And she sure as hell shouldn’t be wearing skirts like that.Not with those long, toned legs, smooth in all the wrong ways, where the image was now lodged in his brain like a burr under a saddle.Especially after she’d hitched that tight little pencil skirt up just enough to climb into his troopy.Only to sit beside him like a devil’s trap full of temptation, all sharp tongue and stubborn pride, with her scent curling through the cab.
Of all the women to send into his world, it had to be this one.Smart.Cold.Gorgeous.Built like trouble, dressed like sin, and carrying a government lanyard instead of her badge.Same rank, sure—but she outranked him in every damn way that mattered.
The silence hung heavy in the air.He was used to the silence, but few liked it.
All the while that damned scent of hers still lingered.
Thankfully he pulled up out front of the feed store, the gravel popping beneath the tyres as he shoved the troopy into park.
He kept his hand on the gearstick.‘Next time, wear jeans and boots.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If you want people to talk to you, dress like the locals.You’ll blend in better.Why would anyone want to talk to you when you look like a tax auditor in that skirt and heels?’
Her brows lifted.‘And you look like a bad attitude in boots.’
That pulled the corner of his mouth.Just a twitch.Not a smile.
Definitely not.
‘Careful, some people might bite, if you keep sassing like that.’
‘Uh-huh.’Taryn reached for the door, then hitched her skirt just enough to climb out.
Dammit.He tried to keep his eyes on the wheel.
Tried.
Then she looked back at him over her shoulder and smiled.
Here it comes.She was one ofthosewomen—one who had to have the last word.Just like the ex-wife.
‘If they bite,’ she said with a sinful smile, ‘I’ll just bite back…harder.’
The door slammed.
He didn’t breathe for a full second.
Bloody hell.
He stared at the dash, the muscle in his jaw ticking so hard it hurt, as her heels clicked on the gravel.He didn’t watch her go.But he sure as hell felt every step like a hot iron pressed into his chest.
She was trouble.The kind that was already slicing too close to the things he’d buried deep.
He threw the vehicle into gear and rolled away without looking back.
He needed to stay the hell away from her.
Only problem was… he didn’t want to.
Seven
Taryn tugged the cuffs of her new jeans down over her stiff new boots—which had nothing to do with that smug, square-jawed prick and his wholeditch the heelscomment.
She was here to audit a rural squad, not walk a fashion house’s runway.It wasn’t like she was about to throw on a flannel shirt and fake a nasally Aussie drawl.That was for childhood farm days, when her hair never saw a straightener and dirt under the nails was just a part of lunch.
Her new wardrobe selection was just a strategy.Camouflage.A smart move to blend in, to win trust, and gather intel.
