The Sheriff's Secret Wife Read online

  What the hell? Her friends weren't going to rest until they found out everything.

  "Gage gave me a ride home because the weather sucked, okay? I found my brothers at the house celebrating their early release from prison by getting themselves and my dog drunk, which resulted in Gage again playing chauffeur for a trip to Kali's clinic. We finally got to bed about an hour before dawn."

  The words fell from her mouth before she could stop them. Thank goodness for the need to breathe or otherwise she might've spewed out everything. Including Vegas.

  Silence reigned. Racy started a ten count, knowing what was coming.

  "Alone?"

  She'd only made it to six. "Yes, Mags, alone."

  "Are you still there?" Leeann asked. "And I'm guessing this is his new place at the lake?"

  "Yes and yes. Before you ask, I didn't know about my brothers' release, and Jack is going to be okay."

  Her gaze returned to the action outside in time to see Gage turn to face the beautiful blue waters of the lake. His back fully to her, he continued his workout. It was only a matter of time before his next move had him facing the window where she stood. She couldn't continue to watch—well, yeah she could—but it wouldn't look good.

  She started to back away when she spotted her beloved golden retriever, tongue lolling out of his mouth and warm brown eyes fixed on the man who'd rescued him.

  "Jack!" she cried. "He's here!"

  Her friends started firing questions at her again, but a sharp whistle from her lips stopped them. "Guys, I appreciate the concern and I know you want to talk, but I've got a lot to deal with," Racy begged. "Can we hook up later in the week?"

  "My bachelorette party is Friday night. I want details," Maggie demanded.

  "I know." Racy attacked the buttons on the pajama top, yanking them open. She had to get dressed and check for herself Jack was okay. "I'll be there."

  "If Billy Joe and Justin give you any trouble—" Leeann cut off her words. "If you need help, with anything, please call."

  "Thanks, hon. Later, girls."

  She snapped the cell phone closed as the last button on the pajama top gave way. She looked up, wanting to see Jack again, but instead found herself locked in the sights of a very sweaty and sexy sheriff.

  Busted.

  He stood in the center of the sunroom, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Moisture plastered his hair to his forehead and covered his chest. A perfect set of washboard abs graced his stomach and his pajama pants had slipped past his hip bones. And here she stood in undone jeans and an open pajama top, his pajama top, and her hair almost certainly a wild explosion of curls.

  I am not a tease.

  Of course you are. Always have been, always will be.

  Their words filled her head as Gage grabbed a towel from a nearby chair. He hooked it around his neck, never taking his eyes off her.

  A quick tug on the string and the shade dropped. Racy headed for the bed, yanking off the pajama top. She had to get dressed. Now.

  A deep woof made her freeze.

  Too late.

  If Jack was in the bedroom, so was Gage.

  Chapter Seven

  "E at."

  Racy looked at the plate placed in the center of her desk. Four mini-burgers, still sizzling from the grill, topped with pale-green-and-orange coleslaw peeking from sesame seed buns. Golden-brown fried potato wedges sat piled in between the burgers. Their spicy fragrance caused her stomach to rumble.

  Twenty-four hours had passed since her last meal. She'd begged off breakfast at Gage's, grateful she'd managed to get out of his place relatively unscathed.

  He hadn't followed her dog into the bedroom. She'd yanked on her sweatshirt before turning around, but found only Jack sitting there. When she'd made her way into the living room, Gage had been nothing but cool and detached as he relayed Kali's instructions. Then he'd disappeared into his bedroom to shower before taking her and Jack to get her car.

  In fact, the only emotion he'd shown at all was a raised eyebrow and the tightening of his grip on the steering wheel when she'd refused his offer to follow her home.

  "Don't say you aren't hungry," a deep, rugged voice interrupted her thoughts. "Your stomach tells another story."

  Racy looked up. Justin took a step back, wiping his hands on a dishrag. It still threw her to think he and Billy Joe were out of jail and back home.

  The middle child, Justin was older than her by two years. He would've graduated with Gage if he'd stayed in high school instead of dropping out. Based on the few old pictures she had of their father as a young man, Justin was his spitting image, from the slim build to the dark hair to the surly expression.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "Lunch." His eyes strayed to the wall clock. "Or dinner. Hell, call it a snack."

  "Where'd it come from?"

  She was sitting in her office on a Sunday afternoon playing with her crew's schedule, because Ernie, her topnotch cook, and Tammy, her not-so-smart waitress, had taken off for a spur-of-the-moment elopement. At least they'd gone to Reno. But their impromptu trip over the matrimony falls left her up a creek. Her kitchen staff was suffering. Thank goodness Gina had agreed to come in and help handle the Sunday football play-offs crowd.

  "The kitchen."

  "What were you doing in the kit—"

  "Helping." He shoved the dishrag into a back pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. "Things are so crazy back there no one questioned me when I picked up a spatula. I told you this morning when you got home I've changed."

  Racy had to talk to her staff about security. "Last night notwithstanding."

  "I explained all that. And I apologized."

  Yes, he had. The first time she ever remembered any male member of her family doing so.

  She'd pulled into her snow-covered driveway, surprised to see the cars gone and the path to the front porch cleared. It had taken a few deep breaths before she'd opened the front door, but once inside she'd found an immaculate house with not a beer bottle or dirty dish in sight.

  Jack had sniffed around the living room while Justin had explained he'd awakened before dawn to find Billy Joe and their guests gone. He had then spent the next five hours cleaning up the night's mess, including scrubbing her kitchen floor and tearing out the aged shagged carpet, claiming it was beyond repair.

  She'd been stunned. Her place never looked that good when she cleaned. Heck, it never looked that good, period.

  Her stomach rumbled again and she grabbed a potato wedge, popping it into her mouth. "Wow," she mumbled as a tangy flavor burst on her tongue. "Don't tell me Tiny came up with this?"

  "Your other so-called cook?" Justin snorted. "That guy is lucky he can find the stove beneath that oversize gut of his. Those are mine."

  "Hey, Tiny has worked here for years. Yeah, he's stuck on the basics, but this isn't a four star—did you say 'yours'?" Racy looked at the plate again. She couldn't resist snagging another wedge. "As in, you cooked this?"

  "As in, the recipe's mine. So is the special slaw on the burgers. Try one."

  Racy heard the obscure pride in her brother's voice. She grabbed one of the mini-burgers, noting the size was perfect for her grip, unlike the supersize burgers the cowboys preferred. "I usually have only pickles on my burgers."

  "Try it," Justin drawled. "Otherwise I'll feed it to Jack."

  At the sound of his name, the golden retriever thumped his tail against the leather couch. Justin had actually gotten down on one knee and apologized to the animal before offering to pay for any vet bills. Racy wasn't sure she believed him, but Jack had offered a wet kiss of forgiveness.

  "Jack is on a restricted diet for a few days," she said.

  "I was kidding. Now, try it."

  She took a bite and fell in love. "This is amazing. Where'd you learn to do this?"

  Justin stared at her, his left eyebrow arched high.

  Damn, was that expression something little boys learned in school while girls w
ere off playing hopscotch? Gage had done the same exact thing this morning.

  She pushed the lawman from her head, determined to focus on her brother as she realized where he'd learned his culinary skill. "In prison? You've got to be kidding."

  "I worked my way up from dishwasher until I was prepping for a good ol' Southern boy from Cajun country. Then I started messing around with my own techniques. Like I told you this morning, I've spent the seven years I was stuck in the pen doing something to change my life."

  Racy stared at the burger, unable to believe her brother was really its creator. "And Billy Joe?"

  "He continued as before. I kept saying no when he tried to get me involved. It took a couple of years, but he finally listened. We didn't talk after that. I didn't even know he'd been released the same day as me until we met at out-processing. I had no idea where I was heading when I left but he'd lined up a ride—" Justin cut off his words. "You've already heard this."

  Racy nodded and took another bite. The sweet taste of the coleslaw mixed with the flavorful meat in a perfect combination. "This really is wonderful."

  "So you'll hire me?"

  The burger caught in her throat and she choked. She grabbed the water bottle her brother had brought in with the food, and forced the bite down with a rush of cold liquid. "What?"

  "I need a job, Racy, and you need a cook."

  She didn't know what to say. This wasn't something she'd expected in a million years. First the sheriff's sister and now her ex-con brother? She took another large gulp from the water bottle.

  "I'm good at this," his voice dropped low as he leaned over the desk, his hands braced on the scarred wood. "I figured after I got out I'd scrape up a job at a greasy spoon somewhere, but this is perfect—"

  "Perfect?" Racy shot back. "How am I going to explain an ex-drug-runner slapping hamburger patties in my kitchen? I've got plans for this place—for my future—and they don't include getting shut down because you've decided to revert to old ways."

  "I told you—"

  "And I'm just supposed to believe you? We haven't seen each other in years and, bam, you're asking for a job? We have no idea what Billy Joe is up to, but you've always followed him in the past. Why should it be any different now?"

  "Because I'm different." Justin leaned closer, the muscles in his upper arms straining against the simple white T-shirt he wore. "I've spent years caged like an animal, fighting and scrapping to make something of myself. Yeah, I blew it spending the last few weeks partying with Billy Joe, then breaking in and trashing your house. This morning I knew I had to take control—"

  "Hey, Racy—oops, sorry, I wasn't aware you had company." Gina poked her head into the office, her bright blue eyes moving quickly between her and Justin. "I wanted to let you know I'm here and Tiny is threatening to take a meat cleaver to the deep fryer. That can't possibly be a good thing, right?"

  Justin straightened and crossed his arms over his chest again. Racy sighed, dropping the burger to her plate and her head to her hands.

  "Well?" he asked.

  She looked at her brother. "This is a trial period. If Ernie wises up and leaves Tammy at the altar, he could be back here before closing."

  "Got it."

  Racy looked at Gina again and got a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Oh, no. That wasn't feminine interest she saw in Gina's gaze roaming over Justin's backside?

  Not now, not from this girl.

  Gage wouldn't just accuse Racy of playing games this time. No, he'd run her out of town on a rail.

  "Ah, Gina, this is my brother, Justin."

  Gina's eyes met Racy's and she blushed. "Hello."

  Justin nodded in her direction, but his gaze returned quickly to Racy.

  "I don't remember Racy having any brothers." Gina's smile slipped at Justin's insolence. "Have you always lived in town?"

  "He's just moved back this weekend," Racy said. "He's gonna be helping in the kitchen until—well, until the craziness passes."

  The stiffness in Justin's shoulders eased and he dropped his hands. "I'll check on Tiny. Enjoy your food."

  He turned on his heels and headed for the door the same moment Gina stepped inside. They bumped into each other and Justin sprang back as if he'd been burned, landing hard against the doorjamb.

  "Oh, you okay?" Gina reached out, but Justin skirted the door frame and slid into the hall, a paperback falling to the floor.

  Gina got to it first. "Songs of a Worker by Arthur O'Shaughnessy?" She read the title aloud.

  Justin took the book and shoved it into his back pocket. "Just some light reading."

  Then he was gone.

  Racy sighed, knowing she had to nip this attraction in the bud. "Gina, maybe it's none of my business, but please don't—"

  The shrill ring of the phone cut off her words. She grabbed the receiver. "Yes? Okay, I'll be right there."

  "Is something else wrong?" Gina asked.

  "Only if my luck hasn't changed." Racy moved from behind her desk, making a mental note to warn off her newest waitress about Justin later. Of course, once her brother found out Gina's last name, that wouldn't be an issue. "I've got a visitor out front. You okay working two nights in a row?"

  "Sure," Gina said, following her. "And I forbade Gage to show up tonight."

  Racy faltered. "You saw your brother?"

  "He came to the house for Sunday dinner, as usual. I took great pleasure in ignoring him until you called. Thanks for getting me out of there."

  Before Racy could respond further, they entered the main bar. Gina went in one direction while a table of customers beckoned for Racy's attention. She stopped to say hello, then moved toward the swinging doors that led to the foyer. The doors opened and a woman, dressed in dark slacks and a cashmere wool trench coat, walked in. She slowly pulled leather gloves from her fingers. Not a hair on her head was out of place.

  Donna Pearson. Head of Destiny's Betterment Committee, a royal pain in the ass and the last thing Racy needed right now.

  She headed toward her, knowing the low-cut neckline on her Blue Creek T-shirt would drive the older woman nuts. She guessed only ten years separated them in age, but they were light-years apart in every other way.

  "Mrs. Pearson, what can I do for you?"

  Donna wrinkled her nose. She took her time looking around the bar, her gaze pausing on the waitresses near the dance floor before she focused on Racy. "Miss Dillon. I'm sure you know why I'm here."

  "We're running a bit behind in the kitchen this afternoon—" her ex-con brother at the grill notwithstanding "—but I can draw you a beer if you're looking to wet your whistle."

  The woman paled another shade, if that was possible. "My whistle is fine, thank you."

  Racy doubted that. "So, what brings you by?"

  The woman reached into a leather folder she held and pulled out a sheet of paper. She turned the letter toward Racy. "I assume you and Mr. DeGrasso received this?"

  One glance and Racy recognized the letter of complaint that had arrived a few weeks ago. The Destiny Betterment Committee felt Max, as owner of The Blue Creek, and she in particular as manager, were exploiting the Belles, the girls who waited tables and entertained by dancing on the bars.

  The committee had recommended the practice cease and desist immediately. Max had laughed it off, but it had fired a burn of resentment in Racy she couldn't extinguish.

  "You know he did. I believe in a telephone conversation Max—ah, Mr. DeGrasso stated that while he appreciated the recommendation—" his words, not hers "—he, we, decided the entertainment here at The Blue Creek would remain unchanged."

  "I had hoped I could change his mind."

  "My girls dance on a volunteer basis. It's not an employment requirement. Safety precautions are taken, including a security team, to ensure no one, waitress or customer, is harassed in any way, sexually or otherwise."

  The woman's posture stiffened. "It's not just a safety issue, Miss Dillon."

  Here it comes.
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br />   "I understand the creation of the dancers was your idea."

  Racy nodded. "When I became manager four years ago."

  "Their attire is wholly too revealing and leaves little to the imagination." Donna's gaze flittered over Racy's cleavage. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "The bars are a poor substitute for a stage and the dance moves are the same thing one would find in one of those…gentlemen's clubs."

  Gentlemen's club, strip joint. Same thing.