Free Own the Night by Debbi Rawlins

both relief and regret that she’d taken the brown afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You have a fan.”
    She grinned at Dax. “I told him I’d ask you if it was okay to give him a treat.”
    The mutt’s ears perked up.
    “Oops. Guess I should’ve spelled it.”
    “He has quite a vocabulary, especially when he wants something.” Noah made himself comfortable on the recliner. “Now you’ve gotta come through. The Milk-Bone jar’s on the kitchen counter.”
    She glanced in that direction. “Do you suppose he’ll forgive me if I go put these bottoms on first?”
    “What do you think?”
    Alana narrowed her eyes at Dax, whose gaze remained locked on her face. “I think he has a long memory, something I’d do well to remember.”
    “You’re quick.”
    “Apparently, not quick enough.” She carefully swung her feet to the floor, making sure the afghan was strategically placed in front of her.
    Noah was a bastard for making her get up. He could’ve brought her the doggie treat, but he wanted another look at those legs before she covered them with that ugly blue plaid thing. Totally unprofessional of him, but he figured he could’ve been a worse bastard by not giving her the pants at all.
    “Are you still on duty?” she asked, heading to the kitchen with Dax close on her heels.
    Damn. The traitorous mutt blocked a good part of Noah’s view. “No. Why?”
    “You’re still wearing your uniform shirt.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and then he heard her lift the lid to the ceramic jar. “Do you make him sit first?”
    “Yup. But he’ll try to snatch it from your fingers at the last minute.”
    She emerged from the kitchen, treat in hand, Dax in tow. The afghan was still draped over her shoulders, but didn’t cover her entire chest or any part of her legs. Her calves were nicely shaped as though she might be a runner; even her slim ankles and peach-tipped toes suited him. Hard to tell if this was his punishment or reward.
    She stopped, one palm on her hip while she stared sternly at Dax. “Are you going to sit for me?”
    He dropped his butt to the floor.
    When she lowered her hand, Dax started to lunge, and she jerked back the treat. “No, you don’t. You sit pretty, mister.”
    Noah should’ve known better than to think she’d be a pushover. The whiskey had mellowed her, but the effect had to be wearing off. She seemed more like the woman who’d first walked into his office. Minus a whole bunch of clothes. And looking mighty damn fine.
    His body tightened, and he shifted, hoping his jeans wouldn’t get snug on him again. This made no stinking sense. He didn’t lose control this way around women, hadn’t since he’d been a teenager, and least of all with a potential suspect. The only thing he could figure was that deep down he was relieved she wasn’t like the rest of the ladies who’d been staying at the Sundance.
    There was no sport in them throwing themselves at him. Even Trace, the youngest of the McAllister brothers, who’d always been a bit of a hound dog, seemed to be getting tired of all the fanfare. Rachel was the culprit, slanting her website to cater to single women.
    His tail slowing down, Dax cast a woeful glance at Noah.
    “Don’t complain to me. Looks like you’ve met your match, buddy.”
    “Okay,” Alana said when she had the mutt’s attention again. “That’s a good boy.” She lowered the biscuit, and Dax filched it from her fingers before she could change her mind.
    He settled on his belly in his favorite spot, the braided rug in front of the dormant fireplace, the Milk-Bone snug between his front paws.
    With a fond smile, her hands stacked over her chest, Alana watched him as though he were a beloved nephew who could do no wrong. “He’s part Lab, isn’t he?”
    “That and border collie, I think, but could be something else thrown in. I got him three years ago from a rancher north of town. He was only a puppy, maybe