A Touch of Scarlet

by Liz Talley

  At that, she laughed. It sounded like tinkling bells and his groin tightened. “Yeah, something like that.”

  He gestured toward the rocker in front of the swing. “Mind if I sit?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Not really, if you think about it,” he replied, sinking into the flowered cushion of the rocker. “We pay taxes.”

  She jerked her gaze to his. “You’re strange.”

  “I think I’d rather you call me a bitch,” he said. Did everyone think him strange? Hell, he’d heard nothing but the same from his own mother every day of his life. Along with his father. And nanny. And tutors. The list could go on and on.

  She lifted her eyebrows and laughed. His libido climbed out from under the rock where he’d stuffed it and punched him in the gut. A match struck, desire flamed. He needed to get his ass off the porch, shake a few hands and choke down some wedding cake. He didn’t need to tempt himself with the woman in front of him.

  Yet, he didn’t move.

  “So are you a bitch?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Is that code for asking if I’m gay?” he said.

  “Are only gay guys bitches?”

  “I really don’t know,” he said, finally cracking a smile. It felt creaky. Unused.

  For a moment they sat, measuring each other. It was a far different vibe from the one they’d engaged in earlier.

  “My roommate’s gay. I’ll ask him,” she said, scuffing one heel against the painted boards. She set the swing going a bit and stared off into the distance at a stop sign at the end of the street. Or maybe it was the Weeks’s old Chrysler parked in their driveway. He couldn’t tell.

  “Your roommate’s gay? Interesting.”

  “Yeah. The best roommate a girl can have. He cooks things like reductions and flambé, cleans with pure vinegar and knows what sweater goes with my newest wedges. I should probably marry him. He’d love that kind of cover.” She smiled again, shifting her attention to him. It felt good having her regard. He wanted to stay there, under her gaze, under her spell. “My roommate is Stefan Horton. And I suppose I should tell you he’s not out. So…” She made a lock motion, tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

  She said it as though he should know the name. He searched the recesses of his mind. No clue. “Stefan Horton?”

  “He plays Karakas on Deep Shadows.”

  “Oh.” Adam had never watched the campy drama, though plenty of people around town had buzzed about it since the day it debuted. Everyone knew the demonically sexy queen of the vampires was played by Frances’s niece, who happened to be Chef Rayne Rose’s younger sister. The Oak Stand Gazette had done a feature piece on Scarlet and had even netted a telephone interview. He’d perused the interview one night while sitting on the outskirts of town, waiting for the roughnecks at Cooley’s bar to get rowdy the way they did every ladies’ night. He’d remembered her publicity shot. The alabaster breasts threatening to topple out of the black spandex. Those red, red lips and haunting eyes.

  “You don’t watch, I take it?”

  He shook his head. “The existential angst that underpins the soap opera doesn’t fit my ideal viewing parameters.”

  “Big words. And it’s not a soap opera,” she said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Though her skin was remarkably fair, she was not freckled. Her shoulders were smooth and faintly golden from the sun, as if awaiting his kiss. “You’re not from around here.”

  It was a question. “No. I’m originally from Houston.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Houston.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He was accustomed to questions. Everyone in Oak Stand wanted to know who your mama and daddy were. And where you attended church. But he hated answering questions about his past. “I went to prep school on the East Coast. They force Texas twang out, much like I’m sure you did when you trained as an actress. You don’t sound Texan.”

  “I’m not a Texan. I’m from everywhere.” The mood shifted. No more lightness. Something darker had awakened in her. For a moment she didn’t speak, seemed caught in her thoughts. Then she looked up at him. “You know, I have some wicked fantasies about prep-school boys in stuffy oxford shirts and sweater cardigans. About getting them out of those khaki pants.”

  It was off-kilter. Almost sarcastic. She vamped him and his blood responded, heating like lava, making him forget who he was. Her gaze narrowed to smolder and her pink tongue appeared at the corner of her plump lips, throwing gunpowder onto the fire.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He dragged his gaze over her fantasy of a body. The tank top was tight and outlined what he wanted to see. Even her blue-green nail polish looked provocative. He knew it was wrong. He knew he’d poured his own fuel onto the fire that blazed between them. “I had some pretty wicked fantasies myself. The best one involved a smart-mouthed redhead with long legs and big—”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  Her words were like ice water, dousing the flickering flames within him. What in the hell had he been thinking playing with her like that?

  “Are you flirting with me?” he countered with a deadpan expression.

  He found his cool. No need to let her know how much he wanted to handcuff her in a very unprofessional way. No need to let her see the weakness he held when it came to women like her.

  She leaped to her feet. “No.”

  She walked toward the front door, not bothering to glance back at him.

  His body bade him to follow her, to find out how it would feel to have her perfect white teeth nipping his earlobe, to have her abundant flesh filling his hands. To discover the way she’d feel beneath him, on top of him, around him.

  But Adam didn’t move. He was no slave to desire. Not anymore. So instead of watching Scarlet walk away—which he knew had to be a great view—he focused on a moth fluttering above some flowering bushes ringing the porch.

  Brother, you’ve lost your mind. Don’t forget who you are in this town. You are the law. And you are currently on duty. No indulging in witty repartee with a bold strawberry tart who broke the law less than an hour ago. Get a grip.

  He rose and straightened, donning his resolve and doffing his uniform hat.

  Then he traced Scarlet’s steps into the inn.

  The parlor was crowded, so he didn’t see where Scarlet headed. A few familiar faces met his gaze. The hardware-store owner shook his hand, the mayor slapped his back and he was certain Betty Monk had copped a feel of his butt. It was either her or Grace Lewis. And neither of those ladies had seen their natural hair color in thirty years.

  “Adam,” the bride said, pulling her dress hem from under the heavy foot of Bubba Malone. “I’m so glad you made the reception. Have you had a piece of cake yet?”

  Leave it to Rayne to try and feed him the minute he stepped inside. He shook his head. “Not yet. Sorry I had to miss the ceremony, but someone had to keep thieves and murderers from crashing the wedding.”

  Along with sexy sisters on a mission to destroy wedded bliss.

  But he didn’t add that fact.

  Bubba shoved the last of his cake into his mouth and mumbled, “I’da liked to see ’em try to crash that wedding. Heads would have rolled, by God.”

  Rayne laughed. “It’s too bad you didn’t pull my baby sister over. She almost made it in time to cause even more of a sensation than she did.”

  “Actually—” Adam said, only to close his mouth when Bubba made the kill slash across his own throat.

  “Actually what?” Rayne said, her brow furrowed.

  He stared at Rayne for a moment, not sure how to get out of admitting he’d ticketed her sister and did what she’d suggested—held Scarlet up long enough to keep her from crashing the ceremony. He could almost visualize Scarlet blazing into the church and stalking up the aisle with her vibrant hair flaming around her. Rayne was pretty with an angelic face framed by wild red corkscrew curls. But she was nothing compared to the siren
who had bent over the back of her car and dared him to frisk her. No comparison whatsoever.

  “Nothing,” Adam said, looking at Bubba, who looked alarmed. Scarlet’s antics must be a touchy subject.

  “Oh.” Rayne spun around and her hair nearly landed in Bubba’s punch glass. “My sister is around here somewhere. I’d like you to meet her. You might want to go ahead and introduce yourself. If she stays any longer than a day or two, you’ll run into her. She draws trouble like roadkill draws flies.” Rayne laughed as if she’d cracked a joke, but there was an edge in her voice.

  As if he didn’t already know.

  As if Scarlet’s naughtiness wasn’t exactly what drew him to her. That and her playground of a body.

  His mouth watered at the thought of taking a ride on Scarlet.

  “She done slipped out the back. Or maybe up the stairs,” Bubba said, rotating his large head like a periscope. “All I know is she ain’t feeling herself or she’d be down here regalin’ us.”

  Rayne sighed. “True. She’s hurt. And angry.”

  “You know, Hinton, I’ve been thinking of taking up law enforcement. You got room on that huge force for a man of my statue?”

  Bubba’s intent was obvious to Adam. He wanted to change the subject. For what reason, Adam hadn’t a clue. And he wasn’t sure about Bubba being a statue. “I might indeed.”

  Bubba actually brightened at his words. “Heck, I may take you up on it. Jack’s pretty sweet on me, but he may let me try my hand at knockin’ heads and cuffin’ drunks.”

  Jack Darby, Bubba’s boss and a local rancher, evidently heard his words. “I’m not that damn sweet on you. Go ahead, though they better get a tent maker busy on sewing a uniform for you.”

  Adam moved along as the two men jokingly sparred about Bubba’s chances at fitting in a police cruiser. Might not be a bad idea to recruit the big man as a reserve officer. The police force had been shorthanded ever since Sherwood McCann married and moved to Mesquite. Bubba Malone was an established member of the town. Everyone knew the easygoing, loyal-as-a-hound redneck. He’d be a good man to have when the chips were down.

  The crowd didn’t lighten as he neared the back of the house. Left and right, people nodded at him or threw a wave of acknowledgment as he approached the porch. But he didn’t fool himself. People were friendly to him for good reason. Being Police Chief of Oak Stand may have been a lateral move for him, but it was top dog as far as law enforcement was concerned for the people of the community.

  They didn’t trust him yet. Didn’t know him well enough to call him one of their own. But they respected him well enough. For the moment that was all he needed. One day he hoped to feel at home in Oak Stand, but until then, he did his best to be the man he expected himself to be. Focused, progressive and fair.

  And he knew his weakness for women like Scarlet would chip away at any respectability he’d built within the hardworking, traditional-values community. He needed to stay away from her and those like her. He needed to make a date with the mayor’s daughter, the perfectly respectable one who had recently moved home to teach kindergarten at Oak Stand Elementary. What was her name? He couldn’t remember.

  The back lawn was as crowded as the house, and he briefly thought about grabbing a piece of cake and returning to the vacant front porch. But there would be no sexy redhead to keep him company. He couldn’t help scanning the crowd for her, even though seconds before he’d told himself to forget about her.

  He didn’t find Scarlet, but he did find the irascible city councilman, Harvey Primm. Unfortunately.

  “Hinton, we need to talk about this upcoming hoopla at the library. We need a plan for how to handle the riffraff that’s going to show up.”

  “Not today, Harvey. Come by my office and we’ll talk about it.”

  “You know they’re planning a protest, don’t you? Gosh danged liberals. As if we don’t have bigger things to worry about in this country. Misguided fools, the whole pack of them.” The councilman shook his head, disgust plainly etched across his weathered brow.

  Harvey Primm served on the city council as he had for the past twenty-odd years. He was a self-proclaimed pillar of the community. Once a tire salesman, he now worked from home, producing a questionable piece of journalism called the Howard County Examiner, which unleashed gossip about his neighbors. Ironically, he also served as a deacon in a nondenominational church on the outskirts of Oak Stand. Adam found the man to be overbearing, insufferable and a little cracked. Supposedly, Harvey had grown increasingly obsessed with stopping evil in all forms ever since his wife had been killed by a drunk driver several years before. Harvey’s feverish climb onto his soapbox had him extolling his views on everything from prohibiting the sale of alcohol to this newest cause—the removal of a children’s book containing witchcraft from the county library. Adam tired of the man shadowing his doorstep nearly once a week.

  “I’m aware, but this is neither the time nor the place. Come by and we’ll talk,” Adam said, trying to slide past Harvey.

  The man’s hand clamped down on his arm. “There is no better time than the present. The library board voted. It’s done and all the protestors in the state of Texas can’t stop us from removing that filth from the shelves of our library. Away from the hands of our innocent children.”

  Adam removed Harvey’s hand. “Mr. Primm, if you wish to discuss potential problems that might arise as a result of the library board’s vote, stop by my office.”

  With that, Adam turned and plowed through a small crowd of people, many of whom likely overheard the exchange if their silence was any indication.

  Harvey didn’t follow him, but Adam could feel the hard stare of the man burrowing into his back. A prickle of unease crept up his spine. Harvey, who had wholeheartedly supported Adam’s hire as the new police chief, was turning out to be trouble. Adam supposed the man thought a younger appointment would be easier to control.

  Guess he hadn’t done his research.

  Adam was definitely by the book, but he also wasn’t a man to be pushed around by the whims of an egotistical, right-wing looney bird.

  A flash of red caught his eye.

  But it wasn’t Scarlet. It was Betty Monk wearing a lavish red sequined dress paired with matching cowboy boots. Not quite fitting with the homespun, earthy decor of the reception. How he knew it was homespun and earthy was beyond him. Must have been something he picked up from the decorating magazine Roz had left in the john at the station.

  Time to shake Brent Hamilton’s hand, then get out of Dodge. Go to the station. File a report. Drink a cup of Roz Lane’s bitter coffee. Forget about buxom beauties and how splendid they looked in black leather and red lipstick.

  Betty raised her painted-on eyebrows and started barreling toward Adam.

  He slid to the right, ducking behind a cluster of occupied tables. He didn’t want to hear about how no one picked up after their dogs when they walked through the downtown park. Nor could he tolerate her incessant touching. She flirted as if she were a twenty-year-old. And seemed absolutely convinced he was into her.

  To hell with shaking Brent’s hand. Adam would grab cake and head for the hills.

  He was a good cop, but he wasn’t a saint.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SCARLET LEANED HER HEAD against the fluffy pillows on the bed and studied Rayne. The last time she’d seen her had been four months ago when she’d come to New York City to meet with producers and TV execs. At that time, her older sister had looked thinner and more stressed. Scarlet had concluded the wear and tear to be caused by her career and dealing with being a single mother. She hadn’t known Rayne had been seeing Oak Stand stud-muffin-extraordinaire Brent Hamilton. When Rayne mentioned she’d been seeing the man, Scarlet had nearly gone through the roof of the upscale bar they’d sat in.

  It was obvious Rayne had given little credence to Scarlet’s warning about how men like Brent never changed, since she sat in a ladder-backed chair, wearing an ivory wedding dress.


  Scarlet had to admit. Rayne looked good. She’d gained weight and as she’d glided down the church steps, hand in hand with her new husband, she’d been glowing most radiantly. God, Scarlet hoped Rayne wasn’t pregnant.

  Now, as the shadows fell and the party-supply workers packed up the tents and folding chairs outside, Rayne looked…uncomfortable, like a kid who faced the dreaded flu shot.

  Scarlet crossed her arms and glared at her older sister until their gazes finally met across the room.

  “I called you,” Rayne said. “I left two messages this past week alone.”

  Scarlet sniffed and tossed her hair over one shoulder.

  “Summer,” Rayne said, her words plainly apologetic. “I called and left a message on your answering machine. And I sent you an email. Have you checked your messages?”

  “My name is not Summer. Not anymore.”

  Rayne frowned. “I know, but you’ll always be Summer to me.”

  Scarlet shrugged, dismissing the mushy sentiment. She’d changed her name to Scarlet when she started acting. She preferred it over the misnomer her parents had given her. Nothing light and sweet about her. Especially now that her heart had been broken into a billion throbbing pieces. “You know my cell-phone number. Any thought I might be on the move, since we’re on hiatus?” Scarlet drawled. She wasn’t buying her sister’s story. She had an inkling Rayne hadn’t wanted her here for the wedding. Which hurt like hell.

  “You never answer your cell. I called the number you gave me. I did.” Rayne spread her hands apart. “You never called me back.”

  “That’s not tr—” Scarlet snapped her mouth closed. Okay. She vaguely remembered a call from her sister several weeks ago. She’d been at a party. She’d had two gin and tonics in her attempt to have fun. She hadn’t accomplished her mission. And she’d forgotten about Rayne’s call. Damn.

  “See.” Rayne gave her the I’m-always-right older-sister nod. The one Scarlet hated beyond all others. Rayne clung to the power she wielded as the eldest.