Free A Lawman in Her Stocking by Kathie DeNosky Page A

in there, darlin’.”
    When she noticed his inquisitive look, she sighed. “I suppose you want to know why I didn’t tell you I’m one of the cooking impaired.”
    He nodded and the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously, as if he were trying to keep from grinning.
    “I didn’t think cooking an omelette would be that hard,” she said defensively.
    “It’s not.”
    “And I suppose you know how to cook?”
    “Sure do,” he said, his grin breaking through.
    “I might have known.” She frowned. “And you’re probably good at it, too.”
    “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said, chuckling. He reached out and took her hand, then pulled her down onto the thick carpet beside him. “But I’m much better at other things,” he said, his drawl so warm and sexy that a shiver slid down her spine.
    Her breath caught at the smoldering look in his eyes. He was going to kiss her again, and the thought both thrilled her and scared her to death at the same time.
    “Dylan, I don’t think—”
    He placed his index finger to her lips. “I’m not thinking right now either,” he said, lowering his head.
    She tried to remind herself he was all wrong for her, that he was too macho, too controlling. But the moment his firm lips settled over hers, none of that seemed to matter.
    Caught up in the maelstrom of sensation, she decided that whether it was wise or not, she wanted his kiss. She wanted him to once again make her aware of the differences between them, the complementing contrast of man to woman.
    She reveled in his strength, the feel of his strong arms cradling her to him, his muscular legs tangled with hers. As his lips leisurely caressed hers that fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach took off at a gallop. But when Dylan parted her lips to deepen the kiss, the fluttering intensified, tightened and transformed into the sweet ache of pure desire.
    Tiny jolts of electric current skipped along Brenna’s nerve endings as Dylan’s hands tangled in her hair. He pressed his hard length to her and the groan of pleasure rumbling up from deep in his chest, sent an answering need spreading throughout her body.
    “Well now. This explains why the house smells like smoke, Abby,” Brenna heard Pete say. “Looks like the kids are playin’ with fire.”
    “Or Brenna’s been trying to cook again,” her grandmother said.
    The sensual fog around Brenna disappeared in an instant.
    “To tell you the truth, it’s a combination of both,” Dylan said, raising his head to look up at them.
    Brenna pushed against Dylan’s wide chest. Thank goodness, her grandmother and Pete had shown up before she did something stupid.
    But the sight of the elderly couple’s we-know-what-you’ve-been-doing smiles had her immediately trying to bury her face in Dylan’s wide chest, and wishing with all her heart that she could get her hands on a Hershey bar.

Five
    H is mind occupied with the gentle sway of Brenna’s hips as she moved from table to table around the community room, Dylan failed to catch what the woman next to him had said. “What’s that, Mildred?”
    She pointed to the streak of paint that looked like a big, fat comma on the wooden plaque he was painting. “I said, you do the brush strokes so well that you should think about helping the Beautification Society with our Main Street Project.”
    His left eyebrow twitched at the mention of the B.S. Club’s project. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mildred,” he said, careful to keep his voice low. “The guys over at Luke’s—”
    “Oh, how silly of me,” Mildred interrupted with a laugh. She placed her wrinkled hand on his arm, her expression sympathetic. “Of course, youwouldn’t be able to help. The Beautification Society is a women’s organization. I forgot about you being a man.”
    Nodding, Dylan managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace before turning his attention back to his painting. How much more was his ego supposed to endure