by Emily Bishop
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Table of Contents
Cuffing Her
Copyright
Description
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
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Wet Dreams
Mr. Everything
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About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by AG Media, LLC, a representative of Emily Bishop.
All rights reserved.
AG Media, LLC owns exclusive rights to all content herein. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from AG Media, LLC, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
She’s my only suspect. Guess I’ll have to restrain her.
We don’t have a ton of crime in this small town.
And usually it doesn’t involve hot-as-fu@k chefs.
As retired Special Forces, I like things safe. Orderly.
Suspects are totally off limits.
But around Naomi, I can’t think with anything except my cock.
To say I’m closed off is an understatement.
Watching your best friend die in combat has that effect.
Naomi has a way of piercing my armor.
She’s crept into my chest.
Taken up residence in my heart.
She may be innocent, but shady shit is going down.
I want to trust her. Let her in.
But my past won’t let me.
Cuff her, or fu@k her?
I’m too lost to choose.
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Chapter One
Naomi
Honestly, a picture is worth way more than a thousand words.
I hoist my brand-new camera, hold it up to my eyes, and blink at my reflection, the dark brown of my irises flickering behind fluttering lashes.
A pristine white lighthouse comes into focus, and I work the gears to zoom in and clarify the image. The wooden panels of the lighthouse appear crisp and clean, even from the docks, and I snap the picture. I lower the camera and gaze out across the craggy bay.
I love being home.
I know why I left. I had very good reasons, in fact.
But, it’s a well-known fact that a New Englander never really leaves their home. We carry the crisp autumn air inside us all year round. We remember the cascade of colors that add vibrancy to the death of every leaf. That essence of home clings to our bones, calling us back for some pancakes with maple syrup tapped from a neighbor’s maple tree.
I inhale the early September air and bask in the clean scent of the Atlantic.
I let my camera drape around my neck and walk along the dock, which lies parallel to the rocky shore. I’m hunting for the perfect images, the right scenes to possibly add to the walls of my new restaurant.
The town of Stoneport was always a place I wanted to live.
It’s the town next door to where I grew up, in Camden. Northern Maine is a part of the world many people will never know, because they only come to vacation in the summer. The leaf peepers never get this far north, so when August passes, so does the tourist traffic—thank god.
My white cotton dress, dotted with bright red cherries, drifts around me, swirling at my knees as my favorite pair of leather cowboy boots thud against the old wood beneath my feet.
I open my eyes.
The sun crests the horizon. It prepares to melt into the sea. It sinks lower, the sky turning a pale pink and blue like cotton candy, and the clouds splatter over it like a dollop of fresh cream.
“Evening, Naomi.”
My eyes shift from the horizon to an elderly couple. They walk close together, supporting each other, as the woman’s hand clings to her husband’s forearm.
I smile at them. “Good evening Jonah, Emily. Fancy meeting you down here on the docks.”
“We’re enjoying the peace and quiet,” Emily says, her tone emphatic.
I laugh. “You said it. I’m grateful for the money that
summer tourism brings in, but it’s always amazing to get our seafront back.”
Jonah nods. His skin is peppered with liver spots, crinkled and weathered like old leather. Emily’s is the same, the two of them a testament to longevity. I’ve often wondered if I want to live that long. Do they still have sex? Do they enjoy it?
Thinking about that only conjures an image of old people sex in my mind, and I resist the urge to physically shake the thoughts out.
“I hope you enjoy the rest of your walk,” I say, ever pleasant.
“And you. Don’t stay out too late, Naomi. It’s not safe.”
I bite back a laugh. The only crime that happens in this town is when a cat burgles a hamster from a neighbor’s house. I’ll survive. “Thank you for the words of wisdom. I want to get a picture of the boats, then I’ll be heading home.”
Emily nods with approval. “Good. Stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply.
I continue down the path until I reach a long metal dock. On either side there are rows of sailboats and yachts, all of them with fluttering white sails that dance in the light evening breeze. My eyes comb over each one.
The salty, briny scent of the bay penetrates my senses, and I take another deep breath.
A large, white yacht bobs on the water, tied to the dock’s end by a flimsy white rope. All the other boats have been covered for the season, or at least for the night. It may be early September, but it’s not that cold. There’s certainly plenty of sailing left to be had.
“Hello?” It’s only polite to seek permission before snapping an image of someone’s property.
No response.
The distant caw of a pair of seagulls echoes across the water. I glance from side to side. It’s late enough now that no one is out. It’s a small New England town, where everyone’s in and having dinner by six o’clock. Sometimes I miss the vibrant night life of Chicago, but in this instance, my lip curls into a mischievous grin.
It’s not causing any harm if no one knows what I’m thinking about doing, right?
I cast one more wary glance around, then leap onto the deck of the yacht. The boat wavers a tiny bit beneath me, and I hold onto the side to steady myself.
The deck is fancy—the hardwood floor gleams in the twilight of night. The setting sun casts enough light to get a few good images, and I hold my camera up once more as I adjust my settings.
A table with chairs has been built into the deck, the wood lighter than the amber stain beneath my boots. There’s a large window behind the table and chairs for the captain to see out. The reflection of seaside cottages in the glass creates a perfect tableau.
I raise my camera and readjust as needed, shifting to get the right angle before I press the button again.
Gosh, what would it feel like to own a boat like this? To live this kind of life?
What’s it like on the inside?
I can’t withhold my curiosity.
I walk down the side of the windowed captain’s area toward the back—a narrow staircase leads down into darkness. I hesitate. Well, that’s not creepy at all.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s not like I’m going to steal anything but a picture. I’m not that kind of girl. If someone finds me, they’ll also find everything intact.
Yes. It’s fine.
I hold the railing as I step down one stair at a time, and my belly flutters at the thought of what I might find. I’m reminded of when I was a teenager sneaking into graveyards at night, looking for ghostly orbs. My heartbeat races a little more at the daring of it all.
My foot lands on the bottom of the stairs, and I root around the wall with my fingertips as I search for a light switch.
I find one and click on the light.
Rum-bum-bumbleee.
“What the hell?”
It’s the engine. It’s started!
“Oh, crap! What the hell?”
The boat rumbles around me, and the beating of my heart takes on a new rhythm.
I’m not alone on this boat.
For a fraction of a second, I think about calling out. I can let whoever’s on board know that I’m a harmless bystander. Just looking for a picture for the restaurant.
Harmless, I swear.
But my flight instinct wins out, and I bolt back up the stairs.
I don’t like getting in trouble. I never have.
The yacht gives a lurch, and I nearly tumble all the way back down the stairs. I cry out then regain my footing and reach the deck. The cool, salt-soaked air provides relief as I walk with purpose back along the side of the boat.
I glance back again to see if I’ve been spotted, and bam! My foot jams into something. I trip, and the deck careens upward to meet me.
I hit the deck face first. “Ugh,” I say, as I rise back to my feet.
I dust some sand off my dress. A click behind me freezes me to the spot. My heart goes cold. Was that…? Was that the safety of a gun?
My face lifts from my dress, and my gaze lands on a man in a black mask, pointing a gun right at me.
I hold up my hands, stepping backward toward the starboard side. It’s dark enough that I can’t make out anything meaningful about the man’s face—not that I could anyway.
“Whoa, I’m sorry, man. I was trying to take a picture. You can have the boat all to yourself now.”
I stumble as I keep walking back.
Now is not the time to reason with a strange masked man holding a gun to my chest. I glance over the side. There’s only one safe way out of this situation.
If I try to run back down the dock, he has an easy shot of my back.
I tumble over the side and collide with ice cold water. My head goes under. A gunshot pops off, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.
I open my eyes underwater.
It’s dark and cloudy, but I can make out the boats all around me, some of them caked with barnacles. I get my bearings and swim as fast I can around several boats. I didn’t take a good breath before going under, so my lungs scream for air.
I press forward a few boats closer to the shore before I crest the surface and inhale. I look back and watch as the yacht speeds out of the bay, disappearing into the night. The danger has passed. Shit, I lucked out big time.
I’m panting as I swim to the dock and hoist myself over the ledge. My hands rest on my heaving chest, and I wait for my breathing to calm. My camera is still around my neck—totally ruined.
Bummer.
I shiver in the night air and rub my hands along my arms, not quite ready to move after what happened.
“Lovely night for grand theft, wouldn’t you say?”
A deep, masculine voice echoes across the dock, and I tilt my head.
A well-muscled, tattooed man stares down at me. His arms are crossed, showcasing his physique. His eyes are a deep shade of blue, his hair chestnut brown with a matching, evenly shaved beard coating his angular chin. He’s wearing well-fitted jeans and a blue T-shirt, and he looks perfectly casual. I’m instantly attracted to him, which means I shouldn’t be. I gave up on this type of guy ages ago.
Then his words register in my befuddled mind.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
I’m not giving this guy any slack. I almost got killed. The last thing I want is to be hit on by some asshole. I should have listened to Emily’s advice. I should be home, cooking something, instead of shivering in the cold, avoiding meatheads and gunshots.
What was I thinking?
The man walks over to me, and his gaze shimmers like the water around us, but his eyes are hard as stone.
Is he pissed?
What does he think I did?
“Get up.” His tone brooks no argument, and I cross my arms over my chest, which might be a little exposed, given the water that’s pasted my dress to my body.
“I think I’d rather relax here, thanks. Have a good night.”
“It wasn’t a question. Get up, or I’ll have to restrain you.”
; “For what reason?”
“Because, ma’am, a yacht was stolen off this dock, and you were on it. You’re under arrest for theft of private property. Now, as I said. Get. The. Fuck. Up.” The guy whips a badge out of his pocket and flashes it at me.
I swallow hard. Well, shit. If I don’t do what he says, I’m in deep shit.
Chapter Two
Ben
The woman lies on the dock, staring at me with wide doe eyes.
I’ve seen this act before. If she thinks she can pull the “But look how pretty I am, I’m innocent” thing on me, she has no idea who she’s dealing with.
This woman is in a world of trouble.
I let my words sink in as I wait for her to comply. I’m going to give her another five seconds until I’m ready to exert the full strength of the law on her. I don’t care how beautiful she is. No crime goes unpunished in my town, and one way or another, this woman has answers that I need.
She considers my words then moves to rise. She’s shivering. I want to lend her my jacket, but I don’t. As far as I know, this woman could be a criminal. Let her shiver, then. She stands, and I can see every goose bump on her pale skin, but beyond that, I can see a hell of a lot more.
Her dress is white. Water has plastered it to her body, leaving almost nothing to the imagination, and her nipples are poking through the thin fabric. There’s a thin, white thong at her waist, barely covering her bottom half from my view.
She’s basically naked before me, her body lean and strong and perfect. I have an image of myself plowing into her, slapping her ass as she cries out in a fit of passion, and I swallow.
Now is seriously not the time.
“Let’s go,” I grumble. I remind myself I’m pissed. I’ve had a good record in this town since I started as the sheriff, and she’s part of the problem that’s ruining it. The usual small town stuff happens, someone’s dog is stolen or Uncle Jimmy gets a little too enthusiastic after the Super Bowl and fires off a couple rounds into his ceiling, but nothing like this. Not Grand Theft.
And this woman has something to do with that.
“Don’t you have to read me my Miranda rights? I’m pretty sure you have to read me those before you can take me anywhere.”
Before I can answer, she dodges past me in an attempt to escape, and I turn fast, my reflexes kicking into gear.
I grasp her wrist in a viselike grip and twist her arm, pressing her against me.
She’s cold, her skin clammy. She lets out a laugh, and there’s no humor in it.
