Out of Eden. Beth Ciotta
shifted so much as a pencil, he had a conniption fit.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know Curtis’s system. Ms. Vine can shift all the pencils she wants, and while she’s at it, I could use help organizing files.”
“That she’ll like. That,” he said, pointing to Shy, “she won’t.”
Jack had only met Dorothy Vine briefly, but long enough to know she’d view Shy as a hairy, four-legged disruption. He looked down and met the mutt’s baleful brown eyes. Could she be any more needy? “Ms. Vine will have to deal. Shy’s destructive when I leave her home alone.” He refreshed his coffee and moved into the disaster zone.
Ziffel followed. “Separation anxiety. Saw a special about it on Animal Planet. Stems from fear of abandonment. Especially prevalent in rescued strays.”
Jack sat at his desk and opened that day’s edition of the Eden Tribune—the rural voice of Miami County. Although the paper included state news, it typically focused on feel-good articles, local sports and community events. Far and away from the bleak and stark reports of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post. There was something to be said for Americana newspapers, especially by someone suffering big-city burnout. This week the paper brimmed with stories and advertisements for Eden’s upcoming Apple Festival.
Jack skimmed the classifieds while Ziffel spouted the advantages of hiring a dog trainer. “I don’t need a trainer. I’m not keeping her.” No mention of a missing dog in the lost-and-found section. “Figured I’d walk her around town. See if anyone recognizes her.”
“Without a collar and leash?”
Jack glanced up. “We have a leash law I don’t know about?”
Ziffel sniffed. “No law. But what if she attacks someone?”
“Shy’s afraid of her own shadow.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t attack if provoked. Just because she’s meek… Where is she, anyway?” Ziffel turned, stiffened.
Jack saw what he saw—Shy with her nose in the red-and-white signature box marked Kerri’s Confections. Shit. “Don’t—”
“Hey, you thieving mutt!”
“—yell.” Jack was on his deputy’s heels. The sight of Shy crouched and trembling with apple goo and flaky crumbs on her snout made him smile.
Ziffel was not amused. “You…scrounge. You…menace!”
He gripped the man’s bony shoulder. “You can’t blame the dog for wanting to sample something that smells so good.”
“She not only ate all the strudel,” he complained, “she peed on the floor.”
“That’s because you yelled. Relax. I’ll clean it up.” Jack patted Shy’s bowed head, then swiped several tissues from Dorothy’s desk.
“The strudel—”
“I’ll buy more.”
“Probably sold out already.” He swiped up the damaged box. “Dang nabbit!”
Dang nabbit? What the hell? Cops cursed. Most of them crudely and often. At least in Jack’s experience. Then again, this was Eden—paradise in the heartland. An old-fashioned town with old-fashioned values.
While Ziffel cleaned up the pastry disaster, Jack made a mental note to clean up his language—when in Rome—although he refused to substitute dang for damn or fudge for fuck. Although, damn, fuck should probably go. This should be interesting. Amused, he flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands.
The roar of an engine drew them both to the station’s front window.
Jack noted the rider with a raised brow. Was that…Holy shit. It was. On the heels of surprise came a jolt of lust. Typically he wasn’t attracted to biker chicks, but this one was sexy as hell in her short skirt, denim jacket and…Christ…were those combat boots?
“Spenser would have a fit if he saw Kylie on that motorcycle,” Ziffel said.
Jack wrestled with his own misgivings. “Because it’s not a Harley? Or because it’s dangerous?”
“Both.”
He was right. Spenser wouldn’t approve. Mostly because of the safety issue. Motorcyclists were twenty times as likely to die in a crash than someone riding in a car.
Great.
Now Jack felt compelled to lecture Kylie on the perils of the road as well as home security.
At least she was wearing a helmet.
He watched as she parked the sleek silver motorcycle in front of Hank’s Hardware. Given her obsession with Asia, he wasn’t surprised she’d chosen Kawasaki. “That her regular mode of transportation?”
“Her car’s in the shop. Usually she drives a Honda Civic.”
“She has a sudden aversion to the usual.”
“A sudden aversion to modesty, too,” Ziffel noted. “Who rides a bike in a skirt? What was she thinking?”
About shaking things up.
Jack noted her tousled ponytail when she whipped off her helmet, the way the flared skirt kissed the back of her toned, creamy thighs. He wondered about the color of her panties—bright green like her socks?
Touch her and I’ll kick your ass.
“Are those army boots?” Ziffel asked.
“Something like.” He couldn’t make out details, but he made out splashes of color. Yellow, pink and blue on black. Definitely different. Hardly sexy, yet he had the mother of boners.
What the hell, Reynolds? Jerk off. Nail a loose woman. Do not approach the temptress.
Ziffel looked at his watch. “Nine-fifteen. McGraw’s Shoe Store always opens at nine prompt.”
“So?”
“Kylie always opens the store. Always. What do you think she’s up to?”
“Trouble.”
“Kylie McGraw?” Ziffel snorted. “That girl’s a pussycat.”
Jack believed otherwise. What’s your game, Tiger? “Keep an eye on Shy.”
“Where are you going?” Ziffel asked as he pushed through the door.
“Making a strudel run.”
“Good Lord,” he heard behind him. “What’s that smell?”
CHAPTER SIX
KYLIE WAS THREE STEPS from Hank’s Hardware when she caught a fragrant whiff of baked goods and java. She wasn’t a coffee drinker, but she’d read that caffeine tames headaches. Just her luck, her hangover had magnified on the bumpy ride into town. In lieu of more aspirin, she’d settle for a big honking cup of dark roast. She swiveled toward Kerri’s Confections…and saw Jack.
Just. Her. Luck.
She almost did a one-eighty—hang the coffee—but she couldn’t avoid the man forever. Best to get this over with. About last night…
Standing her ground, she smiled at the approaching lawman and cursed her skipping heart. She told herself she was reacting to his official appearance, not his hunky bad self. Just because she was over him, that didn’t mean she was blind to the pulse-tripping package. He looked more like a SWAT guy than Eden’s chief of police. The ball cap, the cargo pants and tactical running boots. The badge clipped to his taut waist.
S-e-x-y.
She thought about the previous night. Her botched seduction. Her second botched seduction. Her cheeks flamed. Not that he’d bring it up.
A gentleman even when you ached to be ravished.