Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy

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       “Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll plan on heading to the bar around ten. In my experience, nothing much happens before that time in bars.”

       “Why don’t you meet me at my house and we’ll go together?” he suggested.

       “That isn’t necessary,” she protested.

       “Oh, but it is. A beautiful woman like you would be eaten alive in that dive.”

       She leaned forward and gave him a smile that torched through him. “Have you forgotten, Sheriff Caldwell, I’m an FBI agent and I carry a gun?”

       “And might I remind you that you don’t know the players, you won’t know who else in the bar might be carrying, and as a responsible member of the law enforcement of this town, I can’t allow you to go in there alone.” There was more than a hint of steel in his deep voice.

       He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He hadn’t wanted her here in the first place, he didn’t like the way she made him feel, and yet here he was, insisting he go with her to a rowdy bar on a Friday night.

       He told himself he’d use her to help solve the crime and that was all he wanted from her, but even as this thought shot through his mind, it battled with the question of what her lips would feel like beneath his own.