Free Out of Eden by Beth Ciotta Page B

eyeballed the stern-faced chief and, ignoring the skip in her pulse, dipped her weapon in Moroccan Spice.
    “Don’t do it,” Jack warned.
    “Don’t worry,” Ziffel said as he returned to the scene of the almost crime. “Kylie’s a sensible girl.”
    It was the exact wrong thing to say. She climbed the ladder, gripping the rungs with one hand, holding the paint-slathered brush with the other.
    “Used to be modest, too,” she heard Ziffel say. “Although her undies ain’t what I’d call sexy.”
    Kylie froze two rungs from the top. “Are you looking up my skirt, Ed Ziffel?” She glared down. “You are!” And so was Jack.
    He grinned. “Boxers?”
    “They were the only clean shorts I had!” Any further explanation was silenced when she misstepped. She grabbed the ladder with both hands, bobbled the brush. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling Ziffel’s curse.
    She glanced down and saw the slash and dribbles of pink—er, Moroccan Spice—on the deputy’s dark blue uniform. The brush had bounced off his shoulder and landed on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she squeaked as the paint-splattered cement zoomed up to her face in some weird 3-D movie illusion, then slammed back down to earth.
    “You shook things up,” said Jack, sounding half amused, half pissed. “Happy now?”
    “Not really.”
    “Climb down.”
    She would if she could, but her legs wouldn’t move.
    “Now.”
    She broke out in a sweat, her vision blurred. She cursed the cosmos—the liquor kind—and her hangover. Hugging the ladder tight, she focused straight ahead. Which put her at eye-level to the sign with her family’s motto: Practical shoes for practical people .
    “Not for long,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
    “I won’t ask twice,” Jack said.
    “New crowd gathering,” Ziffel muttered, then switched to an authoritative tone. “Move along, people. Nothing to see.”
    She tensed when the ladder creaked under more weight. She felt a couple of soft bounces, then a hard body climbing up behind her. Every nerve in her body pulsed. She told herself it was because she’d had a fright. Not because Jack’s front was plastered to her back.
    Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache.
    “When did you get so damned stubborn?” Jack said close to her ear.
    No way was she going to admit to a hangover-induced dizzy spell. Aside from all the nerve pulsing, she felt slightly better. Probably because she was focused on the feel and smell of Jack and not the long drop down. She relaxed against him, and next thing she knew she’d been plucked from the ladder. Her knees buckled when her boots hit the sidewalk, but she didn’t crumple due to Jack’s hold on her waist.
    “You can go, Ziffel,” he said. “Drop your shirt at the cleaners and be sure to send Miss McGraw the bill.”
    “Hey,” she complained. But Ziffel was already stalking off and Jack was hauling her inside McGraw’s. She pried at his hands. “Stop manhandling me.”
    He let her go, but backed her up against the wall in between the gumball machine and the cashier counter.
    She didn’t like being bullied. She especially didn’t like the erotic thrill she got when he braced his hands on the wall and fenced her in. Or the heat between her thighs when he leaned close. Or the fluttery feeling in her stomach when his gaze slid over her mouth.
    “Find a new hiding place for your spare key, Tiger.”
    What?
    Then she flashed on the night before. Jack driving her home. Lost purse. Locked door.
    Oops.
    He made eye contact and her stomach flipped. Ice-blue eyes on fire.
    Yikes.
    “Under the doormat? Why don’t you leave the door open and a plate of cookies on the table for the burglars and rapists?”
    His sarcasm grated. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, Chief Reynolds?”
    “Another thing. Hire someone to install motion-detector lighting and think about an alarm system. You live in the fu—” he glanced away and back