I’ve never met a gutsier, more ball-busting woman. She’s all that, wrapped in a leggy, ex-military package. No turning back—I want it all.
“Briana Gainsborough?” The nurse’s brisk tone cuts through the filthy thoughts racing through my sex-deprived brain.
As the unsteady patient inches to her feet, I stand halfway, torn between being helpful and intrusive. “Want me to come with?”
“Nah, I got this.” Her head tilts at my worried look. “On my honor, not gonna run.”
Despite the steady voice, there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes—fatigue, pain, perhaps even fear.
“Okay.” Hoping I won’t regret it, I wave her on. “I’ll pick up a few things at the store. Be right back.”
Lifting a hand in acknowledgment, she disappears through the automatic doors.
At Walmart, I toss basics into a cart—sweats, T-shirts, sneakers, travel-size toiletries. Guessing her size is a gamble, but I’ve seen her in enough stages of undress to make an educatedguess. At the checkout counter, the cashier raises an eyebrow at the women’s clothes. I ignore her little smirk.
By the time I return, Briana hugs herself against the breeze, leaning on the wall outside the ER. She waves the paper discharge in her hand, then hops into the front seat.
“They took bloodwork.” Brown eyes on mine, she clips her seatbelt. “Doc says the chemicals have probably worked their way out of my system by now. Also mentioned a minor concussion.”
Jesus, she never said she hurt her head. “How did that happen?”
“Umm, most likely after I flew out of a tree.”
“Of course.” Letting the words sink in, I start the engine. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”
“No. They did scrape under my nails, checked me for hair—fibers—the works. Real thorough.”
“Did you see him clearly enough to work with a sketch artist?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll draw him for you.”
“You can draw?”
She flashes me a quick, almost smug smile. “Art minor. One of my many abandoned hobbies.”
Grip tight, I clutch the wheel while gravel crunches under the tires. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”
“Why didn’t you ask?” Arms crossed, the woman stares out the window.
As the parking lot disappears in my rearview mirror, I shoot her my sternest face.
She meets it head-on, chin raised. Under her breath—just loud enough to sting—she mutters, “You’re the fucking sheriff, for chrissake.”
I bark out a laugh. She’s unbelievable. Sharp-edged, bold as hell—and despite all she’s gone through—somehow still standing.
Chapter 16
Briana
No matter how outrageous I behave, nothing rattles Sheriff Kade O’Malley. How the hell am I supposed to douse this slow-burning lust, when he’s so damn agreeable?
Perhaps, I can use his attraction to my advantage. Reaching over the cupholder, I place my hand high up his leg. “You mentioned the FBI found my personal items. Can I get my wallet back?”
“Sorry. Evidence.” He stretches his arm across my shoulders, his rough fingertips finding the tight knots in my neck.
As zings shoot straight to my core and heat pools between my thighs, I realize I’ve played right into his hands.
“Surely, they’ve got everything off my phone by now?” I moan when his massage hits an erotic nerve behind my ear. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
