A Touch of Scarlet. Liz Talley

was everything he wanted and nothing he needed.

      Adam felt his groin tighten. Oh, yeah. Scarlet Rose was the type of woman he lusted after. Lush, brash and absolutely naughty. He liked the girls who wore their clothes too tight, drank Bud from a bottle and had tattoos of La Vida Loca on their backside. Years ago, he’d gone through a parade of women who threw things at him when they got angry, wore cheap red lace bras and drove him totally over the edge.

      Why he preferred trouble to perfectly acceptable in a sweater set escaped him. He supposed it had something to do with his father and his sexcapades. That’s exactly what his shrink would say. Perhaps Adam could explore that line of reasoning the next time he went to Houston and saw Dr. Fitzgerald. Maybe he could find out why coiffed blondes with monogrammed stationary turned him off. Why cute soccer moms with juice packs and empty smiles left him cold. And why women who went to Bible study and drank hot tea with lemon made him want to run for the hills.

      Because those kinds of women were what a police chief needed. An acceptable lady. Not a sex kitten.

      He gave himself a mental shake and pulled his thoughts from women of his past, present and future.

      He was on the clock with a job to do.

      He tossed the soiled wipe into the trash bag he kept on the floor of the idling cruiser and climbed inside. One pass around the town, then he’d stop at the reception. Hopefully, the redhead hadn’t caused any problems. By his watch, she would have been too late. But something told him she wouldn’t let Rayne and Brent get in her way.

      Desire unraveled in his belly. He tamped it down.

      Scarlet Rose spelled trouble. With a capital T.

      And if there was one thing Adam didn’t need in his life, it was that kind of Trouble.

      ADAM CLIMBED THE STEPS of the century-old house that served as Oak Stand’s only bed-and-breakfast. It was a gingerbread of a house, freshly painted a cool blue with bright white trim. Lush ferns greeted visitors as they made their way onto the wide porch featuring rocking chairs and a porch swing. He could hear the hum of the crowd, most of which likely filled the interior and the pristine backyards of both the inn and the Hamiltons who lived next door. No one was on the front porch.

      Except Scarlet.

      She sat on the porch swing, looking as if someone had kicked her. Hard.

      “Hey,” he said, a little too loudly.

      She started. “Oh, it’s you.”

      “Yeah,” he said, for want of anything clever to say. As he stood there contemplating a feast for the eyes, his libido tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “I want some of that.” Libido was hard to ignore.

      She sighed and leaned back, causing the swing to tilt and her breasts to thrust forward. A gold shoe charm hung from a chain around her neck, nestling right in the middle of her breasts. He wanted to be that little shoe. His mouth went dry at the thought. His libido resumed the incessant tapping.

      “Wow. Not only are you competent in the art of detection, but you excel in the art of conversation, too. Bet the ladies in town are lining up.” Sarcasm didn’t drip from her mouth. It gushed enough for him to shove his libido under a rock.

      “No luck in stopping the wedding?”

      Her eyes narrowed. “You gave me that DUI test on purpose.”

      He shook his head. “No. I detained you because a bottle of liquor fell from your glove compartment. I’m entrusted with a job to protect this community.”

      She snorted. “Yeah. I’m a real danger. Hide your children.”

      “Just doing my job.”

      She shrugged. “I wasn’t in time. Guess we bitches don’t always get our way.”

      He winced. “I shouldn’t have implied you are a bitch. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”

      She averted her eyes toward the large magnolia tree that squatted in the yard between the inn and the street. “No problem. I am a bitch. Everyone knows it.”

      Silence descended on the porch. He thought he heard crickets.

      “I’m sure you’re not, um, well, not to everyone.” Damn. What was he? A tongue-tied virgin standing in front of a wet-dream fantasy girl?

      Amusement twitched at her mouth and her gaze caught his. Her eyes weren’t brown like her sister’s. More of a hazel with flecks of gold and green. They looked like the granite on his kitchen counter. Mesmerizingly gorgeous. Of course, he couldn’t see them from where he stood, but he remembered from earlier. “You’re being nice to me.”

      He shrugged. “Not really, but I sense you need someone to give you a break today.”

      “Like you did earlier? You gave me a DUI test on the side of the highway a mere—” she glanced at the red leather watch on her arm “—forty minutes ago.”

      He glanced through the glass in the oval door. The parlor looked to be a crush of people, talking with their hands, sipping punch. It looked uncomfortable. He moved toward Scarlet. “Again, just doing—”

      “Your job. Yeah, I get it,” she muttered, not moving from her spot on the swing.

      “So, are you in time-out or something?”

      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