A Touch of Scarlet. Liz Talley

queen of the vampires was played by Frances’s niece, who happened to be Chef Rayne Rose’s younger sister. The Oak Stand Gazette had done a feature piece on Scarlet and had even netted a telephone interview. He’d perused the interview one night while sitting on the outskirts of town, waiting for the roughnecks at Cooley’s bar to get rowdy the way they did every ladies’ night. He’d remembered her publicity shot. The alabaster breasts threatening to topple out of the black spandex. Those red, red lips and haunting eyes.

      “You don’t watch, I take it?”

      He shook his head. “The existential angst that underpins the soap opera doesn’t fit my ideal viewing parameters.”

      “Big words. And it’s not a soap opera,” she said, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Though her skin was remarkably fair, she was not freckled. Her shoulders were smooth and faintly golden from the sun, as if awaiting his kiss. “You’re not from around here.”

      It was a question. “No. I’m originally from Houston.”

      “You don’t sound like you’re from Houston.”

      He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He was accustomed to questions. Everyone in Oak Stand wanted to know who your mama and daddy were. And where you attended church. But he hated answering questions about his past. “I went to prep school on the East Coast. They force Texas twang out, much like I’m sure you did when you trained as an actress. You don’t sound Texan.”

      “I’m not a Texan. I’m from everywhere.” The mood shifted. No more lightness. Something darker had awakened in her. For a moment she didn’t speak, seemed caught in her thoughts. Then she looked up at him. “You know, I have some wicked fantasies about prep-school boys in stuffy oxford shirts and sweater cardigans. About getting them out of those khaki pants.”

      It was off-kilter. Almost sarcastic. She vamped him and his blood responded, heating like lava, making him forget who he was. Her gaze narrowed to smolder and her pink tongue appeared at the corner of her plump lips, throwing gunpowder onto the fire.

      He couldn’t stop himself. He dragged his gaze over her fantasy of a body. The tank top was tight and outlined what he wanted to see. Even her blue-green nail polish looked provocative. He knew it was wrong. He knew he’d poured his own fuel onto the fire that blazed between them. “I had some pretty wicked fantasies myself. The best one involved a smart-mouthed redhead with long legs and big—”

      “Are you flirting with me?”

      Her words were like ice water, dousing the flickering flames within him. What in the hell had he been thinking playing with her like that?

      “Are you flirting with me?” he countered with a deadpan expression.

      He found his cool. No need to let her know how much he wanted to handcuff her in a very unprofessional way. No need to let her see the weakness he held when it came to women like her.

      She leaped to her feet. “No.”

      She walked toward the front door, not bothering to glance back at him.

      His body bade him to follow her, to find out how it would feel to have her perfect white teeth nipping his earlobe, to have her abundant flesh filling his hands. To discover the way she’d feel beneath him, on top of him, around him.

      But Adam didn’t move. He was no slave to desire. Not anymore. So instead of watching Scarlet walk away—which he knew had to be a great view—he focused on a moth fluttering above some flowering bushes ringing the porch.

      Brother, you’ve lost your mind. Don’t forget who you are in this town. You are the law. And you are currently on duty. No indulging in witty repartee with a bold strawberry tart who broke the law less than an hour ago. Get a grip.

      He rose and straightened, donning his resolve and doffing his uniform hat.

      Then he traced Scarlet’s steps into the inn.

      The parlor was crowded, so he didn’t see where Scarlet headed. A few familiar faces met his gaze. The hardware-store owner shook his hand, the mayor slapped his back and he was certain Betty Monk had copped a feel of his butt. It was either her or Grace Lewis. And neither of those ladies had seen their natural hair color in thirty years.

      “Adam,” the bride said, pulling her dress hem from under the heavy foot of Bubba Malone. “I’m so glad you made the reception. Have you had a piece of cake yet?”

      Leave it to Rayne to try and feed him the minute he stepped inside. He shook his head. “Not yet. Sorry I had to miss the ceremony, but someone had to keep thieves and murderers from crashing the wedding.”

      Along with sexy sisters on a mission to destroy wedded bliss.

      But he didn’t add that fact.

      Bubba shoved the last of his cake into his mouth and mumbled, “I’da liked to see ’em try to crash that wedding. Heads would have rolled, by God.”

      Rayne laughed. “It’s too bad you didn’t pull my baby sister over. She almost made it in time to cause even more of a sensation than she did.”

      “Actually—” Adam said, only to close his mouth when Bubba made the kill slash across his own throat.

      “Actually what?” Rayne said, her brow furrowed.

      He stared at Rayne for a moment, not sure how to get out of admitting he’d ticketed her sister and did what she’d suggested—held Scarlet up long enough to keep her from crashing the ceremony. He could almost visualize Scarlet blazing into the church and stalking up the aisle with her vibrant hair flaming around her. Rayne was pretty with an angelic face framed by wild red corkscrew curls. But she was nothing compared to the siren who had bent over the back of her car and dared him to frisk her. No comparison whatsoever.

      “Nothing,” Adam said, looking at Bubba, who looked alarmed. Scarlet’s antics must be a touchy subject.

      “Oh.” Rayne spun around and her hair nearly landed in Bubba’s punch glass. “My sister is around here somewhere. I’d like you to meet her. You might want to go ahead and introduce yourself. If she stays any longer than a day or two, you’ll run into her. She draws trouble like roadkill draws flies.” Rayne laughed as if she’d cracked a joke, but there was an edge in her voice.

      As if he didn’t already know.

      As if Scarlet’s naughtiness wasn’t exactly what drew him to her. That and her playground of a body.

      His mouth watered at the thought of taking a ride on Scarlet.

      “She done slipped out the back. Or maybe up the stairs,” Bubba said, rotating his large head like a periscope. “All I know is she ain’t feeling herself or she’d be down here regalin’ us.”

      Rayne sighed. “True. She’s hurt. And angry.”

      “You know, Hinton, I’ve been thinking of taking up law enforcement. You got room on that huge force for a man of my statue?”

      Bubba’s intent was obvious to Adam. He wanted to change the subject. For what reason, Adam hadn’t a clue. And he wasn’t sure about Bubba being a statue. “I might indeed.”

      Bubba actually brightened at his words. “Heck, I may take you up on it. Jack’s pretty sweet on me, but he may let me try my hand at knockin’ heads and cuffin’ drunks.”

      Jack Darby, Bubba’s boss and a local rancher, evidently heard his words. “I’m not that damn sweet on you. Go ahead, though they better get a tent maker busy on sewing a uniform for you.”

      Adam moved along as the two men jokingly sparred about Bubba’s chances at fitting in a police cruiser. Might not be a bad idea to recruit the big man as a reserve officer. The police force had been shorthanded ever since Sherwood McCann married and moved to Mesquite. Bubba Malone was an established member of the town. Everyone knew the easygoing, loyal-as-a-hound redneck. He’d be a good man to have when the chips were down.

      The