of her jeans.
“I don't smoke.” He hitched at his slacks and hunkered down in front of her, his mouth twitching at one corner with cynical amusement. “It's not good for you.”
She forced a wry laugh, dousing the stub of her cigarette in what coffee was left in the cup. “What is these days besides oat bran and abstinence?”
“Telling the truth, for starters,” he said placidly.
She raised her head and sucked in a breath of air, startled by his nearness. He made no move to touch her, but she could feel him just the same, as if he'd reached out and caressed her.
Instinctively she leaned back, but her fanny hit the front of his desk and she realized he had her trapped. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.
“Telling the truth is my business, Sheriff,” she said, struggling to sound prim instead of breathless.
“Really? I thought you were a reporter.”
“Your towel, Sheriff.”
At Lorraine's stern, disapproving voice, Dane pushed himself to his feet and took the towel the dispatcher thrust at him.
“Thank you, Lorraine.”
“I've told those people out there you have nothing further to say, but they aren't leaving. Apparently they're waiting for
her
,” she said, stabbing Elizabeth with pointed look.
She rose on shaky legs, setting aside the coffee cup. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dane answered for her.
“She won't have anything to say to them.”
Eyes narrowed in annoyance, Elizabeth propped a hand on her hip. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much.”
“Not to the press you can't.”
“You're not a judge, you can't impose a gag order.”
He smiled slightly, wolfishly. “No, but if you push me far enough, I might be tempted to use one of these towels to accomplish the same job.” He turned to Lorraine, all the blatant sexuality tamed into a look of authority no sane person would have questioned. “Have Ellstrom roust them out of here. I'll be holding a press conference in the morning.”
The secretary nodded smartly and went to do his bidding. Dane dropped the towel to the wet spot on the floor and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe.
“For your information,” Elizabeth said defensively, “I had no intention of talking to them tonight.”
She wrapped her left arm across her stomach and rubbed at her bottom lip with her right thumb—nervously. No question about that. He wondered what she had to be so skittish about. What she had seen? What she had done? The electricity that sizzled in the air between them every time he got a little too close? No, he doubted that last one. She was far too experienced at wrapping men around her pinky to be shy of him. Unless it was his title that frightened her off.
“Is your refusal to talk to them just professional discourtesy, or are you more concerned about incriminating yourself?”
“Why should I be worried about that?” she challenged him. “You haven't charged me with anything. Or is that your cute little way of telling me you've decided I killed Jarvis, then obligingly called 911?” She crossed both arms in front of her. “Please, Sheriff, I hope I don't look that stupid.”
“Naw . . . stupid isn't how you look at all, Mrs. Stuart,” he drawled, sliding into the upholstered chair behind his desk.
Because he knew it would rattle her, he let his gaze glide down her from the top of her head to the wet spot on the knee of her tight jeans where the coffee had gotten her on its way to the floor. He was being an asshole and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Elizabeth Stuart was just the kind of woman who brought out the bastard in him—beautiful, ambitious, greedy, willing to use herself to get what she wanted, willing to use anyone she knew. His gaze drifted back up and lingered on the swells of her breasts.
“You ought to about have it all memorized by now, hadn't you?” Elizabeth snapped, dropping her hands to her hips.
He didn't apologize for his rudeness. Elizabeth doubted he ever apologized for
“I don't smoke.” He hitched at his slacks and hunkered down in front of her, his mouth twitching at one corner with cynical amusement. “It's not good for you.”
She forced a wry laugh, dousing the stub of her cigarette in what coffee was left in the cup. “What is these days besides oat bran and abstinence?”
“Telling the truth, for starters,” he said placidly.
She raised her head and sucked in a breath of air, startled by his nearness. He made no move to touch her, but she could feel him just the same, as if he'd reached out and caressed her.
Instinctively she leaned back, but her fanny hit the front of his desk and she realized he had her trapped. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.
“Telling the truth is my business, Sheriff,” she said, struggling to sound prim instead of breathless.
“Really? I thought you were a reporter.”
“Your towel, Sheriff.”
At Lorraine's stern, disapproving voice, Dane pushed himself to his feet and took the towel the dispatcher thrust at him.
“Thank you, Lorraine.”
“I've told those people out there you have nothing further to say, but they aren't leaving. Apparently they're waiting for
her
,” she said, stabbing Elizabeth with pointed look.
She rose on shaky legs, setting aside the coffee cup. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dane answered for her.
“She won't have anything to say to them.”
Eyes narrowed in annoyance, Elizabeth propped a hand on her hip. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much.”
“Not to the press you can't.”
“You're not a judge, you can't impose a gag order.”
He smiled slightly, wolfishly. “No, but if you push me far enough, I might be tempted to use one of these towels to accomplish the same job.” He turned to Lorraine, all the blatant sexuality tamed into a look of authority no sane person would have questioned. “Have Ellstrom roust them out of here. I'll be holding a press conference in the morning.”
The secretary nodded smartly and went to do his bidding. Dane dropped the towel to the wet spot on the floor and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe.
“For your information,” Elizabeth said defensively, “I had no intention of talking to them tonight.”
She wrapped her left arm across her stomach and rubbed at her bottom lip with her right thumb—nervously. No question about that. He wondered what she had to be so skittish about. What she had seen? What she had done? The electricity that sizzled in the air between them every time he got a little too close? No, he doubted that last one. She was far too experienced at wrapping men around her pinky to be shy of him. Unless it was his title that frightened her off.
“Is your refusal to talk to them just professional discourtesy, or are you more concerned about incriminating yourself?”
“Why should I be worried about that?” she challenged him. “You haven't charged me with anything. Or is that your cute little way of telling me you've decided I killed Jarvis, then obligingly called 911?” She crossed both arms in front of her. “Please, Sheriff, I hope I don't look that stupid.”
“Naw . . . stupid isn't how you look at all, Mrs. Stuart,” he drawled, sliding into the upholstered chair behind his desk.
Because he knew it would rattle her, he let his gaze glide down her from the top of her head to the wet spot on the knee of her tight jeans where the coffee had gotten her on its way to the floor. He was being an asshole and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Elizabeth Stuart was just the kind of woman who brought out the bastard in him—beautiful, ambitious, greedy, willing to use herself to get what she wanted, willing to use anyone she knew. His gaze drifted back up and lingered on the swells of her breasts.
“You ought to about have it all memorized by now, hadn't you?” Elizabeth snapped, dropping her hands to her hips.
He didn't apologize for his rudeness. Elizabeth doubted he ever apologized for
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