A Sheriff in Tennessee

by Lori Handeland

  Klein hung up. He stared at the door and he thought about Isabelle.

  He suspected situations like this followed her everywhere she went. Guys who figured she should be thrilled to have their attention. Men who wanted her for nothing more than the way she looked. Somehow, Klein thought that was as bad as women who didn’t want him for the same reason. He and Isabelle had a lot more in common than an obscure sense of humor.

  Clint yipped in his sleep, paws spinning as he chased another rabbit up the tree. “Get him, boy,” Klein murmured, and the dog quieted.

  Klein glanced at his watch. It was time he headed home, but first he’d take a little side trip past Isabelle’s. Make sure the mayor wasn’t lurking in the alley; then, if he could figure out what to say, Klein would apologize when she returned from her jogging expedition.

  He pushed the button on his walkie-talkie. “Virgil, get back to the station, please.”

  “Code one, Chief?”

  Klein scratched his head and searched his weary brain for what that meant. “No, not at your convenience. Finish up your mint julep and get back here code three.”

  The walkie-talkie was dropped and the resulting bang woke Clint, who woofed and peered around the room, shaking.

  “Relax.” Klein smoothed a hand over his head. “Nothing to be scared of anymore.”

  “Chief? Chief! Code three emergency. The squad car is with you. I can’t come with red lights and the siren.”

  Klein muttered a few curses. “No, I meant urgent, no red light and siren.”

  “That’s a code two.” Virgil’s voice was accusing.

  “Sorry.”

  “You know, Chief, if you’re not going to keep on top of the codes, maybe we better just forget about them.”

  “Isn’t that what I told you the first week I was here?”

  “I didn’t think you were serious.”

  “I am. Get your butt over here.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Klein scowled at the walkie-talkie, but Virgil was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BELLE TRUDGED up the steps to her apartment. She didn’t feel any better. For the first time in a long time, jogging wasn’t enough.

  The skittery sensation in her belly and the creeping unease along the back of her neck were still there. As if someone watched and waited for her to make a mistake, to let a secret out.

  She glanced over her shoulder; no one was there. She shook her head, lifted her shirt and wiped the sweat from her face. Paranoia was nothing new. She lived with it every day. But she usually did a better job of controlling it.

  It was cooler inside her apartment than it was outside, in the spring sunshine. She’d kept her curtains drawn all day, but now she opened them and glanced out at Longstreet Avenue.

  People milled about. It was late afternoon on Main Street, U.S.A. Of course there were people, but they weren’t watching her.

  Even if they were, so what? She was used to being watched, being photographed, being dissected inch by inch and ounce by ounce. But sometimes she wondered if an observant person could see the cringing fat girl who still hid behind the assured, glamorous Isabelle Ash.

  Lucky for Belle there weren’t very many observant people in her line of work. They might be creative artists, but in the end they saw only what they wanted to see.

  Belle stood in front of the mirror, turned this way, turned that. Common sense told her that nothing was wrong with her a shower wouldn’t fix, but she saw something else entirely. More often than not, whenever she looked into a mirror, Big Belle stared back. Because Isabelle Ash was now and always would be a fat girl shoved into a skinny woman’s body.

  She moved away from the mirror. Why did she do this to herself? She was better. She was. There was no reason to wonder if she had any laxatives in her cosmetics bag or if she should go on a juice-only fast until the whirling madness went away.

  Actually, there was a reason. Because she didn’t want juice; she wanted mashed potatoes, spaghetti, bread or the brownies Klein had been eating. And she knew why.

  Belle had not realized the depth of her loneliness until Klein had stopped touching her, and she ached to be touched again—by him. As in childhood, rejection made her crave comfort, and the only comfort she’d had back then was food.

  Though her family had been poor, her mama’s large garden and her father’s knack for hunting had assured that there was always enough food. However, there never had been enough to fill the ache inside Belle. Eventually she’d trained herself to exercise instead of eat whenever she felt out of control of her feelings and her life.

  Belle powered up her portable CD unit and let the music take her away.

  VIRGIL HADN’T SHOWN UP for half an hour. Of course, Klein had told him to finish his mint julep. But half an hour?

  The pulse of bass made Clint shy as they ducked into the alley next to the five-and-dime. Isabelle was doing it again. Whatever it was.

  “Just music, big guy. Nothing to worry about.”

  Clint didn’t appear to believe him. He stuck his tail between his legs and walked so close to Klein that he nearly tripped him.

  “I don’t even want to imagine what you’re going to be like on the Fourth of July.”

  Clint grumbled and pressed closer. Obviously he didn’t want to imagine it, either.

  Klein had planned to knock on Isabelle’s door and discuss what had happened at the station earlier. He would promise never to do it again—make some excuse for why he’d done it at all. But when he glanced at her window, instead of the shadows he’d seen last night, there she was—and then he could not move.

  Because she was dancing—fast and wild, free and fair, as if her very life depended on the dance.

  Though her braid appeared like a rope of gold twirling through the air, her arms graceful, her torso lithe as she dipped to the beat, he discovered that the dance itself did not concern him as much as the fact that she danced.

  Chai had informed him she was jogging. Now she was dancing. Why?

  He inched closer, up the steps halfway, and saw that her red tank top was drenched with sweat and stuck to her chest in a fashion that would be intriguing if all sorts of puzzle pieces weren’t clicking together in his overly busy brain.

  Klein turned from the sight, retraced his steps and emerged onto Longstreet Avenue with Clint in tow. All the way home, he thought and he thought, so that by the time he reached his house and then the office off his bedroom, where he kept all his electronics, he had a pretty good idea what he was looking for when he began to surf the Internet.

  He wasn’t surprised when he found it. What did surprise him was that he hadn’t figured things out sooner. Now that he knew, what should he do?

  He was still wondering that when he parked his pickup in front of the station. Darkness had settled over Pleasant Ridge like a cool piece of navy blue velvet. Virgil had gone home. All calls had been transferred to Klein’s cell phone, which he wore on his belt. He hoped no one needed him before morning, because he was just about played out. However, he had felt a pressing need to talk to Isabelle before he collapsed for the night.

  Klein passed the museum. T.B. started yapping on the other side of the door as if his mortal enemy were near. Some things never changed.

  In front of the five-and-dime, he glanced up. Her lights were on, the curtains drawn once more. She passed in front of the window, and the flow of her silhouette captivated him. She reached up and pulled her braid loose, shook her head. His body leaped in response, and he looked away. He had no business desiring her now. He had no business desiring her at all. But he did.

  Determined, Klein marched through the alley to the back steps, climbed them and knocked. Seconds later, she opened the door.

  The desire he’d beaten down came roaring back. Her hair reached to her waist, growing lighter the longer it became. With the braid unfastened, the gold tresses flowed like a river. He wanted to bury his face in the strands, have them cascade over his skin, fill his h
ands with their softness, wrap a length around his wrist and—

  “Hi.”

  The shyness in her voice reminded him of what had happened the last time they’d been together. The taste of her returned to his mouth; his palms itched to touch her again.

  “Hi.” His voice was hoarse with desire, and he coughed, pretending it wasn’t.

  She’d changed her clothes and now wore emerald-green sweatpants, jaggedly cut at midthigh. Her sapphire-blue T-shirt had been cut, as well, just below her breasts. Her feet were bare; she wasn’t wearing a bra. The scent of pink soap and honeysuckle shampoo made him dizzy. In a haze of sensory overload, he forgot what he’d come there for.

  Most folks didn’t think a guy of his size and profession could care about colors or textures, shapes, sizes or scents. But the essence of life fascinated him, and right now the essence of life was her.

  “Come on in.” She tossed a sheaf of papers onto the table, then picked up a glass of sparkling red liquid. At first he thought it was wine, until he caught a whiff of raspberries.

  “Juice?” She tilted her glass in question.

  He could only shake his head.

  She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head again, terrified that if he opened his mouth, he’d beg to touch her—or beg her to touch him.

  She drained the glass, set it down with a click, then swayed and caught herself against the table.

  He was across the short distance, putting his hands on her shoulders before he remembered he should not touch her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired. You should be, too. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  His gaze slid to the bed beneath the window. He could imagine her in the tousled sheets. Worse, he could imagine himself there with her.

  Klein yanked his hands from her shoulders. But before he could move away, she grabbed them between hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t want our friendship ruined because I kissed you.”

  She actually believed that she had kissed him! Klein kept forgetting how young she was. When he looked into Isabelle’s eyes he did not see a twenty-five-year-old girl but a mature woman who had seen more than she cared to. A woman very much like him.

  He shook his head. “No, Isabelle, I—”

  “Foolish of me—” she continued right over his protest “—but I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve wanted to touch you since you walked in the station and let me out of that cell.”

  All Klein’s protests died in his throat, and he stared at her, amazed. She let him go, and began pacing between the bathroom and the kitchen table.

  “I’ve been dreaming of your chest.” She waved in that general direction. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing your nose.”

  He touched his huge snout, mystified.

  “I’ve never been drawn to a man physically the way I am to you, and I’m not handling it well. I know what lust is, and I should be able to control it.”

  Physical? Lust? For him? Klein glanced behind him, but he was still the only man in the room. Maybe he’d fallen asleep at home and he wasn’t really here.

  Confused, he could only stare at her. Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

  Isabelle covered her face with her hands. “I must be more light-headed than I thought, to be telling you all this.

  Light-headed? He had a flash of her holding on to the table for balance. Maybe she hadn’t been drinking just juice after all.

  Klein moved close enough to catch her if she fell. “Are you all right?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know what I am anymore. Confused. Embarrassed. Afraid.”

  He inched back. He was big—huge, in fact—strong, scary looking, too. He’d been trained in violence, committed it on occasion—though not lately—but for her to say she was afraid of him hurt more than Klein could have imagined.

  “But, Izzy, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  She dropped her hands and stared at him with wide eyes. “Afraid of you? How could anyone be afraid of you?” She shook her head as if she could not fathom it. “I’m afraid that wanting you so badly I can’t think straight will take away the one thing I’ve always wished for and never had.”

  “What?”

  “A friend,” she whispered.

  He frowned. “I can’t believe you’ve never had a friend.”

  “Believe it.”

  She shut her eyes. With her dark lashes lying long against her cheeks, he could see how pale she was. She swayed alarmingly. He took two large steps and caught her in his arms.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m tired, Gabe. Don’t worry. Just tired.”

  She’d called him Gabe. Usually that annoyed him. Right now he was anything but annoyed.

  “Can I lean on you a minute?”

  She already was, her cheek against his chest, her arms around his waist.

  “Of course. Isn’t that what friends do? Lean?”

  “Is it?”

  “So I hear.”

  “Then, we’re still friends? You forgive me for kissing you?”

  She sounded like a child who wanted to make amends for a mistake. He couldn’t help himself; he kissed the top of her head. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  Klein stifled a snort. One thing he’d never been called was sweet.

  “I admit I was attracted at first because of how you looked, but then I discovered that your inside was even better than your outside. But don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”

  He should leave well enough alone. Let her get over it, as she said. Just hold her as long as she needed him to and then release her forever. But she felt too good in his arms, too right, and Klein knew that holding her wasn’t going to be enough.

  “I hope not.”

  She went still in his arms. “What did you say?”

  “I hope you don’t get over it.”

  Slowly she raised her head and gazed into his face. “But why?”

  God help him, he wanted the relationship she’d just described—purely physical because each desired the other.

  Women had slept with him for one reason or another, but none because they were attracted to him physically. Of course, once he’d slept with them they came back. He’d decided years ago that if he couldn’t be handsome he’d at least be exceptional.

  Yet here was a beautiful woman saying she wanted his body; she craved the sight of his face. It was every ugly man’s fantasy.

  A disturbing thought insinuated itself into his mind. Isabelle might be pretending. But what reason could she have for that? What possible advantage could come from her sleeping with him? He was already helping her, protecting her from poachers and the mayor; he had nothing to give her but what she said she wanted.

  Himself.

  “I know you don’t find me attractive.”

  Now he snorted. “I’m neither blind nor stupid.”

  “But you were so sarcastic, even rude. Whenever I got close to you, you shoved me away.”

  “Defense mechanism.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He hesitated, but since she was being honest—he thought—he would show her the same courtesy. “I wanted to kiss you the first moment I saw you, and that’s something a man like me should never want.”

  “A man like you.” She shook her head. “Who told you you were ugly? Who made you believe it, too?”

  Memories flickered, distracting him so that when she touched his face, he jerked back. She followed. As she traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, the angle of his cheekbones with her fingertips, he found it impossible to believe that the desire and admiration in her eyes was a lie.

  “Izzy?” He did what he’d been dying to, filling his hands with her hair and tilting her head just so.

  Her eyes half closed, her mouth half open, she breathed, “Mmm?”

  “Just to get things straight. At the station today?”


  She nodded.

  “You didn’t kiss me. I kissed you.”

  When she smiled, he did it again.

  BELLE HAD FOOLISHLY exercised too much and eaten too little. The dizzy rush of deprivation imitated power. The false sense of inner strength was as addictive as drugs.

  Her head had been spinning even before Klein walked into her apartment. She’d been reading the script for her show, which had been crammed into her mailbox sometime that day. The show was Baywatch meets Mayberry and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it. She wanted to cry.

  So when he’d strode into her room she hadn’t exactly been at the top of her game. She’d blabbed her newest secret because of her oldest. If she wasn’t careful, he’d get every last one of them out of her. All he had to do was ask.

  His mouth on hers was firm and warm; the hands tangled in her hair were gentle. She enjoyed kissing, probably because she never got enough of it. Men usually wanted to see for themselves what they’d seen enough of already and touch what they’d only been dreaming of. They always moved on to stage two long before she was ready.

  But Klein made love to her mouth slowly, reverently, as if he had an eternity just to kiss her, as if he enjoyed the melding of lips and tongue and teeth as much as she did.

  When he lifted his head, she sighed, disappointed, but before she could lead him to the bed, he buried his face in her hair, then sweetly kissed her neck, her jaw, the corner of her eye.

  His hands wrapped around her waist, and she waited for them to surge upward, cup her breasts, feel their weight. Instead, he kept his hands right where they were, thumbs tracing the quivering muscles of her belly.

  The juice she’d drunk began to work. As her head cleared, she chastised herself for comparing past to present. How many times already had Gabe Klein demonstrated he was unlike other men?

  Enough for her to trust that he wasn’t.

  As if to prove her every thought true, his mouth returned to hers and time lost its hold on them. His lips nibbled and caressed, nipped and suckled. The man could certainly kiss. He practiced innovations of old favorites, even as he invented seductive novelties with her as a willing partner.