Fit To Be Frisked. Carol Finch

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      MIRANDA SWITCHED ON the sirens and lights when she saw the dark blue extended cab pickup whizzing toward town. The driver was doing eight miles over the speed limit and she intended to call him on it.

      When the truck pulled over, Miranda swerved off the road and climbed from the squad car. She opened her mouth to ask what the big rush was all about then snapped her jaw shut when she glanced through the open window to see the spic-and-span version of the dusty cowboy she’d encountered for the fifth time in three days.

      “Great,” she muttered sourly. He was like a curse that wouldn’t go away.

      Vance rolled his eyes, sighed audibly and lifted his hand, palm upward. “Just gimme the blasted ticket. I was speeding. I’m late for a date. I’m guilty,” he said, staring straight through the windshield—anywhere but at her.

      Miranda frowned pensively. Vance definitely deserved a fine for speeding, but if she gave it to him she predicted her uncle would think she was out to get this cowboy. Damn, she prided herself in going by the book—until the morning she clashed with Vance and allowed her fierce reaction to interfere with her job.

      Although it went against the grain she decided not to ticket Vance, for fear he’d twist this incident against her during the conference with the chief. “Just slow this thing down, speed demon,” she ordered brusquely.

      He nodded then cast her a quick sidelong glance. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

      Well, at least he was showing some respect. No corny jokes, no teasing grins. No flirtation or appraising stares. So why did she feel a little disappointed that he wouldn’t even look at her? He was going out on a date. Why did she care? She didn’t. It didn’t bother her in the least. Right?

      When Vance put the truck in gear and cruised off Miranda stood by the roadside, watching the taillights disappear over the hill.

      Wasn’t there some law of nature stating that five chance meetings in the course of three days defied probability? She’d been in Hoot’s Roost for almost two months, encountering a variety of citizens while on patrol. And then wham! She couldn’t turn around without bumping into Vance Ryder.

      “Well, surely that’s the last I’ll see of him before Saturday’s meeting,” she muttered as she hiked back to her car.

      She had only two hours left on her split shift. Then she could return to the garage apartment she’d rented, treat herself to a warm, relaxing bath, watch a movie on TV then bed down for the night. Tomorrow she’d psyche herself up for her final confrontation with Vance Ryder. Life would return to normal and she’d focus on moving forward with her career.

      That wasn’t asking too much, was it? Of course not…so why did the prospect of Vance turning all his country charm on his date cause this unfamiliar twinge in the pit of her belly? There was nothing—absolutely nothing—between them, she told herself as she flicked on her headlights and cruised off.

      VANCE TWIRLED MAGGIE Davidson around the dance floor at Hoot’s Tavern, telling himself that he was having a good time. Maggie was personable and attractive. She was good company. They’d grown up together and they shared similar backgrounds and interests. So why were visions of Randi Jackson—naked—buzzing around his head? Sheesh, what was the matter with him? And why hadn’t she given him the ticket he deserved?

      He thought about that for a minute and decided it wasn’t because she’d decided to go easy on him. But rather, because she didn’t want him to have the slightest leverage to use against her when they met with Tate.

      “You okay?” Maggie asked as she led the way back to their table, after the fast-tempoed song ended.

      “Great.” Vance flashed a wide smile. “Couldn’t be better.”

      “You seem kinda distracted,” Maggie observed.

      “Well, maybe a little.” Half-truth. He was distracted—a lot. “I have to meet with the chief and the lady cop in the morning to find out how much lighter I’ll be in the wallet.”

      Maggie chuckled. “I heard about that. Or rather, I heard the yelling coming from the chief’s office. Miranda is a do-gooder. She’s nice and all that.”

      Nice wasn’t the word Vance would’ve used to describe her, but he kept his mouth shut.

      “I think she’s trying to overachieve, to prove herself to the rest of the men on the force. Her dad and older brothers work for OCPD,” she informed him. “Tate is giving her the chance to gain her footing before she’s promoted to the big city. You know, learn the ropes out here in the boonies where СКАЧАТЬ