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Despite swallowing three aspirin the night before and two more this morning, the headache still clung to her like moss to a tree. She rolled the half-empty can of soda against her forehead then pressed it to the column of her neck.
I can do this. I have to do this. For Kylie. And for myself.
She swallowed the last of the soda and tossed the can in the car’s litter bag. Okay, enough with the pity party. Time to take on the law.
When she turned into the parking area at the sheriff’s office, her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she nearly stopped breathing. That damn black pickup was parked at the side of the building. Sweat slicked her palms and the jackhammer in her head kicked up another notch. Surely,hecouldn’t be here. Could he?
The lettering on the glass door said Cole Landry, Sheriff, Salado County. Her research had told her he’d only been in office a short time, but unless the records had been destroyed, he’d still have access to them. The doors opened into a small, enclosed lobby with a reception window at one side.
“I’d like to see Sheriff Landry,” she told the woman behind the glass. “If he’s available.”
And if he’s not, I’ll just wait until he is.
“May I have your name and the nature of your business?”
God. The woman was as frosty as Marion Jordan.
From her body language, Dana figured word was already circulating. Well, what did she expect in a small town?
“Dana Moretti.” She handed a business card through the window opening. “I’d like to ask him some questions about an old case if he has the time.”
“Let me just check.”
She waited tensely while the woman spoke softly into a telephone. In a moment, she looked up and said, “He’ll be right with you.”
Dana wasn’t sure if she should be surprised or grateful that Sheriff Landry had agreed to see her so easily. She’d have bet a year’s royalties John Garrett had called him, filled him in, and asked for his help in shutting her down. A lock snicked as a door opened behind her.
“Can I help you?”
The deep voice sent shock waves through her. She whirled, her knees shaking. Oh, hell. It was him. The man in the truck. Wearing a uniform, for God’s sake.
“I have to say,” he went on, “you look a lot better when you aren’t soaked through by the rain.”
The first thing she thought wascowboy.He had the easy, relaxed yet alert stance she’d seen on men around horses and cattle. And his feet were shod in square-toed western boots. She was sure his hat was a Stetson.
But the way his eyes assessed her, the analytical gaze…military. Some kind of covert ops.
A dangerous combination in a man.
Dangerous to women. And to people who were misled by his friendly smile.
He was somewhere in his mid-thirties. At least six-four, broad shouldered, and lean hipped, the khaki of the sheriff’s uniform looking as if it were custom tailored for him. His face was all angles and planes, with deep-set, whiskey-colored eyes framed by dark brows and lashes. Even in her high state of anxiety, she couldn’t miss the sexuality that radiated from him.
The ultimate Alpha male.
And trouble.
I’ll bet he has to beat women off with a nightstick. Well, he won’t have to worry about me. Oh, wait. After last night, he probably thinks I’m a nutcase anyway.
She wet her lips. “I gave my card to the woman at the window. I’m Dana Moretti.”
“I know who you are.” His smile, like John Garrett’s, was professional and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been expecting you. Come on.”
He swung the door wide.
“If you’d identified yourself last night,” she told him, trying to keep the acid out of her voice, “I might have been more willing to accept a ride. I don’t make it a habit of jumping into trucks with strange men.”
“You don’t know me better now than you did a few hours ago. I looked up your books, and I’ll tell you. There’s nothing here that fits in your category.”
