Fit To Be Frisked. Carol Finch

Didn’t that just figure, Vance mused. The knockout female had decided to enter a profession in which she could Miranda everyone. Well, he’d like to read her a few rights and tell her what she could do with herself and her hoity-toity, by-the-book attitude.

      “Vance was just telling me about your confrontation on the highway this morning. He objected to the hefty fine.”

      Didn’t that just figure, Miranda mused, keeping her expression carefully controlled. No doubt this practical joker had decided to take the incident a step farther by tattling to her boss. The rat.

      “I’m sure he objected,” she commented, “but I maintain that he got exactly what he deserved for turning that unsafe vehicle over to his cousin to drive to town after I sent Mr. Ryder back the way he’d come.”

      When Tate leveled a pointed stare on Vance, Miranda noted that he sank a little deeper in his rickety chair. Obviously the stool pigeon purposely omitted several important details.

      “You didn’t mention that, Vance,” Tate said stonily.

      “I was just getting to that part when we were interrupted,” Vance mumbled, shooting Miranda a fulminating glance.

      “Of course you were,” she said, then sniffed.

      Vance braced his hands on the armrest and jerked upright. “Hey, I was here first to give my report. You were out of line.”

      He glowered at her from beneath bunched brows. Refusing to be intimidated, she glared right back at him.

      “So I suppose you didn’t mention that you took devilish delight in trying to make me look like a fool in front of your cousin,” she countered. “Well, the joke’s on you, Mr. Ryder. The next time I pull you over you better show some respect!”

      “I will not be bullied by a gun-toting female who’s itching to blow my head off over a stupid vehicle violation!” he snapped.

      “I was not itching to blow your head off…then,” she retaliated, green eyes flashing. “Now, I’m thinking about it.”

      “I don’t have to take this abuse from you, lady,” Vance flared.

      “Of course you do. You invite abuse and it would be rude of you not to accept it,” she sniped at him.

      When Vance bounded from his chair and Miranda stamped forward to confront him—nose to nose and toe to toe—Tate pounded his fist on the desk, demanding attention.

      “Park it, both of you,” he boomed. “Let’s not allow a minor infraction to escalate into World War Three, shall we?”

      “She fined me for stupidity!” Vance roared as he plunked into his chair. “How professional is that?”

      Miranda swallowed uneasily when the chief’s gaze zeroed in on her. Okay, so that wasn’t very professional of her, she’d admit it. But this handsome hunk of cowboy had ticked her off royally. She couldn’t say exactly what there was about him that got her hackles up. It was just a knee-jerk reaction. She was intensely aware of him and this ridiculous attraction made her megadefensive.

      “You fined him for stupidity?” Tate repeated incredulously.

      “He deliberately provoked me. Plus, I should have arrested him for sexual harassment,” she blurted out. “He tried to flirt with me to get out of the warning and ticket.”

      “That’s a mistake I’ll never make again, believe you me, lady. I’ve met rattlers with better dispositions.” Vance crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared laser beams at her. “You can’t take a joke worth a flip, either.”

      She let him have it with both barrels blazing—figuratively speaking of course. “And you don’t have enough brains under that dirty cowboy hat to know when to be serious and not come on to a female officer.”

      Vance scowled at her. “I resent that dumb cowboy comment.”

      “Enough already!” Tate blared as he vaulted to his feet. His thick chest swelled like a bullfrog as he glowered first at Vance then at Miranda. He sucked in a steadying breath then appraised the two antagonists who were glaring each other down like gunfighters at twenty paces.

      It was a long moment before he said, “First off, Miranda, fining a man for stupidity, even if he deserves it, won’t hold up in traffic court and you know it.”

      Vance smiled so smugly at her that she gnashed her teeth, crossed her arms and glanced the other way.

      “Secondly,” Tate continued, “flirting with a law official is inappropriate and you know it, Vance.”

      So there, thought Miranda, wishing she could childishly stick out her tongue at that cocky cowboy. He would never have gotten to first base with her anyway. No matter how attractive he was—in a rugged, back country sort of way—he wasn’t her type. If he’d come on to her while she was dressed in civilian clothes she would have made use of her years of tae kwon do instruction and left him flat on his butt, gasping for breath.

      “Now then,” Tate said as he dropped back to his chair to drum his beefy fingers on the desk. “I’m not going to react rashly, which is apparently what you both did during the altercation this morning. I’m going to give this situation some thought before I decide how to handle it.”

      “Sounds fair to me, Uncle Tate,” she took grand satisfaction in saying.

      “Uncle Tate?” Vance hooted, owl-eyed.

      When Tate Jackson nodded, Vance wilted back in his chair and inwardly groaned. He was sunk for sure. Tate was usually a fair man. But coming from a close-knit family himself, Vance always stood behind his cousins when trouble arose. True, Vance and his cousins, even the absentee Gage Ryder, delighted in razzing each other until hell wouldn’t have it. But when the chips were down they became the Four Musketeers. All for one and all that jazz.

      No doubt, Tate felt the same connection to his niece, even if Ms. Serious Britches was aloof, defensive and snippy. She also seemed to crave a position of authority so she could lord over the males of the species.

      No question about it, Tate would side with Miranda and Vance would be doing time in the slammer, just because of his clunker truck and a harmless prank. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to spend his upcoming birthday?

      “You will both report back to my office at ten o’clock sharp on Saturday,” Tate decreed. “That will give you three days to cool down. In addition, you will abide by whatever decision I make concerning the incident. Agreed?”

      “Yes, Chief,” Miranda said so sweetly that Vance feared he’d hurl his lunch.

      “Fine, Chief,” Vance muttered, knowing he was doomed.

      Tate couldn’t possibly be impartial where his gorgeous but prickly niece was concerned. Vance would have to turn all his ranch duties over to Cousins Q and W while he rotted away in the calaboose. If he was lucky, maybe Stephanie would deliver meals from her restaurant and Laura could drop off some reading material from the high school where she taught. Yup, Tate would pretend to think it over for three days, but he’d still lower the boom on Vance.

      Tate’s niece, for crying out loud! No wonder the trigger-happy lady cop hadn’t been booted off the force already.

      “Now, both of you scram, I have a pile of reports to fill out,” Tate grumbled as he stared at his cluttered desk. “And try to stay out of each other’s way and out of trouble. Please.”

      Vance nodded grimly as he surged from his chair. However, he was too consumed by frustration to notice the chief’s wry smile or detect the snicker he camouflaged with a cough. Obviously Chief Jackson found the situation highly entertaining.

      It took considerable restraint on Vance’s part not to breeze through the door and let it slam in Miranda’s face. Instead he bowed like the gentleman his mother instructed him to be and swept his arm forward. “After you, Officer Jackson.”

      “Thank