Ambushed At Christmas. Barb Han

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      “THIS IS MY TRAIL,” Leah said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. Deacon Kent’s serious gray-blue eyes scrutinizing her were throwing her off-kilter. She reholstered her weapon, resting her hand on the butt for comfort and because she needed to touch something to push her reset button. Her fingers still tingled with sensations from touching the good-looking cowboy.

      “You weren’t scared to come out here alone after what happened last night?” It seemed like it was his turn to dig information out of her. She figured, with his connections, after one phone call from him to headquarters she’d be hauled into the chief’s office to explain why she’d accused a Texas millionaire—billionaire?—of tampering with a crime scene. She hadn’t specifically accused him and there was something about the cowboy—those serious eyes sure seemed honest—that almost had her believing he wouldn’t play that card. But she hadn’t made detective at the age of thirty by taking people for their word or letting every good-looking male off the hook.

      She pulled out her earbud and stuck it in between them. “That’s why I only use one earbud. Keep the other one free to listen so no one surprises me.”

      “But I caught you off guard and that’s why your heart’s still thumping. Anyone else could’ve done the same thing.” He emphasized his point by dropping his gaze to the base of her throat, causing all kinds of heat to flush her cheeks.

      “I was jogging. That’s why my heart was, is, racing.” Kent placated her by letting that little lie fly by. Being courteous must have been part of his Cowboy Code. “The path isn’t that busy at this time of night. It’s not rush hour. It’s not isolated, either.”

      He shot her a look of disbelief, but she had no plans to detail out how hard she’d fought against her fears and why it was even more important to her now to face them.

      “You can take those gloves off.”

      He did, and her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest like a schoolgirl crush when she saw there was no ring on his left-hand finger. She told herself that she was just doing her job. It was true enough. She did get paid to notice things.

      “Mr. Kent—”

      “Call me Deacon,” he insisted.

      She didn’t like being informal with someone she’d considered a possible suspect a few minutes ago, but figured if she threw him a few bones, he’d walk away without a formal complaint. The other irritating part about him was how much his voice—a dark ale kind of timbre—trailed down her spine, causing tingles she didn’t even want to consider. “Deacon.” His first name sounded less awkward coming out of her mouth than she’d expected. That little tinge of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips almost made her feel like he enjoyed hearing it. “I can see that your intentions are good, if misguided.”

      He started to cut her off but she held her finger up to quiet him. The move would probably be gasoline on a fire.

      Instead of flying off the handle, he smiled a smug smile, folded his arms and leaned back against the tree like they were old friends having a casual conversation. This guy was too smooth and full of contradictions. His calloused hands said he worked hard but a man with his family money wouldn’t have to work a day. His tanned olive skin said he spent his days outside. He was tall and strong; she’d seen his jeans stretch against seriously muscled thighs when he walked.

      Normally, sizing someone up for a threat didn’t seem invasive or personal in the way being with Deacon Kent did.

      “I can understand your interest in this case. However, I shouldn’t need to warn you the person responsible is dangerous. You might think investigating on your own is smart, but—” СКАЧАТЬ