “No, I can walk to class. Why?”

“I wanted to drive down to Alpine with one of my new friends.”

“That will be nice,” Brenna said, glad her grandmother had made friends so soon after their move to Tranquillity. “What do you have planned?”

Abigail’s grin turned wicked. “We’re going cruising for a stud muffin for you. Any preferences?”

“Granny, please don’t start in again with the you-need-a-husband routine.”

“Oh, lighten up,” Abigail said, rolling her eyes. “We’re just going to a movie. Want me to drop you off at the town hall?”

Brenna breathed a sigh of relief. She was never quite sure when the woman was serious and when she wasn’t. “No, thanks. It’s not far, and I need the exercise.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “I can’t figure out why you’re so concerned about staying in shape if you aren’t interested in attracting a man.”

“Granny—”

“Okay. I’ll shut up for now,” Abigail said, glancing at her Mickey Mouse watch. “Time to pick up my friend.” She propelled herself from the chair and started into the living room. Turning back she shook her finger at Brenna. “Just remember I’d like to have a great-grandchild before I’m too senile to appreciate it. And that Sheriff Antler—”

“Chandler.”

“Whatever,” Abigail said, waving her hand. “He sounds like a great prospect for the father.”

With that parting shot, Abigail breezed from the room in a flurry of hot-pink nylon and orange curls, leaving Brenna to wonder what sort of ridiculous fantasies her grandmother would start weaving about the town’s insufferable sheriff.

Enjoying the mild, southwest Texas weather as she walked the short distance to the center of town, Brenna admired the rugged Davis Mountains a few miles away. Draped in the purpled shadows of early evening, the view was breathtaking and she forgot all about Abigail’s matchmaking attempts as she focused on the nervous anticipation filling every cell in her body.

She took a deep breath to help settle the butterflies in her stomach and tamped down the need for something chocolate. She was going to do this. She was going to dig down deep inside and find the courage to share her love of handmade crafts with the women of Tranquillity. It was a big part of her plan to reinvent herself and she wasn’t going to wimp out now. Besides, Tom had told her several times in the course of their four-year relationship that her dream of starting her own business and teaching Folk Art was silly and unprofitable. Brenna clenched her teeth. She had come a long way in the year since Tom decided that he had more in common with a woman in his law class than he had with her. But she still had a few things left to accomplish. She had every intention of proving him wrong about her teaching Folk Art, as well as his prediction that she’d never break her habit of reaching for something chocolate whenever she became nervous or upset.

By the time she reached the community room in the town hall, more than two dozen women milled around the display she’d set up earlier in the day, while others had already found a place for themselves at the work tables. Thrilled by the number of people in attendance, Brenna smiled as she walked into the room. Her only regret was that Tom wasn’t around so she could tell him how wrong he’d been.

“My dear, this is the best thing that’s happened to Tranquillity in decades,” Mrs. Worthington said, stepping forward. “I just know you’ll help add culture to our little community. It’s something I’ve sorely missed since I married Myron and moved from the East.”

Brenna smiled. Cornelia Worthington was the mayor’s wife, chairwoman of the Beautification Society and self-appointed matriarch of Tranquillity. Her approval could make or break Brenna’s classes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Worthington,” she said slowly, searching for the most tactful way to explain that Folk Art painting wasn’t in the same category with Rembrandt or van Gogh. “But I’m afraid this class will fall short of the benefits you have in mind. It’s considered more of a craft than fine art.”

“Oh, what a dear,” Mrs. Worthington said, turning to the ladies behind her. “She has such a modest attitude for someone so immensely talented. I’m so glad I discovered her and persuaded her to instruct this class.”

Brenna barely managed to keep her mouth from dropping open. She practically had to beg the woman for the use of the room, since it was overseen by the Beautification Society.

“Ladies, if you’ll please take your seats, we’ll get started,” she said, shaking her head and walking to the front of the room.

“Mildred, what took you so long?” she heard Mrs. Worthington call to a late arrival.

“My car broke down on the way home from work,” the woman said, sounding flustered. “Fortunately, Dylan passed by on his way to the poker game over at Luke’s and offered me a ride.”

“Dylan!” Mrs. Worthington’s voice turned to syrup. “It’s simply marvelous to see a man take an interest in the arts.”

At the mention of the sheriff’s name, Brenna cringed and slowly turned around. Sure enough, there the man stood, leaning against the door frame, a self-assured smile plastered on his masculine lips. His confidence grated on her nerves and reminded her of their earlier confrontation.

But they were on her turf now. Things were going to be vastly different from the first time they’d met.

Dylan swallowed hard when he noticed Brenna moving toward him. He was having the devil of a time accepting the way she looked now, as opposed to earlier. If he’d thought she was cute then, in that hideous, old-fashioned get-up, he’d sadly underestimated her attractiveness.

He no longer had to wonder about the curves hidden by yards of fabric, or the length of her hair. Hell’s bells, he almost wished he did. It would definitely be easier on him than the reality he faced now.

Her light blue shirt loosely caressed high, full breasts, while her faded jeans outlined nicely shaped legs and hips that swayed slightly as she walked. Her copper hair, shot with gold, brushed her waist and looked so soft, his fingers burned to thread themselves in the silken waves.

“Dylan, dear, you look a little feverish.” Mildred patted his arm sympathetically. “Are you feeling all right?”

Hell no! He felt like he’d just been run down by a herd of stampeding longhorns. He had to swallow hard to get words to form in his suddenly dry mouth. “Uh…sure. I’m fine.”

He quickly looked around to see if anyone else detected his discomfort. Noting several curious stares, Dylan cursed his luck.

The room boasted the largest collection of gossips he’d seen since arresting Jed Phelps for getting drunk and crashing Corny’s Tupperware party. And that had been three years ago. If the old hens thought there was even a remote possibility that he found Brenna Montgomery attractive, they’d be like sharks in a feeding frenzy.

He glanced over at the woman standing beside him. Mildred Bruner was the county clerk and responsible for issuing all the marriage licenses in the county. It was common knowledge she was an incurable romantic and carried her book of forms everywhere she went just hoping someone would stop her and ask to apply for a ticket to wedded bliss.

He shifted from one foot to the other. If he didn’t leave, and damned quick, Mildred would start digging around in that suitcase of a purse she carried, trying to find her license book, and by sunrise the rest of the busybodies would have everyone in town taking bets on when the wedding would take place. He silently ran through every curse word he knew. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and even if he was, Brenna Montgomery wasn’t likely to ever be a candidate.

“I’ll be over at Luke’s if you need a ride home, Mildred.”

His cheeks burned as he watched several of the women smile knowingly. If they hadn’t noticed he was having a problem before, they sure as hell would now. His voice hadn’t sounded that uneven since puberty.

“You aren’t staying for class, Sheriff?” Brenna asked when he headed for the door.

Dylan stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe his ears. Brenna Montgomery wanted him in her painting class about as much as a poor, lost soul wanted to see a heat wave in hell.

He turned to face her, his scowl deepening. “No.”

“That’s a shame. Some of the most talented craftspeople I know are men.”

She took a step in Dylan’s direction. He took a step back. What was the woman up to now?

She thoughtfully tilted her head, her blue eyes dancing. “Of course, some men lack the patience and coordination it takes to learn the techniques.”

Her challenge punched him right square in his ego. When she took another step forward, Dylan stood his ground and reaching out, took her hand in his. “Oh, I’m sure I could master any technique, Ms. Montgomery. And I’m very patient.”

The moment their fingers touched, a tingle raced the length of Dylan’s arm, making his blood pressure skyrocket. But pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. “I’ve never had any trouble getting my hands to do what I want,” he assured. Letting a provocative drawl warm his words, he smiled suggestively. “Nor have I ever had anyone complain about their ability to obtain a satisfying result.”

She jerked her hand out of his so fast, he thought she might have sprained her wrist.

“It was nice of you to stop by, Sheriff, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to start my class. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

Dylan knew for sure he’d turned the tables. He could tell Brenna had been as affected by the touch of his hand as he’d been by hers. And, she was trying to give him the bum’s rush.

But he’d be damned before he let it happen. She’d started this confrontation. He intended to finish it.

“Where do you want me to sit?”

Her eyes grew round. “You…you don’t mean you’re staying?”

“Yep.” At her stunned reaction, he didn’t even try to hold back his satisfied smile. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh, this is wonderful,” old Corny said, clapping her pudgy hands to gain the women’s attention. “Now that Dylan’s taking the class, we shouldn’t have any trouble convincing our men they could use a measure of culture, too. I intend to speak with Myron about it this very evening, and I encourage every one of you to do the same with your husbands.”

Dylan’s triumphant grin evaporated, and he barely controlled the urge to squirm when several of the women bobbed their heads in eager agreement. He’d forgotten all about the guys over at Luke’s. Once they got wind he was taking an art class, he’d never hear the end of it. Now, short of humiliating himself in front of the entire room full of world-class busybodies, there wasn’t any way out.

Every Tuesday night for no telling how long, he’d miss the poker game over at Luke’s. He’d be forced to listen to Brenna’s soft voice as she instructed the class. He’d have to watch her silky, red hair brush the top of her shapely rear—

His body tightened noticeably, and muttering a curse, he removed his Resistol, lowered it to zipper level and took a seat. As he sat watching Brenna, his mood lightened and he fought back a grin. If any good came out of this mess, it had to be the dazed look on her face.

Brenna Montgomery looked like she’d just sat down on a bumblebee.

Two

Dazed, Brenna turned and slowly walked to the front of the class. What had she been thinking? The sheriff had been ready to leave. And he would have, if she’d just kept her mouth shut.

But, no. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’d tried to get even for this afternoon’s disagreement—tried to practice being assertive—and ended up making a mess of everything. Becoming a stronger, more self-assured woman was a balancing act. And she’d just proven she was tilting a little too far to one side.

“Okay, ladies…and gentleman.” She purposely avoided looking at the man as she handed out the supply lists. “These are the items you’ll need for the course.”

“What’s the difference between Folk Art and painting a landscape or a portrait?” one of the women asked.

Brenna perched on the edge of the desk as she tried to organize her tangled thoughts. The sheriff’s presence was playing havoc with her already jangled nerves and had her ready to kill for a Hershey bar.

“Originally the label Folk Art was given to all forms of art created by people who knew little, if anything, about method or design. A folk artist ‘created’ without knowing how or what they’d done. Fine art requires more disciplined techniques.”

“How did it get started?” Mildred Bruner asked.

“You could say it evolved out of envy,” Brenna answered, trying her best to ignore the man sitting in the back of the room. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “In Europe, peasants wanted to simulate the expensive furnishings of the noble class, so they used Folk Art to paint their furniture, dishes and pottery. They even used it on store signs.”

Mrs. Worthington frowned. “Store signs?”

Brenna nodded. “Around the seventeenth and eighteenth century, the craft was used for practical, as well as decorative, purposes. Most of the common people were illiterate. But by having signs painted with bright colors and bold designs, shopkeepers could effectively advertise their product.” She paused as she searched for an example. “Let’s say Luke’s had a wooden sign with nothing more than a large beer stein with suds running down the side.” She smiled. “I don’t think any of us would be left to wonder what Luke sold, would we?”

“Oh, how quaint,” Mrs. Worthington said, her face brightening with a wide smile.

By the time Brenna went over what the ladies and Sheriff Chandler could expect to learn, it was almost time to dismiss the class. “Are there any more questions?” When no one responded, she smiled. “Then I’ll dismiss class early. I have all the supplies at my shop. Stop by and I’ll help you find everything you need so we can start painting next week.”

On their way out, several of the ladies stopped to tell Brenna how enthusiastic they were about the class and to inquire about her new craft shop. Her spirits soared and the incident with the sheriff was all but forgotten as she closed the door to the community room and stepped out into the late-November night.

She’d accomplished two very important goals tonight. She’d generated a lot of interest in her new business, but more important, she’d found the courage to stand in front of a class to teach. She only wished Tom had been around to see just how far she’d come in the year since he’d dumped her, and how wrong he’d been about her ambitions.

Thinking about the man who’d taken her to the cleaners, both emotionally and financially, she cringed. How could she have been so naive, so blind about his self-centeredness?

“Ms. Montgomery, could I have a word with you?” a male voice asked from behind her at the same time a hand came down on her shoulder.

Her surprised cry echoed through the deserted streets of Tranquillity as she spun around and swung her tote, her aim directed where it would hurt the most—her assailant’s groin.

“Take it easy, lady,” Dylan said, quickly turning his body to protect himself. “It’s just me.”

“Sheriff Chandler!” She placed her hand over her heart as she glared at him. “Do all the men in this town get some kind of kick out of frightening women?”

Dylan stepped closer and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He couldn’t understand why she’d been so upset about the incident with Pete. If the way she swung that bag was any indication, she could easily take care of herself.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, thankful that he’d been quick enough to side-step her blow. If he hadn’t, he’d be writhing around on the sidewalk right now, feeling as if death would be a blessing. “I was just trying to stay out of the way until I could talk to you in private.”

“Do you want to withdraw from the class?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

Nothing would make him happier. But he’d be damned before he gave her the satisfaction. “Nope. I think I’m going to enjoy learning to paint,” he lied.

Her hopeful smile vanished. “That’s nice, Sheriff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.”

Dylan frowned. That was the second time this evening that she’d tried to dismiss him. And it didn’t sit any better this time than it had the last.

“Not so fast, Ms. Montgomery. We need to talk about what happened this afternoon.”

She shook her head as she stared up at him. “I really don’t see the need, Sheriff. I told you what happened. And you made it quite clear that you thought I was overreacting to the situation.”

Dylan studied her upturned face for several long seconds. She really was the best-looking trouble he’d seen in years. Her guileless blue eyes held an intelligence that he found sexy as hell and her perfect cupid’s bow lips were just begging to be kissed.

The ridiculous thought caused his stomach to twist into a tight knot. Thinking along those lines could get a man in serious trouble. He’d been there once and he had no intention of ever going there again.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded in the direction of the restaurant across the street. “Let’s talk this out over a cup of coffee.”

“But aren’t you supposed to give Mildred Bruner a ride home?” she asked, looking around.

“Corny…Mrs. Worthington, whisked Mildred away about ten minutes ago, along with the rest of the class.” He chuckled and shook his head when he thought of the flurry of flowered polyester as the women crowded into Corny’s pink Cadillac and Helen Washburn’s old Buick. “They mentioned something about an emergency meeting of the B.S. Club.”

Brenna arched a perfectly shaped brow. “B.S. Club?”

“Uh…Beautification Society.”

Way to go, Chandler. He’d just slipped up and told her the men’s secret name for the town’s only women’s organization. A name that the men knew better than to mention in front of any of the club’s members.

He cleared his throat. “They…uh, get together once or twice a month and share the latest gossip.”

“I get the distinct impression that secrets aren’t kept for very long around here,” she said.

“Everyone knowing your business is one of the hazards of living in a small town,” he said, relieved that she’d let his less than flattering reference to the organization pass. He placed a hand on her back to usher her across the quiet street and felt a jolt travel up his arm and spread across his chest.

“Just a minute, Sheriff,” she said, stiffening beneath his touch. “Why can’t we talk right here?”

A slight tremor coursed through her, and he knew it had nothing to do with the chill of the autumn evening.

Good. At least he wasn’t the only one affected by the contact.

“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I asked you to stand out here in the night air.” He did his best to suppress a knowing grin as he added, “You’re already shivering.”

He almost laughed out loud when he had to trot to keep up with her as she marched across the street to Luke’s.

Brenna had only been in Luke’s Bar and Grill twice in the two weeks she’d been in Tranquillity, but both times she felt as if she’d taken a step back in time. Wanted posters from the late 1800s decorated the walls, along with cow skulls, branding irons and various pieces of old, leather harness. Shiny, brass spittoons were placed on the floor at either end of the bar and the room’s muted light filtered down from suspended wagon wheels with antique lanterns converted to accommodate electricity.

Sheriff Chandler must have noticed her curiosity as he led the way to an empty table on the far side of the room. “Luke’s granddaddy opened the saloon around the turn of the century and Luke is pretty sentimental about the place.” He held a chair for her. “How do you take your coffee?”

“With cream.”

She watched his long-legged stride carry him to the bar. Sheriff Chandler was as good-looking from the back as he was from the front, she decided. He had the widest shoulders, longest legs and the tightest butt—

Stunned by the direction her thoughts had taken, Brenna quickly looked away. Had she lost her mind? She had absolutely no interest in Dylan Chandler. No way. None.

“Here you go,” he said, returning with their coffee. He placed two mugs on the table, then seated himself in the chair opposite her.

Taking a sip of the steamy liquid, Brenna listened to a country ballad playing on the jukebox as she waited for him to tell her what was on his mind. She wanted to get this over and put some distance between them. Something about the man made her insides quiver and her nerves tingle. And she was mere seconds away from going in search of the nearest candy machine for a chocolate fix.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, she cleared her throat and asked, “What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”

He smiled at her over the top of his cup, making her heart skip a beat. “You got the wrong impression this afternoon and I’d like to set things straight.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “I wasn’t making light of the situation. But this is a small town, with small-town ways. When someone moves in, most everyone tries to do the neighborly thing and welcome the newcomer with open arms.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit most folks are a little more subtle than Pete, but believe me, he has the best intentions. After you left the office, I talked to him and it was just as I thought—he was only trying to make you feel a part of the community.”

Brenna set her cup down and tried to ignore the tingling sensation skimming up her spine from the sound of his smooth baritone. “Before today, I’d never laid eyes on the man. How was I to know about his neighborly tradition?”

“I’m sure it was unnerving,” he said, nodding. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

“If that’s not it, then what’s the purpose of this?”

“I think you have the right to know why I was so defensive about Pete.”

“Okay, I’m listening, Sheriff. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“Will you stop that?” For reasons he’d rather not dwell on, Dylan wanted to hear her velvet voice say his name. “Call me Dylan.”

“Okay…Dylan. Why are you so protective of Pete?”

He slowly placed his cup on the table as he tried to collect his thoughts. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, insisting that she use his name. The sound had sent his blood pressure up a couple of dozen points and made his mouth go dry.

“If you’ll remember, I told you I’ve known Pete all my life,” he said, finally forcing words past the cotton in his throat. “In fact, he lives with me.”

Dylan paused. This was the part he dreaded. But it would be better coming from him than from someone else. And she’d find out soon enough anyway.

Clearing his throat, he met her expectant gaze head-on. “Pete Winstead is my uncle.”

Her expressive blue eyes widened. “No wonder you were so adamant about him being harmless. Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”

Relieved she wasn’t throwing something at him for withholding that bit of information, Dylan grinned. “To tell the truth, I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing. I’ve warned him for years that something like this might happen.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think Pete will be a lot less enthusiastic about his greetings from now on. He was pretty upset that he’d frightened you and made me promise to talk to you the first chance I got.”

“I can understand your frustration,” she said, nodding. “I live with a pretty eccentric relative of my own. I hope Pete’s not too upset.”

Her lips turned up and Dylan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Brenna Montgomery could drop a three hundred pound lumberjack with that smile of hers.

“Don’t worry about Pete.” Dylan cringed at the rust in his voice. Clearing his throat, he went on, “He’ll get over it. Nothing gets him down for long.”

“He sounds like my grandmother.” Grinning, she shook her head. “On second thought, I don’t think anyone’s like Granny.”

In spite of the warning bells clanging in his brain, Dylan grinned right back. “She’s not your typical, rocking chair senior citizen?”

“No,” Brenna said, laughing.

Dylan felt his gut do a cartwheel and sweat pop out on his upper lip. When Brenna Montgomery let herself, she could be downright devastating. She had the most delightful laugh. And her lips were just meant for kissing.

He frowned. What was wrong with him? She was too unpredictable, too anxious to upset the status quo. She’d not only complained about his uncle Pete’s forty year tradition, she’d goaded him into taking her damned class and missing the Tuesday night poker game—a ritual he hadn’t missed in the last ten years. Until tonight.

No doubt about it. The lady was trouble. And he’d do well to remember that. He suddenly looked around. The poker game would be breaking up soon. The last thing he needed was for the boys to come out of the back room and start asking why he’d missed the game.

“Is something wrong?” Brenna asked. “All of a sudden you look rather grim.”

“Uh…no.” Dylan glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think we’d better call it a night.”

Rising from his chair, he offered his hand. But the moment she placed her hand in his, he knew he’d made a big mistake. Her tender flesh slid along his callused palm like a piece of fine silk, and it took monumental effort on his part not to groan aloud.

He said nothing as he released her hand and followed her out into the night. He couldn’t. His mind and body were at war, and it took every bit of his concentration to keep from acting on his first impulse.

Trouble or not, Dylan wanted to take Brenna in his arms and kiss her senseless.

“Where’s your car parked?” he asked.

“My grandmother borrowed it for the evening.” She glanced at her watch. “But it’s probably at home by now.” She started down the street. “See you in class next week.”

He caught her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. “You walked?”

Nodding, she shrugged out of his grip. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s dark.”

“It gets that way at night,” she said, dryly. “And that’s a problem, because…?”

“It’s not safe.”

She met his frown with one of her own. “You’ve just spent the last half hour telling me what a friendly place Tranquillity is. Now you’re telling me it’s not safe to walk the streets?” She folded her arms and glared up at him. “Make up your mind, Sheriff. What kind of place is this?”

“For the most part, Tranquillity is about as safe as any place can be,” he admitted, trying not to stare at the way her full breasts rested on her folded arms. He focused his gaze on the safer area of her forehead. “But once in a while a cowboy from one of the ranches around here gets tanked up and starts to thinking he’s Don Juan.”

Taking her by the elbow, Dylan hustled her toward his restored ’49 Chevy pickup parked across the deserted street. “I’ve already gotten one complaint from you today. I’d just as soon skip the second.”

“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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