Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Her nightclothes were made of summer-weight cotton, old and soft from so many washings, but they began to feel like chain mail against her chest, equaling the pressure collecting behind her breastbone.

When she could stand it no longer, she said, “I had better check on Irv.” She pushed back her chair and came out of it so quickly, she tripped on the hem of her housecoat.

She hadn’t quite made it out of the dining room when he touched her arm from behind. “Laurel, wait.”

She didn’t upbraid him for using her first name. Of greater consequence was that he had covered the distance from the table in half the time she had and was now standing close behind her. So terrible and tantalizing that she kept her back to him.

“What, Mr. Hutton?”

“Why didn’t you ask me about Corrine?”

“I did ask you about her.”

“You wanted to know more.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.” He reached for her hand and turned her around, then kept his fingers clasping hers as they faced each other. “Why didn’t you ask how come she was with me?”

“Because it isn’t any of my business.”

“Yes, it is.”

He drew on her hand, bringing her closer to him, close enough for her to feel his body heat. Denying to herself that she felt anything at all, she kept her head lowered and whispered insistently into the open placket of his undershirt, “No, it isn’t.”

“Well, it’s about to be.”

With his other hand, he tipped her chin up. His eyes moved over her face, pausing momentarily on each feature. He brought his hand up to her cheek and rested it there. His thumb stroked her chin, coming close enough to her lips to make them tingle. He lowered his head, then more, more still, until his face filled her field of vision and she felt his breath drift warmly over her lips.

Her eyes closed.

His lips met hers softly, whisking back and forth, sipping gently, teasing her so maddeningly that she came up on tiptoes to secure the connection.

He made a low sound as his arm curved around her waist. The hand against her cheek slid beneath her chin, supporting her jaw and neck as he tilted her head and realigned their lips.

His were parted. Hers responded in kind.

Tongues touched, shyly and fleetingly, but electrically. Breaths caught and were suspended. He waited. For her it was agonizing, this indecision, this self-denial, this wanting, wanting, but fearing.

But then he spoke her name on a ragged breath, and something inside her that had been fettered for a long time broke free and took flight.

He sensed it immediately and deepened the kiss with hunger and heat, a low growl, his tongue searching. His arm tightened around her waist until their bodies met where his was straining and hers was aching.

He nudged the dip between her thighs, and stayed, and pressed, and still it wasn’t close enough. She placed her hands on his chest, clutched handfuls of his jacket…

And then gave a cry of sudden pain.

He released her immediately and backed away. “God, Laurel. What’s the matter?”

She looked down at her right hand where a drop of blood beaded up out of her palm. “I don’t know.” Mystified, she looked up at him. “Something in your pocket?” She reached into his left breast pocket and came up with a star-shaped badge.

She gaped at it, then dropped it as though the pin had pricked her again. The badge clinked against the hardwood floor. She looked up into his face, her breath rushing in and out. “You’re a deputy sheriff?”

“No. Not officially.”

She backed away from him, drawing her housecoat more tightly around her. “Were you in on that raid?”

“Not by choice.”

“Either you were or you weren’t,” she said, raising her voice. “If there hadn’t been a raid, Irv wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“If he hadn’t been in Lefty’s back room, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“You’re blaming him?”

“No. All I’m saying is that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and so was I.”

“Oh, were you? If Irv hadn’t been shot, would you have arrested him?”

“Wasn’t up to me. I didn’t arrest anybody. I hauled your father-in-law out of there, carried him to his truck, and drove him home.”

“For which I’ve thanked you. Now I want you to leave.”

“It wasn’t my doing, Laurel.”

“Don’t use my name!”

“I got railroaded into taking part, Laurel. Sheriff Amos—”

“I don’t care.”

“Sounds like you do. Sounds like you care one hell of a lot.”

“Will you just go?”

“What difference does it make to you if I was official or not?”

“None. Absolutely none. You…your…nothing you do is any of my business. Or didn’t I make that clear to you not three minutes ago?”

He leaned forward and said with emphasis, “It was an eventful three minutes.”

True. With desire spreading through her like warm syrup, all sorts of events had taken place in intimate places. To cover her mortification, she went on the offensive. “Why did you keep that badge concealed? It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”