Let me set the scene -- Nickie has called 911 because she hears noises outside her old house in the small Iowa town. Two hunky deputy sheriffs answer the call, one more handsome than the other and also more irritating. Deputy Hank Crossman questions her, making it obvious he doubts there is any prowler. Jerk...
As soon as Pete banged out the back screen door, Deputy Crossman continued his interrogation as if he'd never been interrupted. "Married?"
She paused. "No, but that doesn't have anything to do with this."
His chocolate gaze heated her. She forced herself not to lick her lips. Cute didn't begin to describe him. Rugged, movie star, masculine hunk described him. Feeling slightly flustered, she qualified, "Well, not anymore." This is none of his business.
"You're from Chicago? What do you do there?" He asked questions but hadn't written anything down since he'd asked her name.
"Aren't you even taking notes?"
He tapped his temple. "Memory, ma'am."
"So, what do you do in Chicago?" Now he rested his hands on his hips and dropped all pretense of official questions, his voice going from bland to interested.
"Not that it has anything to do with any of this, but I do architectural rehab. Painting, moldings, floor finishing."
"How so?" She frowned.
"That you do that, and your aunt's house…"
"What does that mean?"
"How long have you been divorced?"
He changed the subject again and to something not at all pertinent. Where was that other guy? "You know, I want to put some clothes on." She flushed hot, feeling perspiration pop out on her upper lip, under her breasts. Being almost naked under this robe was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute. His questions were too personal, and he asked them for no earthly reason than…well, she didn't know why. "I'm going upstairs."
"Better not. The prowler might be up there."
"Well, you don't seem concerned enough about it to quit asking me nonsensical questions and check for yourself, so I'm not going to worry about it either." She took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
Ripping open the closet door in her bedroom, she grabbed a pair of jeans and struggled into them hopping first on one foot then the other. A T-shirt that she'd taken off earlier lay on the bed. She started to pull it over her head. A bra. The robe was bad enough; she couldn't go back down without a bra.
Hands shaking and in a rush, she hooked the snap between her breasts, jiggling a little to settle herself in the cups. She rubbed at the burning prickles on the back of her neck. Crossman. It was Crossman. She knew it was him before she turned around.
He stared at her from the darkened hallway, his rapt gaze heating her skin. She crossed her arms over her breasts. To give the devil his due, he drew his gaze up to her face. She wondered if he was married, because the way he looked at her made her hope he wasn't. She didn't want to get involved in any complication like that again.
Suddenly, he was gone.
Whoa, back up there, girl. Prowler. Remember? The whole reason for all this. A couple of good looking cops have ridden to your rescue, and you're vulnerable right now. Yes, she was vulnerable physically and emotionally. She yanked the T-shirt on and headed out the door. How had things gotten so out of hand?
A foot shuffling sound caught her attention. There he was at the end of the hall, leaning his behind on the window sill. She couldn't see his expression for the dark shadows, thankfully. His eyes were dark enough in the full light.
She shivered at his deep-voiced apology.
"The door was open. I was just checking on you."
He sounded sincere. "Okay," she managed to respond grudgingly before she headed for the stairs. She still had the prowler situation to deal with and another deputy in the house.
Back in the kitchen, said deputy swung open the back door and stepped inside. "Someone was out there."
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Jane Leopold Quinn
My Romance: Love With a Scorching Sensuality
Amazon Author Page http://amzn.to/1DfiXkP