TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
AUNTIE LENORE’S OLD-FASHIONED BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN
AUNTIE LENORE’S (AND SUE BELL’S) SUGAR COOKIE RECIPE
CHAPTER ONE
GABRIEL DONOVAN KNEW Macy O’James was trouble the minute she rolled into town.
Hell, he knew it before she even hit the city limits. He and Johnny Angelini were sitting in Johnny’s police cruiser out near the county line, shooting the bull and discussing ways to improve workplace efficiency, when he had his first Macy O’James sighting.
Not that he knew it was her at that moment. Despite old Sheriff Baxter’s objection to what he considered the newfangled notion of interdepartmental information sharing between Johnny, Sugarville’s sole deputy, and Gabe, the town’s fire chief, the two men liked putting their heads together every now and then to talk out problems they felt had crossover potential. And that particular hot July afternoon, Gabe had just finished recounting why he thought Johnny should check out a ramshackle trailer out near Leavenston that he suspected might be a meth lab, when a candy-apple-red, drop-top Corvette roared by, trailing screaming rock and roll in its wake.
The two men exchanged a look. “Not going that much above the limit,” Gabe commented laconically.
“True.” Johnny nodded. “Ten over hardly seems worth the time to write up a ticket.”
“That was my thought.”
“Still,” Johnny said. “Hot car, hotter driver, man. Blonde. Could be my future bride.”
“There is that,” he agreed, although how his friend could state the driver’s hair color, much less her hotness factor, from the one quick glimpse they’d gotten as she’d blown past was beyond him. He didn’t, however, doubt it was true. Johnny had eyes like a raptor when it came to the female portion of the human race.
The deputy scratched a thumbnail across his jaw. “And it is a hot day. Be a real mess if Myerson chose now to let his cows cross the road.”
“Little car, big cattle,” he granted.
“My civic duty to do my job. It’s not like they pay me the big bucks for sitting under the trees. So.” He raised an eyebrow. “You in?”
Gabe considered. Common sense dictated he get out of the cruiser, get back in his rig and go about his business. He had no real reason or even desire to check out Johnny’s “future bride.” Beyond the fact he was currently dating a nice woman, he was nowhere close to being the hound with the babes that Johnny was.
Not anymore.
On the other hand, it was pretty much the male code not to let your friends have too much fun if there was any chance you could throw a wrench in their good times. “S’pose I better,” he said dryly. “When she files the sexual harassment suit, she’s gonna need a witness.”
Grinning, the deputy started up the Ford Ranger. He eased the cruiser out from beneath a stand of Douglas firs and alders that had done a decent job of shielding their cars from passing traffic, bumped over the uneven turf and onto the highway, then hit the siren at the same time he punched the gas.
They caught up with the Corvette moments later and watched as it first slowed, then pulled to the side of the road. The blaring music cut off midnote.
Two suitcases sticking up from behind the car seats blocked the driver from view. But her door opened in the sudden silence and a long, bare leg appeared, a blue peep-toed, platform-soled, Cuban-heel-shod foot stretching for the ground.
“You can wait here,” Johnny said, reaching for the door handle. “This is clearly a job for a trained professional.”
Gabe snorted. “Not a chance. What kind of bud would I be if I didn’t have your back?” Climbing from the cruiser, he looked at Johnny over its top. “For all we know, the woman’s armed and dangerous.”
“Yeah, I’m worried about that. Might have to pat her down for weapons.”
That would be the day. Johnny loved flirting up females, but he also had an appreciation and bedrock respect for them. Besides, he wasn’t the type to abuse his authority any more than Gabe was.
By the time he’d cleared the hood, the woman had eased out of the low-slung car and risen to stand hip-shot on the highway beside it. She relaxed her rump back against the driver-side door as she watched them approach, the heels of her hands braced on either side of her hips.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, because she looked for all the world like one of those World War II pinup girls, dressed as she was in a white sailor shirt trimmed in blue, those retro shoes and even more retro little blue tap pants that showcased yard-long legs.
Hell, she was even wearing a white sailor cap, its wide turned-up brim tilted rakishly off-kilter atop a froth of curls that clung in wisps to its brim and her cheekbones.
And sure enough, she was a blonde. Shooting his friend a sideways glance, he shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, man.”
“It’s a gift,” Johnny said over his shoulder as Gabe stopped and leaned against the cruiser’s hood. Continuing to the Corvette, the deputy raised his voice to address its driver, saying easily, “Hey, sailor. New in town?”
“No newer than you, Angelini,” the woman replied in a low, husky voice that ruffled Gabe’s nerve endings. “Considering you and I moved here around the same time.” Her shoulder hitched lazily. “’Course, I’ve moved on, while you…well, here you still are.” Her gaze cut to Gabe and she gave him a leisurely up-and-down examination that, to his disgust, elicited a down-and-dirty level of sexual awareness he thought he’d left in the dust long ago. “I’d say the honor of new in town probably goes to your friend there.”
Johnny came to attention. “Macy?” he said incredulously. “Macy O’James?”
Hearing the name, Gabe’s own interest was piqued, and he gave the woman a closer inspection. They’d never met, but he’d sure as hell heard of her. Macy O’James, Sugarville’s own wild child, heartbreaker—and ultimate pariah. From his first day in this little eastern Washington prairie town, he’d been inundated with tales of Macy, a girl whose morals were no better than they should be and who had left a trail of wreckage in her wake when she’d blown town for L.A., where she’d starred in a series of music videos. Steamy videos, it was always amended. Depending on who was relating a story to Gabe, she was Sugarville’s version of Pamela Anderson/Carmen Electra/Paris Hilton. Except—and this was always grudgingly admitted—Macy mostly kept her clothes on.
All of which he had supposed was marginally titillating. It was a helluva lot more so now. Because, looking at her lounging provocatively against her red convertible, the sun shining on the creamy expanse of those long legs and limning the curves of pink lips that were currently crooked in a sardonic smile, it was easy to understand
