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But she just couldn’t resist. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” she asked with a feigned sigh. “Yes, it’s my natural color.”
He bent down so he was squatting beside the car, resting a forearm on the door. They were practically face-to-face now, and the position gave her the chance to study those dark, dreamy eyes, framed by the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man.
He watched her just as intently, answering, “It’s not the hair, but thanks for clarifying. It’s not your pretty eyes, either.”
She licked her lips, enjoying the way his stare roved over her face, as if he not only liked what he saw, but was memorizing her features to think about later. Hmm.
“Well?”
“Two things. First, you have my gloves.”
His gloves. Damn, she’d totally forgotten to give them back, had simply stuffed them into the pockets of her raincoat. She flushed, immediately grabbing them and shoving them toward him. “I’m so sorry. I was just so relieved to get off that ferry I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m the one who raced off for the near-emergency.”
He took the gloves from her, his fingertips brushing against hers, lightly, softly, and he didn’t immediately pull away. She sucked in a surprised breath at the excitement she felt at such simple skin-to-skin contact. They’d been mashed together, full-frontal, during their choppy boat ride, but through the bulk of their clothes and coats, she hadn’t been able to register much more than a quick acknowledgment that he felt as strong and powerful as he looked. This brief, innocent connection of fingertips somehow seemed more intimate. Quick pictures flashed through her head of those strong, warm hands touching lots of other places on her body.
Lindsey was a big advocate of women taking care of themselves, being in complete control—financially, emotionally, physically and sexually. But oh, lord, did she love big, strong, man-hands.
“What’s the second reason?” she whispered, not sure whether she wanted him to say she’d forgotten something on the boat, or that he wanted to take her out for a blue-plate special.
Meat loaf’s good. I like meat loaf.
“Well, there’s also the fact that...”
“Yes?”
“You’re going the wrong direction down a one-way street.”
3
“SHUT UP!”
Mike wasn’t sure what Lindsey had expected him to say—that she’d grabbed his interest along with his gloves? That he’d wanted to see her again? That he’d be happy to show her around?
All that was true. But, remembering their conversation on the trip over, he knew better than to say it. Neither of them was in the market. She was a schoolteacher, for heaven’s sake, and he was the chief of police. They couldn’t afford the kind of gossip that would arise if the two newcomers, both in respectable positions, hooked up.
That was especially true for him, considering his very job might be on the line. If the town council decided he was spending too much time romancing a woman when he should be focused on his probationary period, he might not have a job to stick with. He needed to keep reminding himself of that, no matter how much he found himself thinking about those sparkling green eyes or that stunning red hair.
Her goggle-eyed expression and gut response almost made him laugh, but he clarified, “Uh, me shutting up won’t change the fact that you’re going the wrong way.”
“You’re serious?”
“Serious as an IRS audit.” He jerked a thumb toward the fork in the road, at which she’d taken a decidedly wrong turn. “The road switches from two to one-way at the split. It single-lanes in a long loop around the base of the island.”
She continued to gape and sputter. “Is there a sign?”
“Yup.”
“I can’t believe I missed it.” She shifted in her seat, peering out through the misty morning air, looking for the road sign, then let out an audible sigh when she spotted it. “I’m very sorry—I’m usually a good driver. I was trying to read my own lousy handwriting for the directions and wasn’t paying close enough attention.”
She showed him a sheet of paper on which was scrawled something that might have been English, but also might have been a secret code used by the Allies in World War II.
“Wow. You write more like a doctor than a schoolteacher.”
She bit her bottom lip.
“I thought all teachers had good penmanship.”
“I’m not exactly a typical teacher.”
