Tycoon's Temptation. Katherine Garbera
that stubbornness is not a blessing.”
“Dad says a lot of things,” Shane agreed mildly.
Frustrated, she snatched up her belongings and turned on her heel.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to see your poor prisoner!” She strode down the tiled hallway. The Lucius Sheriff Office housed a total of five cells and it was a rare day when even one was called into use. Shane was probably just bored and wanted to test the strength of the iron bars or something.
She turned the corner and stopped. Her breath sucked back up into her chest and a squiggle of something unfamiliar dipped in her stomach. Wood was sitting on the cot, his back against the wall, one foot planted on the thin mattress, the other leg—a long leg—extended.
“If you’ve come to break me out, save the effort,” he advised. “With your help I’d probably find myself in a federal penitentiary.”
She chewed the inside of her lip and took a step closer to the cell. From out in the front office, she could hear Carla talking on the phone, her voice bright and cheerful.
Just another day winding down in Lucius.
“I’m sorry.” She hugged her jacket and purse to her midriff. “This is all my fault.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” she added after a moment, “it’s not my fault that you didn’t have your license on you.” His lips twisted a little at that. He had very nice lips, even if her brother figured he was a car thief. “Are you?”
His eyebrows rose. “Am I what?”
Her cheeks warmed. That was the trouble for thinking half one’s thoughts out loud. Confusion inevitably ensued. “A car thief.”
A glint lit his eyes. His hand, draped over his raised knee, curled a little. Then he shifted and rose off the cot, his movements so smooth and relaxed he might just as well have been rising out of his own bed in his own home.
As if she’d ever seen what a strange man looked like rising out of his own bed? She ran the family’s boardinghouse. Any beds she was involved with were those needing a change of sheets between her rare guests.
She swallowed and stood her ground when he walked up to the bars of the cell and wrapped his hands lightly around them, looking at her through the space between. “Do I look like a car thief to you?”
She lifted her shoulder. “Can’t say I know what a car thief really looks like,” she admitted, speculation aside. “I don’t imagine they are all unattractive with shifty eyes.”
The corner of his lip twisted upward. “High praise,” he murmured.
He almost had a dimple in his cheek. Or more of a slash, she thought, which definitely went with a jaw that was razor sharp. And his nose was a little too long for his face, but the whole package was put together in a decidedly blessed way.
“You’re staring.”
She blinked. Moistened her lips. “Sorry.”
He reached one long arm between the bars and grazed his fingers against her coat. “So am I.”
He had a tiny scar at the corner of his eye. And another one, nearly invisible, bisecting his slashing eyebrow. “For what?” she asked faintly.
He hooked his finger in a fold of pink wool and tugged lightly.
She looked down. Right. The bloodstains on her jacket. More on the edge of her sweater sleeve. “Cleaning these stains will be a lot easier than fixing your car, I’m afraid.”
“So, at least you’ve decided that the Shelby is my car.”
How had he gotten those tiny little scars? Would he have a scar when the cut on his forehead healed? “Is there some reason to doubt it?”
He cocked his head a little, considering her. “You’re pretty trusting.”
For some reason she found herself smiling when the observation came from him. “Surprising, I know, but you are not the first to accuse me of that.”
“I’ll bet.” Lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes, and the tiny scar disappeared.
He wasn’t quite smiling but she still felt the impact, and for a moment the metal bars of the cell, the chirping of Carla’s voice from out front, everything else disappeared.
“It’s getting late. Don’t you have to get supper on or something?”
Hadley nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her brother’s voice.
The cell bars were back.
Wood’s hand slowly fell away from her jacket and she looked over her shoulder at Shane. His eyes were hard.
She very nearly argued with him that she had nothing more pressing to do than stand there staring at the man in the cell. Well, the brave little part of her that occasionally snuck past her larger sissy part nearly argued with him. But the truth was, she did have to get supper started. And after that, she needed to mix up bread dough for the rolls she’d bake first thing in the morning, and she had to get the tower room prepared for a guest coming the next day.
Staying wasn’t an option, even if she could have summoned the nerve to flout Shane.
Wood moved away from the cell bars and sat down on the cot, back propped against the wall again. He ran the tip of his index finger over the edge of the adhesive on his forehead.
She wondered what he was thinking and she wondered over the fact that had her brother not been standing there acting all Cro-Magnon, she would have actually asked Wood. And wasn’t that a surprise? Maybe if she pretended she were a fearless heroine, set on freeing the misunderstood hero, she’d manage to pull it off.
Or not.
“You better feed him,” she hissed as she passed Shane. “And give him some aspirin or something for his head. Better yet, call in a doctor. For all you know, he could have a concussion.”
“Mr. Tolliver’s gonna get everything he deserves,” Shane assured.
Ordinarily that would have been a comforting statement. In this situation, however? She grimaced and left, casting one last look at Shane’s prisoner.
He wasn’t looking at her, this time. He was staring down her brother across the distance of the cell, and even though he was behind bars, Hadley couldn’t help but wonder which of the two men would come out on top.
She pulled on her stained jacket and went back outside, waving to Carla, who was still jabbering on the phone. The sun had begun to set. Lights were glowing from the window fronts of the businesses along Main. The snow had stopped for the moment, and everything was covered with a thin veil of perfect white powder.
Including the wreck she could easily see from where she stood, still sitting atop the Finns’ tow truck.
Wrapping her jacket more tightly around her, she hurried in the opposite direction toward the boardinghouse. She could have gone by the church to get a ride from her dad. He’d have undoubtedly still been there. But since it was nearly as far a walk to Beau Golightly’s home-away-from home as it was to Tiff’s, there seemed little point.
Besides. She wasn’t quite ready to find out whether or not her dad had been in on her brothers’ ganging up on her over Wendell.
Her face felt stiff with cold and her hands were completely numb by the time she climbed the wide porch steps leading to the front door of the aging Victorian. But inside, the air was warm and welcom ing. From the parlor, she could hear someone tinkering on the piano. Probably Mrs. Ardelle. She regularly insisted that she was musical, but—so far—hadn’t proved it by the way she attacked the keys.
Still, Mrs. Ardelle was a darling soul, and if she wanted to pretend she could play, who was Hadley to stop her?
She