Trouble with the Law (2 page)
Justine huddled in a plastic chair opposite the scuffed desk, hugging her arms around her body for warmth. She stared at the calendar on the wall. Someone had already turned the page to September, where a red circle marked the last Saturday of the month.
Her body tensed as she heard the door open and close behind her.
The young officer who’d hauled her in entered with light footsteps. He’d kept silent during the drive, but she had noticed his cautious glances. Once or twice he’d opened his mouth, clearly intending to speak, but had closed it again without saying a word. On their arrival at the low redbrick building bearing a sign for county administration and law enforcement, he’d ushered her down a corridor, and had left her waiting in an office with
Sheriff Taylor
stenciled over the glass door.
“Are you cold?” the officer asked as he circled the desk to face her.
Justine gave him a silent nod.
He strode out again, and returned clutching a shabby raincoat. He offered it to her, averting his gaze from her flimsy underwear and torn silk stockings. Justine glowered at him, her face twisted in disgust at the filthy garment. The man shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the raincoat on top of an open cardboard box crammed with manila folders.
“I want to make a phone call,” Justine said, keeping her voice even.
“It’s almost four in the morning.”
“I know.” She gestured at the clock on the wall.
“Who do you want to call? Husband? Boyfriend?”
“If I’m a hooker, I’d be calling my pimp.”
The officer expelled a resigned sigh. “I can explain.”
“You can save your explanations to my lawyer,” Justine told him. “I want to exercise my right to a telephone call.” Her eyes narrowed. “And believe me, Sheriff Taylor, once I’ve spoken to my lawyer, the heat under your backside is going to get so scorching that you’ll never sit comfortably again.”
The young man rose. “I’m not Sheriff Taylor. I’m Deputy Mickelson.”
Justine watched in silence as he stalked out to join another deputy engrossed in paperwork at an untidy desk. The pair huddled together, whispering, casting wary looks in her direction. Straining her ears, she could make out a few snippets of conversation.
The Sheriff will have your ass… Screwed up… The Harper woman… Didn’t know what else to do
.
A few minutes later, the older deputy marched into the office. His stomach strained over his belt, giving him a slovenly look. A worried frown lined his tired face. “Ma’am, I think we can clear up the situation real easy, if you just allow me to explain—”
“Lawyer,” Justine snapped, as if talking to a dog. “Phone call.” She clamped her mouth shut and fixed her attention on the wall calendar, refusing to engage in further conversation.
Eventually the deputy gave up and strode out. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pick a telephone, punch a button on the keypad, and speak a few hesitant words into the receiver.
Fifteen minutes later, Justine remained huddled in the plastic chair, shivering with cold, and she accepted that it might have been wiser to allow the deputies an opportunity to explain. She unfolded her legs, intending to get up, but an abrupt slam echoing down the corridor halted her. As she craned her neck to look through the glass door, she saw a broad shouldered man storming across the floor.
The newcomer burst into the office, instantly making the room appear smaller. “Miss Whitmore? I’m Sheriff Taylor.”
He paused to close the door and pull the blind over the glass panel before propping one hip over the corner of the desk. His gaze raked her body, but not a single flicker in his expression indicated there was anything unusual in her attire.
Justine stared at Sheriff Taylor. Something heavy settled over her chest, and suddenly she found it difficult to breathe.
Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and the black hair curled in an uncombed tangle around his face. Sleep softened the rugged features. The sensitive curve of his full mouth belied the angry glint in his eyes.
“Justine Whitmore, Academy House,
Philadelphia
“Yes…Where— How did you find out who I am?”
Sheriff Taylor reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt and clattered a collection of items onto the desk. Her American Express card, her Elizabeth Arden lipstick, a few coins. He lazily picked up the lipstick, unclipped the cover, and twisted out the color. “Seems a match,” he said, holding up the lipstick, squinting at her.
Justine met his gaze, and suddenly the world faded away. The eyes holding hers were dark green, and amusement glittered beneath the anger. She licked her lips, aware that not a trace of lipstick remained. The corners of the man’s mouth twitched, and suddenly a surge of heat flared on Justine’s face with such intensity she knew she’d blushed scarlet.
“Definitely a match,” Sheriff Taylor said. He lowered his arm and replaced the cap over the lipstick, then set it on the desk with a little clunk.
“I….” Justine stared at the stranger, who by his mere presence had tied her up in knots. “Where did you get my things?”
He responded with an easy shrug. “I passed by Rob Thornton’s guesthouse on the way over and picked them up from the ground.”
Justine nodded, remembering how she’d tipped out the contents of her evening bag in search of the room key. Evidently, she’d forgotten to scoop everything up.
The sheriff contemplated her with idle curiosity. “What brings you so far from home? It’s a three hour drive to
Philadelphia
.”
“I’m here for a wedding,” Justine explained. “Sandra Clements.”
“Sandra Clements?” The sheriff frowned. “Nobody by that name in
“She’s from
Elkhorn
, but it’s such a big wedding there wasn’t enough room at the motel, so the guests have spilled over into the neighboring towns.”
“
Elkhorn
?” Sheriff Taylor said. “The daughter of Bob Clements? Marrying some city boy who’s made a bundle evicting old ladies so he can knock down the tenements and replace them with high-priced condos?”
“It’s called urban regeneration,” Justine informed him tartly. “And the
boy
happens to be my boss, Steven Chandler. And he is thirty-seven, which I presume is almost as old as you are.” Pursing her lips, she surveyed the muscular man in front of her. “You can cut the patronizing act. You must be what, forty, forty-five tops?”
“My age is none of your business.” The sheriff stood up and turned his back on her, but Justine saw the smile he was trying to hide. A thrill swept over her. Then she caught her train of thought, and gave her head an angry shake. What was wrong with her? He was just a man, and in the course of her job as the head of public relations for Chandler Developments, she dealt with gorgeous hunks all the time. Male models who posed for advertising posters, sophisticated urbanites in tune with the latest trends. Men who dressed fashionably and invested time and money in personal grooming. Her eyes drifted over the sheriff’s jeans and khaki shirt, until they homed in on the blunt fingernails reaching up to another uniform shirt that hung from a hook on the wall.
Aha!
Sheriff Taylor was a nail-biter. Her lips curved into a satisfied smirk at finding a weakness in his intimidating strength.
“Did my men not offer you anything to wear?” the sheriff asked, turning to her.
Her skin tingled as his eyes lingered over her, and suddenly Justine became acutely aware of her state of undress. She pointed at the raincoat thrown over the box of files. “They did, but what they offered seemed to contain the
He tossed the khaki shirt at her. “That’s guaranteed clean.”
She picked up the garment that landed in her lap and inspected it gingerly. “How do you know?”
“Because I washed and ironed it myself,” Sheriff Taylor said as he walked back to the desk. “I always wear a clean shirt on Mondays.”
“Today’s Sunday.”
“I know.” He expelled a weary sigh. “My day off.”
Justine felt another blush stinging her cheeks as she quickly slotted her arms into the sleeves. The shirt flapped loose around her, and she rose to her feet to fold the front across her chest. The hem hung halfway down her thighs. A strange heat filled her as she contemplated that the fabric hugging her body had only a few days ago stretched taut over the broad shoulders and muscular arms of Sheriff Taylor.
She looked up as she heard his quick intake of breath.
“Your legs,” the sheriff said. “They’re covered in scratches, and there’s dried blood on your skin. Did my men use force to bring you in?”
Before she had time to reply, he closed the distance between them and dropped down on one knee in front of her. He ran his fingers over the scrapes on her shins, his touch so gentle he barely brushed her skin, but the contact hit her with the force of a knockout blow.
“No,” she whispered. “I got the scratches when I climbed in through the window.”
His halo of dark curls moved in a slow nod as he continued to check her legs for injuries. “You seem okay,” he said finally and stood up again.
Justine swallowed. She was far from all right, and if the sheriff didn’t realize the impact he had on her, he was a bigger fool than the two deputies outside.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked.
She peered at him, a little sheepish. “I had three glasses of champagne.”
“Did the deputies give you a field sobriety test to see if you were fit to drive?”
Her head snapped up. “I do
not
drink and drive.”
“Then how did you get to the guesthouse?”
Justine expelled a sigh. Sandra could testify that she’d been sober when she left the party, but for some reason she couldn't quite understand, it seemed terribly important to learn that Sheriff Taylor trusted her. “I brought a half empty bottle of champagne with me from the wedding reception. When I realized I’d lost the keys, I sat on the bench outside and drank it.” She flicked a glance at him. “That’s where my clothes are. On the bench. I took them off so I wouldn’t ruin my dress when I climbed up the trellis.”
“So, you transported an open container of alcohol in a vehicle and consumed alcohol in public? And then engaged in a recklessly dangerous activity?” He frowned at her. “You know you’ve broken several laws?”
Justine bit her lip, her eyes downcast. She expected Sheriff Taylor would slap her with a hefty fine, adding yet another disaster to her weekend, already hopelessly ruined. “I guess so,” she muttered.
He shook his head and gave her an easy smile, as if reading her thoughts. “What do you say we kill this mess without paperwork? Kurt and Leroy will apologize to you, and you can be gracious in your acceptance. Then I’ll drive you back to Rob Thornton’s guesthouse, and we’ll forget all about tonight. You won’t file a complaint, and I won’t book you for public intoxication.” His smile deepened, until lines fanned out from his dark green eyes.
Justine nodded. Most of his words made sense, but she had a premonition that forgetting the rugged Sheriff Taylor wouldn’t be as straightforward as he was suggesting.
She watched as he spent a few seconds rummaging in a desk drawer and patting the pockets of his jeans. Then he took her elbow. With old-fashioned courtesy, he helped her up and guided her out through the door. After a subdued exchange with the two deputies, they left the building. A black pick-up truck stood parked opposite the entrance. The sheriff clicked the locks open with a remote key and ushered her into the passenger seat.
During the drive to the guesthouse, he spoke quietly, almost as if talking to himself. “Leroy only became a sheriff’s deputy a year ago, and he’s still wet behind the ears. He panics easily. Mrs. Harper is a pain in the ass. Every year she books a week at Rob Thornton’s guesthouse, and every time she finds some reason to complain, so she can beat down the room rate.”