Be Mine, Miss Valentine

by Patricia Kay

  Be Mine, Miss Valentine

  By

  Patricia Kay

  Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Kay

  PatriciaKay.com

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Patricia Kay.

  Cover art by Web Crafters

  www.webcraftersdesign.com

  Editing by Patricia Kay

  ebooks@patriciakay.com

  A note from the author . . .

  Dear Reader,

  This book was written and published almost twenty-five years ago. In fact, it was my first published book and was originally called OPENING ACT and written under my pseudonym, Ann Patrick. Since then, I have revised it slightly and re-edited it, and we've given it a bright new cover and a new title. In reading through it, I was surprised by how much I still liked the book and the characters. Miss Agatha, especially, is an all-time favorite character of mine. I was also struck by the differences between the late 1980s, when the book was written, and today's more modern, tech-driven world. Twenty-five years ago cell phones were unheard of, no one had anything resembling a laptop computer, and Facebook wasn't even a dream in a small boy's head. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into yesterday. As always, I love hearing from my readers. You can write to me at ebooks@patriciakay.com.

  Warmest wishes,

  Patricia Kay

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Sample from With This Ring

  Sample from The Other Woman

  Sample from Loving Laura

  Chapter 1

  Alex Summerfield saw the flashing blue lights before he heard the siren. He swore as he hit the brakes. The powerful Mercedes responded immediately, and Alex pulled to the side of the road as he muttered, "Where the hell did he come from?"

  The tan car with the revolving dome light pulled up behind him. Alex watched in his rearview mirror as the car door opened and booted feet appeared. "Damn!” This was his own fault. He hadn't been paying attention to his driving at all; he'd been too preoccupied. Besides, the deserted upstate New York road had lulled him into a false sense of isolation. And now he was going to pay for his daydreaming.

  He'd heard about these speed traps. These backwoods cops had a reputation for hiding behind trees and waiting for some unsuspecting city type like him to come along.

  Alex leaned over and fished around in his glove compartment until he found his registration. Hearing the crunch of gravel, he turned, pushed the button that controlled his electric window, and looked up.

  Staring down at him from under the wide brim of a dark brown Stetson was a young woman with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

  "Hello ... uh, officer," Alex said.

  Miss Blue-Eyes didn't blink. She also didn't smile. And females of all ages usually smiled when they set eyes on Alex. For a moment Alex felt uncertain, then he thought, so she's a cop. So what? She's also a woman. Smiling brightly, he mustered the considerable Summerfield charm and said, "Was I speeding, officer? Sorry. Guess I was daydreaming. The scenery around here is so beautiful; I forgot all about my driving. Believe me, it won't happen again." Then he chuckled. "And how many times have you heard that one?"

  "May I see your driver's license and registration, please."

  The words were clipped and brisk. Her expression didn't change, and the blue eyes peering at him from just below the wide brim of her hat studied him intently. Alex frowned. What was her problem? PMS? He pulled his wallet from his pocket, opened it, then handed her his driver's license.

  "Mr. Summerfield. Do you know how fast you were going?"

  "No, officer. I'm afraid I don't." Alex kept his voice conciliatory even though he was tempted to answer sarcastically. He might still be able to charm his way out of this.

  The woman officer's face remained impassive, and her voice lacked any hint of warmth. "I clocked you at 67 miles per hour. Do you know what the speed limit is on this road?"

  Alex angrily thumped his fingers on the steering wheel. Good Lord, it wasn't as if he had endangered anyone's life or anything. There wasn't another car on the road. Not a soul had gone by since she'd pulled him over. Didn't she have anything better to do than hassle him? "Yes, I do," he said. "I saw a sign a couple of miles back. It's 35, isn't it?" He forced himself to keep his answer polite.

  "Yes. It's 35. And for good reason. This road, even though it looks deserted, is used by many of the farmers in the area. If you'd come around a curve going as fast as you were going and a slow-moving vehicle was ahead of you—say a tractor or a combine—you'd have run right into it. Driving that fast is irresponsible and dangerous. You should know better."

  Tired from long hours of driving and accustomed to the combative atmosphere of New York City's streets, Alex forgot all about charming her. "Oh, come on, lady. Give me a break. I explained what happened. I was thinking about something else, and I didn't realize how fast I was going. It's not that big a deal, so if you're going to give me a ticket, just give it to me, and save the lectures."

  Now the blue eyes came alive. They flashed as bright as the dome light on her car. "When you speak to me, Mr. Summerfield, the proper form of address is 'Officer,' not 'Lady.' And breaking the law and endangering the lives of innocent people is a big deal. This isn't New York City. This is Juliette where we care about people, where everyone is treated the same way, where it doesn't matter who you are when it comes to the laws." She opened her pad, whipped out a pen, clicked it open with a gesture that could only be classified as smug, and began writing.

  So she did know who he was. In fact, Alex wouldn't be at all surprised if she was making a big thing out of this for that very reason. He knew he should just keep his mouth shut, take the ticket, and chalk the whole episode up to experience. But there was something about the way Miss Smarty-Pants had curled her lip as she delivered her last salvo that caused him to shove caution out the door.

  "Well, officer," he drawled, "in New York City the cops are too busy dealing with real crime to worry much about someone driving a little too fast. Of course, up here you don't have that much to do. I realize that. So why don't you just write the damned citation and go home and dust off your bullets."

  Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. He almost smiled—he'd obviously hit on a sore spot—but a last remnant of good sense overrode the ill-advised urge. Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks, and the blue eyes were fired with angry light.

  "For your information, Mr. Summerfield, I happen to consider any law important, and any crime real crime. And if you don't like the way we do things here, you can turn your car around and go back the way you came." She thrust the pad under his nose. "Sign it!"

  Alex signed it. The paper crackled as he handed the pad back, and for a moment he met her blazing eyes. Cobalt blue. They sure were pretty; she sure was cute. But she was also madder than a wasp trapped between a screen and a window. Her full lips were set in a straight, uncompromising line, and the thought popped into Alex's mind that those lips were just the right shape for kissing. He itched to say so. He wondered what she'd do if he smiled at her and said, "What are you so
mad about? A girl as pretty as you shouldn't be out here playing at cop. She should be at home warming someone's bed and having the socks kissed off her."

  Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his eyes, because she took a deep breath, causing her chest to rise and pull the khaki material of her shirt tightly across her rounded breasts. For the first time, Alex noticed the name sewn across the top of her breast pocket. VALENTINE. Now he really did want to smile. What an unfortunate name for a police officer. He’d be willing to bet she’d had to put up with a lot of teasing over the years. He almost felt sorry for her.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Summerfield," she said. "Instructions on how to pay your fine are printed on the back of that ticket." An evil smile curved her lips. "Of course, you may think you're so far above the law you don't have to pay tickets. Maybe you're one of those city types who tear them up and throw them away." Her tone and the expression in her eyes said, "I dare you to ignore the ticket."

  Alex opened his mouth to retort in kind, but his good sense had finally reasserted itself. Closing his mouth, he watched her walk back to her car. The uniform hugged her body tightly, revealing every shapely curve. Too bad she was so up-tight. Alex wondered how she'd look without that hat. He'd only caught a glimpse of her hair, but what he could see of it that wasn't tucked up under the Stetson had looked heavy and rich and dark and shining—the kind of hair a man would love to get his hands into. Everything about her suggested a woman who belonged in a filmy pink dress and picture hat—not a woman with a gun strapped to her hip and wearing a man's pants and boots.

  She looked exactly like the kind of woman he'd like to get to know better. Cute and feisty. Totally unsophisticated and opposite to the brittle and glamorous women he'd spent the last ten years around. Then he grinned. Fat chance of that. That little deputy sheriff or whatever she was would probably spit on him if she ever saw him again. Besides, since Margo had left, he'd sworn off women. All they were was trouble. And Alex didn't need trouble. What he did need was peace. Peace, quiet, and a place to work. Which was just what he had ahead of him—a long, quiet summer to get his career back in gear.

  Alex started his car, darted one more glance in his rearview mirror, then carefully pulled onto the road and sedately pushed his speed to 35 and kept it there.

  * * *

  For the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon, Sheriff Veronica Valentine tried to put her encounter with Broadway Big Mouth out of her mind. But at odd moments, she'd find herself remembering his amused, insolent attitude, and she'd get furious all over again.

  Wasn't it just typical? she thought. The moment Alexander Summerfield had realized she was a woman he hadn't been prepared to take her seriously. If she'd been a man, he'd never have said the kinds of things he'd said to her.

  Ronnie was sick of that superior male attitude. She'd had enough of it from the men in Juliette County, and now here came this big shot playwright—oh, she knew who he was all right, even though she hadn't let on to him—and instead of being enlightened, as Ronnie would have expected him to be, he was just as bad—no, worse—than the men who'd watched her grow up.

  Well, she thought, as she gritted her teeth and dug into a pile of paperwork, the men around here had come to respect her. Even the ones who thought she'd only gotten her position as a deputy sheriff because her father had appointed her before his death had had to change their tune when she was elected sheriff last November. Since then she'd made great inroads in cleaning up the county, shown people what an efficient, honest organization was like. She had a lot to be proud of. She smiled. Her father would have been very proud of her, too.

  Still smiling, she picked up a report waiting for her signature. A few minutes later, the door to her office opened and her cousin, Sam Barzini, burst in. His pudgy face was the exact shade of ripe strawberries. "You gotta come right now, Ronnie," he shouted. "It's an emergency!"

  "Calm down, Sam," she said as she swung her legs off her desk. "What's the problem?"

  "Hector! He's got Hector, and he won't give him back to me!"

  Trying to keep a straight face, Ronnie said, "Who's got Hector?" What she really meant was, who'd want Hector?

  "Our new tenant. The one who moved in today." Sam huffed and swiped at his forehead dotted with sweat beads like those plastic bubbles in wrapping material. He drew a raggedy breath. "Please, Ronnie. Don't just stand there. This is serious. He's threatening to drown Hector."

  It was Ronnie's personal opinion that if someone did drown Hector, the world would be an infinitely better place to live, but she knew how much Sam loved his ornery cat, so she sighed and said, "Okay. Okay. I'm coming." She'd been so annoyed by her encounter with that neanderthal Summerfield this morning, she'd forgotten all about Bernie Maxwell, the man who'd rented Sam's carriage house for the summer. She and Sam had both been curious about Maxwell. He knew about the house through a friend who'd stayed there years ago, and the complete transaction had been done by phone and mail. All Sam knew about him was that he was a theatrical agent.

  "I'll be back soon," she called to Maisie, the dispatcher for the day shift. "Got a little problem up at the house."

  Maisie gave Ronnie thumbs up to show she understood, and Ronnie followed Sam out the front door. She sprinted to keep up with him as he scurried ahead like a frightened rabbit. Ronnie had never seen her forty-year-old cousin move so fast. She hadn't known he could move that fast. Sam wasn't exactly the outdoor, love-to-exercise, eat-healthy-food type. In fact, Ronnie had been after him for years to change his eating habits, but so far all he'd done was ignore her.

  Five minutes later, after traversing the three quarters of a mile to the house she shared with Sam, Ronnie felt slightly winded. Time to start jogging again, she thought. She'd been slacking off lately, and what if someone robbed the Juliette Savings and Loan and the perpetrator tried to escape on foot? As the chief law enforcement officer in Juliette County, she'd be required to give hot pursuit. Ronnie rested a hand over her thumping heart. And she'd be in big trouble.

  Sam didn't stop when they reached the house; he just kept going on down the gravel driveway to the back of the property and the old carriage house. He took great gulps of air; then in a wheezing breath he said, "I knew as soon as I saw him I wasn't gonna like him. Thinks he's hot stuff."

  Thinks he's hot stuff. Sam's assessment of Bernie Maxwell reminded Ronnie of her encounter with Alexander Summerfield this morning. Alexander Summerfield. She still couldn't believe it. Even in Juliette, a place he obviously considered a backwater county, Ronnie was aware of Summerfield's accomplishments. Ronnie loved the theater, and before her father died she would go down to the city with him several times a year to see the new Broadway plays. But now, what with the demands of her new job, she hadn't been able to take much time off for fun.

  But even so, she knew of Alexander Summerfield, acclaimed playwright and a bona fide boy wonder, with one hit play after another. She couldn't help but know him. She also couldn't help but wish she'd met him under different circumstances, even though it had been disappointing to discover he was a smart ass who thought he could charm his way out of anything. It had been obvious to her that he thought he was better than the people of Juliette.

  "...and he said I hate cats."

  Guiltily, Ronnie jerked herself back to Sam and the present situation. "I'm sorry, Sam. What did you say?"

  "I said, I asked him if I could help him with his things, and Hector was there with me. You know how he follows me everywhere. And he took one look at Hector and said I hate cats." With his furrowed brow and wide brown eyes, Sam's face was a picture of indignation as he took one labored breath after another.

  Ronnie worried about Sam. He was much too fat, and all this excitement couldn't be good for him. Patting him on the arm, she smothered a smile. As a rule, Ronnie liked cats, but she hated Hector. Most people hated Hector. Actually, most cats hated Hector, not to mention dogs, birds, and insects. Hector was a big, fat, pain in the butt. His favorite pa
stime was crouching down under the bushes in front of the house while waiting for some unsuspecting soul to walk past. Then he would pounce, sinking his sharp teeth into his victim's ankle or calf. Ronnie had been the object of this form of torture several times. She would have drowned Hector herself years ago except that she loved Sam. Besides her brothers, he was the only family she had left. When her father died, Sam had never let her feel alone.

  Besides, she'd never been able to catch Hector.

  Making clucking sounds to reassure Sam, Ronnie thought fast. "So the new tenant caught Hector?"

  "I know it's hard to believe. I don't know how he did it. All I know is, I'd gone back in the house, and about twenty minutes later I called Hector to come and eat." Sam's dark eyes were filled with worry. "You know how much Hector likes to eat."

  That's an understatement, she thought. Next to attacking innocent people, Hector liked nothing better than stuffing his chops. If a person wasn't careful, he'd snatch food right from under your nose. To protect food from Hector meant guarding it like the crown jewels.

  "Anyway," Sam continued, "I called and called, but Hector wouldn't come, so I went outside and started looking around, all the while calling his name. Then that ... that idiot walked outside and said, cool as a cucumber, 'Looking for your cat? Don't bother. He's locked up in my broom closet.' "

  Ronnie pressed her lips together. She wanted to laugh so badly she didn't know where to look, but Sam's eyebrows were pinched together and his voice was full of agony as he cried, "Ronnie, he was serious! He said he was going to drown Hector, and he walked back into the carriage house. He wouldn't listen to me!" Sam wrung his hands together. "What should we do?"

  Ronnie sighed again and wished she could turn around, walk away and leave Hector to his well-deserved fate, but Sam was depending on her. "Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of it." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and lifted the brass knocker on the carriage house door, banging it down three or four times.