3

She was pretty—very pretty. As his dad used to say, she was the kind of woman who was “put together on a Sunday morning when God was in a good mood and the angels were singing.” A natural beauty, sure, but one who clearly took a lot of time and effort to maintain. Big-city class and elegance were written all over her, the kind that screamed money and style. She was slender but curvy, her height just shy of reaching his shoulders. He wasn’t sure why he was noticing these details. She was just another woman—and an incredibly arrogant one, at that.

It wasn’t until he saw what she was wearing that it clicked—she was in a silky, silver dress that looked like something a bridesmaid might wear. Clearly, she was on her way to a wedding. John deliberately avoided looking at the tempting cleavage peeking out above the bodice, but the hem of the dress fluttered around her ankles. Alice would’ve called it a frou-frou dress.

She stomped her foot, her voice thick with defiance. “Do you know who my mother is?”

The words cut through his thoughts. “No. Can’t say that I do.”

“She works for the governor of Arizona, and she’ll have your badge for this!”

His gaze met hers, unwavering. A few minutes ago, he might have let her talk her way out of this. But now? He wasn’t interested in hearing another word.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right—”

“You bastard.” Her words cut through the air, her cheeks flushing with anger, her features tightening with contempt.

He spared her a brief glance but didn’t pause in reading her Miranda rights. Once he finished, he asked, “Do you understand your rights?”

“Do you understand that my mother will have your job?” she shot back, her voice laced with venom.

He swallowed down a curse and tucked his ticket book under his arm. With a slight nudge, he directed her toward the patrol car.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, stumbling slightly as she tried to meet his eyes.

John pulled his hat lower and swung open the back door of the patrol car. “Get in.”

“I will not.” Her voice flashed with defiance, and her eyes shot him a warning. “Just write me a ticket and let me go.”

The roar of traffic was deafening, but he still heard her words clearly. “I might’ve been willing to do that if you hadn’t tried to bribe me. That’s a serious offense, and I don’t take it lightly. Now get in the car.”

The sweltering heat of the Arizona sun sent waves of warmth rolling up from the asphalt, but neither of them moved. They stood there, locked in a standoff, like two fighters preparing for a battle. John had made up his mind—he wasn’t backing down. This woman needed a reality check.

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I have the right to call my mother, you big, overbearing oaf.”

“When we get to the jail, you can call anyone you like,” he replied, his voice firm. “But not out here.”

Cars whizzed by them, their exhaust fumes swirling in the oppressive heat.

“Jail?” Her face drained of color, and for a fleeting moment, he saw fear flicker in her eyes. But it quickly vanished, replaced by an even fiercer anger. “I’m not getting in that car!”

From years of experience, John knew the only way to handle someone like Charlotte Lily. He had to show her he meant business. He unhooked the handcuffs from his belt.

“You’re not…” she stepped back, her voice trailing off in disbelief.

He grabbed her wrist, snapping the cuff onto her delicate skin. Her touch was soft, almost silky—something he hadn’t felt in years. He quickly shook off the fleeting sensation. He was good at masking his emotions. “Yes, I’m cuffing you.”

Both wrists were fastened in the cuffs before she could respond. "We can choose to handle this in an easy or difficult manner, as the expression goes. Evidently, you like the difficult route." He took her arm and guided her towards the open door.

She jerked away from him, her eyes burning. "Don't you dare touch me, you bastard. You scumbag bumpkin. You'll pay for this!" She lowered her skirt to display thin ankles in high heels as she cursed at him in a voice fierce enough to burn water. She then slid into the car. He shut the door on her tirade, threw his book on the seat, and went back to her car.

Inside, he grabbed her purse, iPod, and a small overnight bag. The interior was all white leather, and the faint scent of gardenias filled the air. Gardenias? Not the fragrance he’d expect from someone like her. Something more exotic, like Opium or Chanel, seemed a better match.

Why was he even thinking about this? He wasn’t interested in the woman.

He finished searching the car, found nothing else of value, and headed back to his patrol car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he placed her things on the passenger side.

“You can’t leave my car here,” she called from the backseat, her voice muffled by the steel-mesh barrier between them.

"I don't intend to.", he muttered, grabbing his cell and dialing a number. " “Matt, there’s a red Lexus coupe on the northeast highway. Pick it up—we’re impounding it.”

“Damn, that’s an expensive car. You bust a drug dealer?” Matt asked, his voice filled with over-the-top curiosity.

John groaned. “Just handle the car. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Got it, Sheriff.”

Matt was part of General Zao’s family, owning a gas station and wrecker service in Holbrook. He’d tried to become a deputy a few times but never passed the physical—his six-foot-four frame tipping the scales at over three hundred pounds, largely thanks to his fondness for his grandmother’s bakery. But he was always reliable when John needed help with the office or other tasks.

The cab fell silent, and John didn’t mind. He’d had enough of Charlotte Lily’s attitude. He set his glasses on the dashboard and checked his watch. He was late. Alice would be calling soon. Damn it.

Damn Charlotte Lily for ruining his Sunday.