[When SEALs Come Home 04] - Heated (5 page)

“Are you free this weekend? I’d like to take you out.” There. He sounded like he was fifty if he was a day, but the question was asked.

Her eyes widened, meeting his in the rearview mirror. “You can’t ask an officer of the law out on a date.”

“I can. I open my mouth and say: Mercedes Hernandez, would you like to have a beer with me?” He thought for a moment. “Except you’re not a beer person. I’d have to think of something else for you.”

“Right.” She drove silently for another mile, until she visibly lost the battle with her curiosity. It was good to know he still had that much. “What kind of date do you think I am? No. Wait.” She closed her eyes briefly, and
that
was another victory, because he wouldn’t have thought a sea tank chewing its way out of the ocean and onto the beach could have taken her eyes off the road.

“That sounds bad,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Too late,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve given me ideas. You definitely have to go out with me now.”

She glared at him. “The only thing I
have
to do is drop you off at a holding cell.”

“Details.” He shrugged. Uncle Sam had taught him a half dozen ways to get out of the cuffs she’d put on him. He didn’t
have
to stay where she’d put him. In fact, if Rio learned of this, escaping would seem like the wiser strategy. “You know you’re dying to ask.”

“Don’t mess with an officer of the law. It gets you arrested.”

They were flirting with a dangerous line. He knew that. He also knew he wouldn’t do anything that would really make her uncomfortable or that would force her to choose between her sheriff’s oath and whatever this thing was that they had. Because it was a tiny thing and not even important to her, but somehow it had become his lifeline. He’d started out racing down the empty highway, trying to forget the not-so-empty road in the Middle East, and he’d discovered that this highway wasn’t empty either. It was better. It had had Mercy Hernandez. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve her—he suspected the answer was
absolutely nothing
—but he liked knowing she’d be chasing him. Yelling at him for pulling stupid stunts and putting his life in danger. He’d bet he’d like other things with her as well, if she’d just give him a chance.

Unfortunately, being arrested by her was not a good start, and not only because Rio Donovan would blow a gasket when he heard. Which he would because, hello, Strong was a small town.

“S’mores,” he said. “How do you feel about s’mores?”

“Food is always good.” She flashed him a grin. “And who doesn’t like chocolate and graham crackers?”

The last time he’d downed a s’more, he’d been on his last deployment. A couple of the guys had built a fire, sweating over the flames in the middle of the desert because their CO had tossed them a care package from an unknown donor. They should have written some kind of thank-you note and they’d fallen down on the job there, but they’d all thought it. They’d made do without milk or Bud in a bottle, and they’d had themselves a good time. It had been almost as good as being back home, a sweet, much-needed taste of normal.

“I’d take you down to a fire pit on the beach, get us some nice hickory logs, and a boatload of s’more-making stuff.”

“You want to cook on our hypothetical date?” She sounded skeptical.

“I want to feed you s’mores,” he corrected. “Chocolate and melted marshmallow.”

She shook her head. “I can eat chocolate on my own. In fact, I’ve got a hot date with Mr. Hershey tonight.”

“But you can’t do what comes next on our date on your own.”

She shot him a quick, fleeting grin. “Don’t bet on that.”

“Kisses,” he said gruffly because, damn, just the thought of her touching herself had him hard. “First I’d give you s’mores, then I’d give you kisses. Sweet kisses, because you’d taste like chocolate and sugar.”

“Sticky kisses,” she countered. “Plus, geography isn’t your strong point. We’re in the mountains, and we have a dearth of beaches.”

“The lake.”

She thought for a moment. “We have lakes. That could work. What comes next?”

“What do you want to come next?”

She made a scoffing sound. “This is your fantasy, so you tell me.”

“Since you don’t like being sticky, I’d have to lick you clean. I’d start you’re your mouth and work my way down.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. “That’s downright filthy.”

She didn’t sound pissed.

“This Saturday?” He asked hopefully. He’d buy up every marshmallow in town.

“I can’t date the guy who’s cuffed in my backseat.”

“Then uncuff me, and I’ll slide on up there with you.” He knocked lightly on the Plexiglas separating them. She didn’t turn around, but he caught her smile. God, he liked her smile. It lit up her face and made her eyes crinkle at the corner. When she smiled, the remote Madonna vanished, replaced by a sensual, brimming-with-life woman. He’d bet not too many people, male or female, got to meet the real Mercedes. He’d also never met someone more in need of a nickname.

“Go out with me,” he repeated, if only to make her smile again. “And I’ll let you pick your nickname. Otherwise, you may get saddled with Sadie.”

She was smoking hot. He’d known she was pretty BBB (Before Breakdown like a Baby), but now she’d given him the memories to go with the knowledge, and what red-blooded male could forget the way her rose-scented skin had smelled against his face or the way her hug had pillowed him against the breasts she hid beneath the uniform shirt? Plus her shirt had buttons. He’d always loved buttons.

“You’re staring,” she said mildly.

“I’m just getting to know my captor.” He waggled his eyebrows, knowing she was watching him. Hell, she was always watching him, and he liked it.

She made a disparaging noise. “You’re not going to develop Stockholm syndrome in—” she bent her head and checked the odometer—“fifteen point three miles. You just lie back and enjoy the ride.”

Highway and mountain slipped past the window as she took them toward Strong. He had no idea how the ride looked to be the quickest fifteen miles of his life, and not because Mercedes Hernandez drove fast. In fact, she drove like a little old grandmother. He’d bet she’d never gotten a speeding ticket in her life.

“You’d better put your number in my phone.” He patted his back pocket with his hand. The move would have been more dignified if his hands weren’t cuffed behind his back, but maybe Mercedes liked to play dominatrix. He’d always been the guy in charge and on top, but for her, he’d be willing to make an exception.

She blew out a breath. “You have more words than a dictionary, Carter.”

But he was getting somewhere. That hadn’t been a
no
.

He also had a sinking feeling that Mercedes Hernandez was a keeper.

Not that she’d encouraged him to do any keeping, but the thoughts were there, even if he had no idea where they’d come from. Jesus. She’d ticketed him, about bankrupted him with her fines, and now she’d actually arrested him. Lusting after her was beyond stupid. Not to mention, the things he wanted to do to her and with her broke more than a few laws.

He wanted the deputy sheriff.

“My sisters call me Mercy,” she offered, undoubtedly to make him stop staring at her.

“Mercy.” He tried the name on for size, and it fit. He liked it. Liked
her
.

“You need a new hobby,” she said. “I’m asking you to get one. Please stop riding like a madman on my highway.”

While granting all of Mercy’s requests topped his to-do list, the problem was that he couldn’t sleep at night, not until he was exhausted. Restlessness and insomnia weren’t crimes in and of themselves, but they sure were a pain in the butt. So he stayed on the move, spent his time fixing things and, when that didn’t work, he rode. He honestly wasn’t sure what the future held for him, although he loved jumping for Donovan Brothers, and it seemed like a good fit. He had other options though. He could head back to the Middle East as a contractor where he could make good money as a firefighter. But he also had his enlistment bonuses tucked away, which meant he could do more than own a couple of motorcycles he restored in his spare time in borrowed garage space. Strong needed a good mechanic, and he could be that man.

In fact, it was wise to consider alternative career options, given Rio Donovan’s
no getting arrested
ultimatum. He’d blown that one. Talk fast and maybe he could avoid getting fired, because he’d miss the jumping if he lost the job. Swinging a Pulaski on the hotshot team didn’t give him the same adrenaline rush, and that was the truth.

She pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, parking neatly in her designated parking spot. Playtime was over.

She sighed, got out of the car, and yanked open his door. “Get out.”

Not his first choice, but undoubtedly his wisest. She had a gun, after all, and not budging wasn’t in his best interest. So he let her guide him out of the car and to his feet. If he was lucky, half of Strong wasn’t watching his moment of nonglory.

“Turn around.” She hesitated. “Please.”

That was unexpected. But hey, she’d asked nicely, and he was a nice guy. Sometimes. He turned and faced the car. Her fingers brushed against his wrists, and the cuffs disappeared.

“I thought you were arresting me. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Go away,” she said. “You just need to go away. Go home. Get your head screwed on straight. Stop messing with my life.”

“No date?”

“Go home,” she repeated with a sigh, and then she got back in car, shut the door and drove off.

T
he newly minted Smoking Hot Knitters, Strong’s brand-new knitting club, met every Wednesday night. Joining had not been one of Mercy’s best ideas. No matter how nice the other women were—and they were disgustingly nice and pleasant—she was the new gal who didn’t belong.
Yet
, she told herself. She’d wanted a way to fit in and to make girlfriends who could see beyond the uniform and the club would provide that. When people thought you were going to pull them over and ticket them for everything they did behind the wheel, it made things awkward in the social department. Since almost everyone drove to the Wednesday-night gathering, there were plenty of jokes about letting Mercy leave the parking lot first. She’d tried explaining that she was off duty, but it hadn’t seemed to help.

The knitting club met at the local art gallery. She must have been ignorant, because she didn’t understand what the pictures on the wall were supposed to be. She squinted at the closest one. No luck. The canvas still looked like random swirls of red and orange to her, and she definitely didn’t have two thousand dollars to take it home and figure it out there. She’d have to stick with her Monet art posters.

Unfortunately, she’d turned out to be a terrible knitter. Knitting seemed so logical, but the tangled mess in her lap broke every rule in her
Knitting for Dummies
book. The afghan square was decidedly uneven, and she’d dropped a stitch somewhere toward the middle, but the idea of unpicking the mess and starting over was too much. The yarn was a nice shade of purple, so the color would have to compensate for the quality.

Faye Donovan, the gallery’s owner, dropped onto the bench next to Mercy, clutching a tangled clump of yarn that was more circle than square. Maybe Mercy wasn’t the only knitting loser in attendance. “Remind me why we decided we should knit?”

Katie Lawson grinned. “Because we like the snacks?”

“Because we’re making blankets for poor children,” someone hollered.

“And expiating our sins,” Lily Donovan chimed in. “Or polishing our halos, for our more perfect knitting-club members.” She surveyed the room doubtfully. “Although I think most of us live perpetually in the debit column.”

Mercy liked the laughter, even if she wasn’t a fan of the knitting. Lily had assured her when she’d invited Mercy to join them that the ladies were making squares for baby blankets for a teenage-mother program in Sacramento. It had sounded far less fun than it was turning out to be.

“We’re very good. My teeth practically ache from the levels of wholesome in the room.” Gia stared balefully at her knitting. The other woman’s enormous pregnant belly excused her from any knitting quotas anyhow. At the rate the club was going, the Sacramento babies would be college age before even one blanket was finished.

“So who has the good gossip this week?” Laura Jo stared around expectantly. “Bonus brownie for news if none of us have heard it yet.”

“I heard someone in the sheriff’s got fired for filming a sex video on his phone,” Katie volunteered. “It came up during this week’s art lessons.”

All heads promptly swiveled to look at Mercy.

Laura Jo pointed a knitting needle at her, and red yarn unraveled over the floor. “Confirmation, please?”

“Don’t you teach art to five-year-olds?” Gia looked impressed. And horrified.

“It’s an open session.” Katie dimpled. “And I’m really popular with both the five-year-olds
and
the vets. Guess which group told me about the sex video.”

Katie wore vintage clothing and owned the best shoe collection Mercy had ever coveted. She had no idea how Katie actually got any walking done, but today’s boot had a three-inch heel and a row of tiny buttons. Maybe the getting
in
was actually harder than the standing-up-and-putting-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other part. She looked down at her own running shoes and sighed.

“I vote we withhold Mercy’s brownies until she confesses.” Laura Jo gave up on the pretense of knitting and dropped cross-legged onto the floor. Her casual clothes were more Mercy’s speed. The younger woman had paired torn blue jeans and work boots with a tight T-shirt sporting some kind of slogan. Skipping anything tight-fitting would be prudent unless Mercy passed on the brownies.

“More knitting, less talking,” Lily ordered.

Laura Jo stuck out her tongue. “Bossy pants.” Reaching into her canvas knitting tote, she produced a stack of perfect knitted squares. She followed Mercy’s eyes to the stack. “I bought them on Etsy.”