Flirting with the Socialite Doc. Melanie Milburne

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СКАЧАТЬ his hat, his voice a low, deep burr in the silence of the still night air. ‘Dr Courtney.’

      ‘Sergeant Fletcher.’ If he was going to be so formal then so was she. Weren’t country people supposed to be friendly? If so, he was certainly showing no signs of it.

      His tight frown put his features into shadow. ‘It’s late to be out walking.’

      ‘I like walking.’

      ‘It’s not safe to do it on your own.’

      ‘But it’s so quiet out here.’

      ‘Doesn’t make it safe.’ His expression was grimly set. ‘You’d be wise to take appropriate measures in future.’

      Izzy put her chin up pertly. ‘I didn’t happen to see a taxi rank anywhere.’

      ‘Do you have a car?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Next time use it or get a lift with one of the locals.’ He opened the passenger door of the police vehicle. ‘Hop in. I’ll run you home.’

      Izzy bristled at his brusque manner. ‘I would prefer to walk, if you don’t mind. It’s only a block and I—’

      His grey-blue eyes hardened. ‘I do mind. Get in. That’s an order.’

      The air seemed to pulse with invisible energy as those strong eyes held hers. She held his gaze for as long as she dared, but in the end she was the first to back down. Her eyes went to his mouth instead and a frisson of awareness scooted up her spine to tingle each strand of her hair on her scalp. Something shifted in her belly...a turning, a rolling-over sensation, like something stirring after a long hibernation.

      His mouth was set tightly, as tight and determined as his jaw, which was in need of a fresh shave. His eyes were fringed with dark lashes, his eyebrows the same rich dark brown as his hair. His skin was deeply tanned and it was that stark contrast with his eyes that was so heart-stopping. Smoky grey one minute, ice-blue the next, the outer rims of his irises outlined in dark blue, as if someone had traced their circumference with a fine felt-tip marker.

      Eyes that had seen too much and stored the memories away somewhere deep inside for private reflection...or haunting.

      ‘Fine, I’ll get in,’ Izzy said with bad grace. ‘But you really need to work on your kerb-side manner.’

      He gave her an unreadable look as he closed the door with a snap. She watched him stride around to the driver’s side, his long legs covering the distance in no time at all. He was two or three inches over six feet and broad shouldered and lean hipped. When he joined her in the car she felt the space shrink alarmingly. She drew herself in tightly, crossing her arms and legs to keep any of her limbs from coming into contact with his powerfully muscled ones.

      The silence prickled like static electricity.

      ‘Peggy McLeod told me about your father’s accident,’ Izzy said as he pulled to the kerb outside her cottage half a minute later. She turned in her seat to look at him. ‘I’m sorry. That must be tough on both of you.’

      Zach’s marble-like expression gave nothing away but she noticed his hands had tightened on the steering-wheel. ‘Do you make house calls?’

      ‘I...I guess so. Is that what Dr Sawyer did?’

      ‘Once a week.’

      ‘Then I’ll do it too. When would you like me to come?’

      Some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders but he didn’t turn to look at her. ‘I’ll ring Margie and make an appointment.’

      ‘Fine.’

      Another silence.

      ‘Look, about that little mix-up back at the pub—’ she began.

      ‘Forget it,’ he cut her off. ‘I’ll wait until you get inside. Lock the door, won’t you?’

      Izzy frowned. ‘You know you’re really spooking me with this over-vigilance. Don’t you know everyone in a town this size by name?’

      ‘We have drive-throughs who cause trouble from time to time. It’s best not to take unnecessary risks.’

      ‘Not everyone is a big bad criminal, Sergeant Fletcher.’

      He reached past her to open her door. Izzy sucked in a sharp breath as the iron bar of his arm brushed against her breasts, setting every nerve off like a string of fireworks beneath her skin.

      For an infinitesimal moment her gaze meshed with his.

      He had tiny blue flecks in that unreadable sea of grey and his pupils were inky-black. He smelt of lemons with a hint of lime and lemongrass and something else...something distinctly, arrantly, unapologetically male.

      A sensation like the unfurling petals of a flower brushed lightly over the floor of her belly.

      Time froze.

      The air tightened. Pulsed. Vibrated.

      ‘Sorry.’ He pulled back and fixed his stare forward again, his hands gripping the steering-wheel so tightly his tanned knuckles were bone white.

      ‘No problem.’ Izzy’s voice came out a little rusty. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

      He didn’t drive off until she had closed the door of the cottage. She leant back against the door and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, listening as his car growled away into the night.

      * * *

      ‘So what did your friend actually send you for your birthday?’ Margie Green asked as soon as Izzy arrived at the clinic the next morning.

      ‘I haven’t opened it yet.’ Because I stupidly left it in Sergeant Fletcher’s car last night.

      Margie’s eyes were twinkling. ‘What on earth made you think our Zach was a male stripper?’

      Izzy cringed all over again. Was every person in town going to do this to her? Remind her of what a silly little idiot she had been? If so, four weeks couldn’t go fast enough. ‘Because it’s exactly the sort of thing my friend Hannah would do. As soon as I saw him standing there I went into panic mode. I didn’t stop to think that he could be a real cop. I didn’t even know if Jerringa Ridge had a cop. I didn’t have time to do much research on the post because the agency asked me to step in for someone at the last minute.’

      ‘We have two cops...or one and a half really,’ Margie said. ‘We used to have four but with all the government cutbacks that’s no longer the case. Rob Heywood is close to retirement so Zach does the bulk of the work. He’s a hard worker is our Zach. You won’t find a nicer man out in these parts.’

      ‘I’m not here to find a man.’ Why did every woman over fifty—including her own mother—seem to think younger women had no other goal than to get married? ‘I’m here to work.’

      Margie cocked her head at a thoughtful angle. ‘You’re here for four weeks. These СКАЧАТЬ