Baby Dreams. Raye Morgan

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       Two

      Okay, so this was going to be a little more complicated than he’d thought. Rafe eased the car around the corner, wheels spinning in the snow, and avoided looking in the rearview mirror. With the storm coming in, he was probably going to be stuck with her for the night. Oh, well. It came with the job. And it had been so long since he’d arrested anyone, he’d almost forgotten how to do it.

      “Here we are,” he said as the car slid to a stop beside the old adobe building. “Hold on a minute. I’ll get your door.”

      He wasn’t being gallant, merely careful. With the rap sheet this lady carried in her background, he wasn’t going to take any chances. She was tougher than she looked—had to be, with the things she’d done lately. He held the door and watched her emerge awkwardly from the car, and then wished he hadn’t.

      She had the longest damn legs he’d seen in some time. And what was she doing wearing a skirt up here in the mountains, anyway? Nobody wore skirts around here. And if she had to wear a skirt, why couldn’t she control it better? She didn’t have to let it hike halfway up like that.

      He knew that was hardly fair. After all, she was still in handcuffs. Still, it made him feel better to complain, even silently. The way she moved did allow him to get a good look at some of the most beautiful legs he’d ever gawked at, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do—not at her. She was a suspect, for Pete’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to notice her legs, or anything else about her. It wasn’t professional. He swore at himself and looked away. No, this definitely was no cinch.

      “We’ll go on in,” he told her, turning her and pointing her in the right direction. “We’ll get the proper forms filled out, and then we’ll call Santa Fe.” There was still a chance they would come on out and pick her up right away. It all depended on how badly they wanted her.

      “Okay,” she said absently, gazing about herself.

      A city girl all the way, Cami had been expecting a nice brick building swarming with experience-toughened cops who would be crusty but ready to hear the truth if it were presented correctly. One call to some sort of centralized information bank, one check of the picture with the arrest warrant for Billie Joe, one look at Cami herself in the light, and this whole fabrication of her supposed criminal career would crumble into the dust. Apologies all around. Someone would drive her back to her car and send her on her way. And it would be all over.

      No such luck.

      “This is it?” she asked in wonder as he led her through the thickening snowbanks into the small adobe building set right against the street. She looked to the right and to the left and saw no more than three or four small buildings set back along the side of the road, one of which had a sign that read Country Store and had a bus stop designation hanging out front. The place was barely a crossroads, much less a town.

      “This is your police station?” Standing in the middle of the floor, she looked from side to side at the desk, the table and two chairs, the television set, the small, old-fashioned cell in the corner of the room. “Where’s the rest of it?”

      The only sign that he’d heard her was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as he came in behind her, shrugging out of his jacket. With one quick, deft movement, he unlocked the handcuffs and removed them, setting them down on the desk beside the hat he had just removed, as well, then pulled up a chair. “Sit down and we’ll get the paperwork started,” he suggested.

      “This looks like something right out of an old Western movie,” she said, still looking around nervously and rubbing her wrists. “A relic.”

      “It is,” he told her calmly, dropping into the desk chair and pulling a typewriter into position. “It’s been here since 1889.”

      “That’s over a hundred years.” She tucked her arms in close and shivered, as though the ghosts of all that history were treading on her space.

      “You got it.”

      Looking down, she eyed the ancient machine he was adjusting. “Is that why you still use a typewriter? Just to keep in line with the historical accuracy of the place?” She pointed to the television in the corner of the room. “In which case, that’s certainly an anachronism you ought to get rid of.”

      He gestured toward the chair once more and said with cool formality, “I still use a typewriter because the good people of this little town can’t afford to buy me a computer.”

      She sat down with a thump and glared at him, annoyed that he was ordering her around, even if silently, and even more annoyed with herself for letting him get away with it. “I guess that means they probably got you dirt cheap, too, doesn’t it?”

      He looked her full in the face and his voice hardened. “It does. But no matter what I get paid, I’m still the sheriff. That means I’m the law here, lady.” It was something he was going to have to remember around this woman. “I think it’s time you stopped and thought that over.”

      She did, but only for a moment. She resented his tone, and she told him so.

      He gave her a long-suffering look. “Okay, if you want to argue about every detail of this arrest, we can do that. But that will only delay filling out the forms I need before I call Santa Fe and get to the bottom of this.”

      She knew he was right, but she could hardly help complaining. After all, this was a case of mistaken identity. How dare he keep her here this way? “Meanwhile I get to cool my heels here in a jail cell?” she said, looking over her shoulder at the bars and shuddering lightly.

      His gaze darkened as he looked at her. Her hair was floating around her face in a cloud of silver and gold that set off the crystal blue of her eyes. He’d noticed the shudder and he assumed it was part of her act. He had to admit, she was damn good. “Look at it this way—it’ll keep you out of trouble for an hour or so.”

      Her chin rose and she glared at him. “I don’t need to be kept out of trouble.”

      He shrugged, turning away. “It’s pretty obvious you need a keeper of some kind,” he muttered.

      “Hey, I don’t like the sound of that.” He didn’t seem to care, so she got tougher. “What are you, some kind of sexist pig?” she said pointedly.

      That got his attention. He turned back and stared at her, his eyes hard as tinted glass. “Excuse me?” he said icily.

      She turned down the corners of her mouth and lifted her chin. “That was a purely sexist comment.”

      He considered her words for a moment, tilting his head to the side, before shaking it slowly. “No, I don’t think so,” he drawled at last. “I would have said the same to any criminal, male or female.”

      She flushed, but luckily he’d already turned away again, so he didn’t see it.

      “You’re the one who’s going to look ridiculous when it all comes out and you see that I was absolutely right,” she told him quickly. “I am Cami Bishop. I’ve never even heard of this Billie Joe person.” He didn’t respond, and she tried again. “Who am I going to have to see to get compensated for this outrage? I’m going to sue the СКАЧАТЬ