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“That look on your face is scary,” he told her as he opened his door and lifted himself into the driver’s seat before turning his head to stare at her as he pushed the key into the ignition and started the motor.
“Scary?” she asked with a smile. “How do you define scary, Sheriff Mayes?”
He grunted at that. “Equal parts feminine charm and sheer calculation. I saw that same look on your face before you broke Bobby Joe Wingate’s nose last year at the local fair. ”
Shehad broken Bobby Joe’s nose. “There was no proof I broke his nose,” she still reminded him. “He buried his face in the cement; I didn’t put it there. ”
“No, it was your cute little fist that plowed into it though,” he chuckled as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I was there, remember? I heard the crunch. ”
“And here you didn’t arrest me?”
Bobby Joe Wingate liked to tease and torment those much younger than himself. The twenty-three-year-old college dropout had been picking on a thirteen-year-old child whose father had been arrested on suspicion of terrorism.
The child had been unaware of the reason for her father’s arrest until Bobby Joe had begun spouting accusations at her and her uncle. Rogue had hit before she had thought.
And as Zeke said, he had been there. He had come up as Bobby Joe had hit the cement, jerked him up, and rushed him away from the crowd before someone had ended up dead. Likely Bobby Joe, because if he had tried to strike back at Rogue, the six bikers with her would have ripped his head off and used his guts to strangle him.
“The girl’s uncle found me and told me what was going on,” he said. “If you hadn’t hit him, I would have. I hit harder. ”
Rogue let a smile curl her lips at that. Yeah, Zeke could hit harder. She’d had the supreme pleasure of seeing him do just that a time or two when he had been called to the bar when things became a little too rough during a conflict or two between customers and bouncers.
“So, you took me out tonight to discuss Bobby Joe Wingate?”
He was driving through town, his eyes on the traffic as he headed toward the heavily forested city limits. Out of town. She watched as the city lights disappeared and the headlights of the truck picked up the black ribbon of the road winding through the mountain.
“Bobby Joe wasn’t high on my list of discussion topics,” he finally admitted as he signaled and turned from the main road onto a county road that led deeper into the mountains.
“Then what is high on your list of priorities?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the short length of her skirt as they drove deeper into the mountains.
“You. ”
That effectively shut her up, for the moment.
Zeke pulled the pickup into a clearing next to the lake several minutes later. The rays of a full moon glistened across the water as it lapped at the large rocks that had been set along the bank.
He stared out the windshield, too aware of Rogue sitting in the seat beside him, too aware of all the things he wanted from her.
“So I’m topping your list of priorities tonight, huh?” she finally asked. “I have to admit, Zeke, I’m a little surprised. I haven’t been your priority before now. ”
Her voice just did things to him. It was smooth, melodic; it was a breath of summer heat and a reminder of the sweet sound of her cries as she came around him. It made him fucking hard. It made him want to fuck her, right there, right then.
“You’ve been my priority longer than you can imagine. ” He continued to stare out at the water, scowling at the truth of that statement.
“Really?” Suspicion filled her voice. “Damn, you sure had me fooled, Zeke. I guess all those rejections were just your way of making a pass?”
He glanced over at her. “Smart-ass. ”
Flashing that wicked smile of hers, she brushed back the long red gold curls that fell over her shoulder and turned more fully to him as she released her seat belt.
She crossed one leg over the other, th
ose damned erotic boots making him crazy with the thought of them wrapped around his back. The leather cupped her knees, skimmed down her legs, and enfolded her feet until the four-inch heels drew his gaze.
Four-inch heels. Thin, stiletto heels.
The toe of her boot tapped against the floor of the truck and she stared back at him, obviously expectantly. The part that worried him was that she wasn’t responding to the teasing little name he had called her.
She was watching him with those odd eyes of hers, a pure violet, not quite blue, not quite purple. Eyes that threatened to mesmerize him. Threatened to strip his control and make him forget exactly why he had brought her here.
