A Cowboy's Temptation. Barbara Dunlop

things to do.

      Then again, she could afford to blow ten minutes. And if Seth had to head home and change his clothes, she’d have the festival and the citizens all to herself.

      It made perfect, strategic sense. Get the adversary out of the way, even if it was only temporarily.

      While she talked herself into it, her feet were already taking her toward the dunk tank. She fished into the pocket of her blue jeans and produced a five-dollar bill. For that, the woman at the kiosk handed over three softballs.

      Darby was confident she’d only need one.

      She took her place in the lineup, fifth back, behind a short, teenage boy who was obviously a friend of the one who’d just failed to hit the target. Behind him were three women, all in heels and dresses, each of them obviously here to flirt with Seth, not to embarrass him.

      It didn’t take him long to spot her. He glanced to the balls in her hand, and his expression faltered.

      She flashed him a confident smile, tossing one of the balls a couple of feet in the air and catching it again with one hand. She knew she shouldn’t enjoy this. But there was really no point in fighting her feelings. She felt a buzz of adrenaline come up in anticipation.

      He gritted his teeth.

      The teenage boy came close but didn’t hit the bull’s-eye.

      The three women all giggled their way through pathetic attempts.

      Then it was Darby’s turn.

      “Mr. Mayor,” she greeted.

      “Ms. Carroll.”

      “Ready to get wet?”

      “Give it your best shot.”

      “Oh, I will.”

      It was far from the first projectile Darby had thrown. She’d played a lot of softball while stationed on bases and overseas. More significant, in basic training, she’d been a great shot with a rifle.

      He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, sneakers instead of his usual leather boots—probably a good idea—and a blue plaid shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms.

      “You might want to take off your hat,” she advised.

      “I’ll take my chances.”

      He settled the Stetson more firmly on his head, and their gazes locked.

      Adios, Seth Jacobs.

      She switched her attention to the target.

      “Don’t get nervous,” he taunted, voice loud and staccato, as if he was trying to psych out a batter. “Don’t want to miss. Don’t want to choke.”

      But Darby had spent enough time in a war zone that his shouts weren’t going to faze her.

      She drew back her arm, pivoted at the elbow and drilled the ball in a straight line.

      It hit straight on. The target pinged. The crowd gasped. And Seth’s eyes widened a split second before he plunged into the tank.

      The crowd squealed and clapped.

      “Well, I guess that’s it for our brave mayor,” came a woman’s voice through the tinny loudspeaker. “Round of applause please, ladies and gentlemen. Next up is Carla Sunfall, our very own Miss Wheatgrass.”

      Darby watched Seth surface. He gave her a fleeting, dark look, before smiling gamely and waving his hat to the crowd. He climbed the ladder out of the tank while two men reaffixed the platform and helped Miss Wheatgrass up to her perch.

      Darby turned and handed her spare softballs to the young man behind her.

      “Good luck,” she told him.

      He grinned, likely just as thrilled to have Miss Wheatgrass take the platform as he was to have two extra chances to throw.

      Darby left the midway and headed for the baseball field. It had been temporarily turned into a sports track with white paint delineating various lanes and quadrants. There, the organizers were hosting everything from three-legged races to egg tosses. Again, she expected to find mothers with young children who might share her concerns on safety and noise pollution.

      “Nice throw,” came Seth’s voice.

      She glanced at him as he drew up beside her, matching her strides. They were out of the main action now, between the backs of the game stalls and a low chain-link fence, where the generators hummed and fans blew heat out of the stalls. The shouts of game players and the electronic buzzes and pings were dampened by the makeshift walls.

      “You’re looking a little damp, Mr. Mayor.”

      His shirt was plastered to his broad chest, the soaked fabric delineating the definition of his muscles. His hair was wet, curling darkly across his forehead, and the sheen on his face seemed to accentuate his rugged, handsome features.

      Her mouth went dry, and the sun suddenly felt hotter on her head. Her body launched a traitorous rush of hormones, and she didn’t dare glance at the fit of his blue jeans.

      “All for a good cause,” he responded easily, and she couldn’t help being disappointed by his equanimity.

      He nodded to her clipboard. “How’s it going?”

      “Almost there.”

      “Deadline’s tomorrow.”

      “Really?” she drawled. “I hadn’t thought to check.”

      “I wanted to talk to you.”

      She gazed up and down his body. Oops. Bad idea. He was one sexy specimen of a man. She gave herself a mental shake. “Aren’t you going to change your clothes?”

      “I’ve been wet before.” His smooth, deep tone added an edge to the comment.

      She deliberately ignored it. “It can’t be very comfortable.”

      “I’ll live.”

      “Good to hear. But I’m a little busy right now.”

      “Did I say talk? I meant I wanted to listen to your side of the situation.”

      Darby stopped, and Seth stopped, too. She turned to face him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The old adage that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was, applied in this case.

      “Why?” she asked shortly.

      “I’m interested in your concerns.”

      “No, you’re not.”

      “Then I’m interested in you.”

      “No,” she repeated with finality. “You’re not.”

      “Go ahead. Let’s hear your pitch.”

      “I’m not going to waste my breath.” If he gave one whit about her concerns, he’d have listened to them long before now.

      “How will you know it’s a waste unless you try?” he challenged.

      “Let me tell you what I know,” she said. “You’re worried I might just pull it off. You know I have a lot of signatures, but you’re not sure exactly how close I am to six hundred. So ‘talking to me’ will accomplish one of two things. Either you’ll slow me down, making me one, two or ten signatures short or, and let me assure you this second one is a very long shot, you’ll talk me out of filing the petition.”

      The expression on his face told her she wasn’t wrong.

      “I said I wanted to listen,” he reminded her.

      “Then I’m guessing you’re trying option number one. Your intent is to slow me down rather than talk me out of filing.”

      “I’m not here to slow you down.”

      “Mr. Mayor—” she canted