Under The Western Sky. Laurie Paige
cake. She glanced at her watch. Past noon. She was tired and ready for a nap since she’d been called out on a delivery at five that morning.
Babies always chose the most inconvenient times to arrive, but all had gone well with the birth. Now she wanted to go home. Food and sleep. She needed both, she admitted, unable to suppress a huge yawn.
“Have a seat,” he said, interrupting the yawn and giving her a speculative once-over.
She wondered what he was speculating about. Maybe her eligibility? She almost grinned at the ridiculous idea. The handsome shopkeeper was all business as he set the box on the floor. Ah, well.
“Sorry, I was up early this morning,” she said when he caught her yawning again.
His cocoa-dark eyes slid over her once more, then returned to his task. He opened the cardboard flaps and began placing the pots and vases on a table next to the desk in the messy, crowded office.
Watching his hands, Julianne was reminded of an artist she knew in her hometown of Albuquerque. His fingers were lean, too, the backs of his hands sinewy. Strong hands. Capable. Confident.
This man’s were the same. There was also sensitivity in his touch as if he was aware that, in this pottery, he handled the creation of someone’s mind and heart. He therefore treated it with great care.
The proprietor’s air of concentration surprised her. He examined each piece of pottery as if it were a rare and precious find. There were six pieces in all.
She looked more closely at the wares. They were black glazed, a type that was popular with tourists, with an allover pattern intricately detailed in a way that few potters did nowadays since it was time-consuming.
“How much do you want for these?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She’d assumed that was all taken care of. Josiah hadn’t mentioned a price. “How much do you think they’re worth?”
“A thousand.”
At the quick, flat statement, she was totally taken aback. “Really? That seems like a lot. But I actually don’t know,” she added, not wanting to cast doubts on Josiah’s abilities.
She’d had no idea he could get prices like that, especially in a place like this. She glanced around the dusty, cluttered office and shrugged. The tourist trade must be more lucrative than she’d thought.
“Cash or check?” he asked.
She considered. She was pretty sure the couple didn’t have a bank account. They’d paid her twenty-five dollars a month for eight months for the delivery of the baby. “Cash.”
He counted out ten crisp one hundred-dollar bills and held them out to her. When she reached for the money, his other hand shot out and he snapped a handcuff on her wrist.
She froze in terror. Like images from a horror movie, scenes hurtled through her mind—broken glass from a patio door, a pool of blood, death, the bewilderment of the child who stared at the horrible sight.
In the next instant, the training from years of self-defense courses kicked in, overriding the fear. Instead of struggling to get away, she crashed into the man, using her head to butt him under the chin, since she wasn’t tall enough to reach his nose.
She twisted her captured hand, turning his wrist back so he had to let go of the other end of the cuffs. With the heel of her left hand, she slammed into his nose and felt a satisfying crunch of cartilage.
“Ow,” he yelled, dropping the cash.
When he tried to recapture her hand, she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, ignored a sharp pain in her big toe as a result and stomped on his instep as she brought her foot down. Then she ran.
Tony Aquilon cursed a blue streak, but that didn’t stanch the blood pouring from his nose. Ignoring his wounds—not the least of which was to his pride—he started after her at a dead run. He could hear the fugitive shrieking as she ran down the street.
“Fire!” she shouted. “Fire!”
A mechanic, wiping his hands on a grease rag, appeared at the door of the garage next door. A couple peered out from the used-furniture store across the street. Two beer-drinking, taco-munching patrons at an outside table of a tiny cantina hardly bothered to look up.
Tony grimaced at this new ploy by the damn sneaky female. He went after her as fast as his limp would allow.
“Call 911,” she yelled.
Nobody did anything. Live and Let Live was the motto of the folks in this neighborhood, he could have told her.
“Stop. That’s an order,” he bellowed, feeling like a fool with his damn nose bleeding all over the place.
She flashed a calculating glance over her shoulder and slowed down a bit.
He caught her halfway down the block just before she scrambled into a car, managing to wedge his arm and body in the opening without getting his fingers or other important parts mangled in the process.
“Got ya,” he murmured.
Again she didn’t fight fair. Instead of pulling away, she threw herself at him, trying to break his hold.
“Man, you’re just full of tricks, aren’t you?” he muttered. Holding her was like grasping a maddened wildcat.
While he enjoyed wrestling around with a woman, this wasn’t exactly the situation he’d envisioned, he thought with fleeting humor. He had a second to appreciate the strength in her slender curves before she tried to pound his head against the car. He grabbed her hands, spun her around so her back was to him and got her under control. Sort of.
He barely had time to note the tight little butt that nestled into the groove where his lower body joined his legs before she lifted her arms over her head and tried to choke him with the handcuffs across his throat.
His defensive move was easy due to his much greater upper-body strength. He grabbed her wrists and forced her arms down, trapping her hands across her waist, his arms wrapped around her. Now he simply held her while she squirmed against him like the proverbial worm on a hot rock.
They stayed there panting, their minds busy with plans, hers obviously on escape, his on holding her without further injury to his nose, pride and other vulnerable parts.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to ease up. No tricks,” he warned and stepped away from her, acutely aware of her well-toned body, her feminine shape and her heaving bosom that had lightly touched his upper arm with each breath. He astutely kept her trapped in the triangle of the car, its open door and his body.
She pivoted toward him and tried to poke his eyes out with two fingers.
“That isn’t ladylike,” he informed her, grabbing the cuffs and managing to get both her hands secured at last.
“Please, call the police,” she called to the men at the cantina where the cook had joined the two diners.
“For God’s sake,” Tony snapped. “I am the police.”
“You think I’d believe that for a minute?”
He ignored her sarcasm. “You’re under arrest.”
“What for?”
“Resisting arrest for one. Passing stolen goods for another. Assaulting an officer. Leaving the scene of a crime.” He gave her a grin, starting to feel good about the situation now that he had her subdued. Somewhat subdued, he added to himself, wary of another attack from her. “You’re good for twenty years to life, honey.”
She then gave one of the best performances of shocked outrage he’d ever witnessed. “Resisting…stolen goods…assaulting an officer,” she spluttered incredulously. “You were the one doing the assaulting. I was merely defending myself. Besides, you don’t look like any policeman I ever saw.”
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