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After blowing out an aggravated sigh, she digs in her purse and produces a small wallet.
“Is there a problem, officer?” she asks, handing over her license.
“It’s Sheriff. You were goin’ thirteen over the speed limit and didn’t slow down once you reached the town limits. I’d say yes, there’s a problem.” I glance up from looking at her license. “Registration?” I remind her, arching a brow behind my aviators.
“Oh, right,” she mutters and reaches for the glove compartment.
I look back down at the license.
Eden Delmont. Lives is San Antonio, Texas. Born December 15th, 1987. I look at the picture displayed. Red hair and green eyes. Because I’m a man first and a sheriff second, I note how pretty she is, even though she’s not smiling in the picture.
Something white is shoved in my line of sight, and I realize it’s her registration. I snatch it from her hand, because if she wants to play the bitch role, I can certainly play the asshole. She faces the windshield again and her hands go back to the steering wheel, her thumbs tap rapidly and her knee bounces.
People get nervous when they get pulled over. It’s to be expected. But this is more than simple edginess.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
She doesn’t turn her head when she mumbles. “No.”
“You mind telling me why you were in such a hurry?” When she keeps her lips sealed stubbornly shut, I point to the town ahead with the hand holding her license. “You see those houses and buildings?” I don’t give her time to answer. “There are kids playing along the streets. People walking their dogs. What in the hell was so important for you to put their lives in danger?”
Her lips purse and she white-knuckles the steering wheel, staying silent. What in the fuck is wrong with this woman? Is she high, drunk, or just a cunt?
I release a tired breath and take a step back. “I need you to step out of the car.”
This time, I get a response. She whips her head around. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to run your license and registration, and I get the feeling as soon as I turn my back, you’re going to flee.”
“You can’t!” she blurts. Her hands fly to the door handle. Had I not already taken a step back, my balls would have been flattened to pancakes. She jumps out of the car and slams the door shut. Her hand flies to her ribs, just below her left breast. I can’t see her eyes because of the sunglasses, but from the scrunch of her nose, she just winced.
“Please don’t run my license,” she begs and leans back against her car, her hand still holding her side.
“Why?” I ask suspiciously. “You got somethin’ to hide?”
As she bites her bottom lip, avoiding my question, I take in her appearance behind my sunglasses. She has on some kind of flowy-type skirt that goes all the way down to her feet, which are encased in sandals. Her shirt is a deep-red silk, sleeveless, with a V that cuts low, showing off her creamy white cleavage. The bottom of the shirt stops just before it hits the low waistband of her skirt, giving just a hint of her stomach. The scarf around her head is long, stopping at her waist, and hiding her hair. A shit ton of skinny metal bracelets loop around her wrists and long silver dangly earrings hang from her ears. She looks like a glorified gypsy. A gorgeous glorified gypsy.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” she finally answers, interrupting my perusal of her body. I lift my eyes back to hers.
She exhales heavily and slouches back more against the door. I tip my chin to her ribs.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
“What?” She looks down at her hand, then straightens from the car, her hand falling away. “I ran into the banister at home.”
She’s lying through her fucking teeth. Suspicion forms in my mind. You can tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes.
“Remove your glasses,” I order.
“No.”
My brows jump up in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Why do you want me to remove them?”
This chick is really starting to piss me off. I take a step toward her.
“Because I said so,” I grit. “And because I’ll be able to tell if you’re on drugs or drunk by seeing your eyes.”
