Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning

booster shot, and the sooner, the better.
    â€œArt police, you might say. Matter of fact, until about six weeks ago I was wearing a badge.”
    That stopped her cold. By then they’d reached the porch steps, with Maggie leading the way as if she could outrun temptation. Mounting to the top step, she turned. Ben was two full steps behind her, which meant for once she could look him square in the mouth—that is, in the eyes. And from the light shining out the window, his eyes were…
    Oh, hell, Maggie, eyes aren’t magnificent! Bodies, maybe—even faces, but eyes were just…
    He was probably nearsighted. Or farsighted. Whatever, no man was all that perfect. She said, “So you’re a cop.” It sounded more like an accusation.
    â€œWas. I resigned.”
    â€œYou’re too young to retire.”
    He looked away then, saving her from making a fool of herself—again. “Let’s just say it was time to move on.”
    Well, that certainly rang false, but she knew better than to try to pin him down, figuratively or literally. Her hands might itch to touch that crease on his cheek—or even the small scar on his jaw—but it was an itch she wasn’t about to scratch. “You know what? Usually when someone begins a sentence with ‘Let’s just say,’ it means they’re not telling the truth—at least not all of it.”
    He turned to look at her again. “You know what? Whenever someone starts a sentence with ‘you know what,’ I figure they’re getting ready to dodge the issue.”
    He moved up another step, which made her feel for the step behind her. Uh-uh. No way. You’re not going to draw me in with another kiss.
    Turning, she headed toward the far end of the wraparound porch, where another wisteria-draped trellis enclosed an old-fashioned wooden swing. The place was booby-trapped!
    Warily, she said, “You might as well tell me the rest of it.”
    â€œWhy I resigned?”
    â€œThat, too, if you want to, but I mean about teaming up. And your grandmother, and her being taken in by…whatever.”
    â€œBottom line—Silver might be a good painter, buthis real art is flimflam. I had a feeling something like that might be going on, but now that I’ve seen the way the enrollment shapes up, I’m dead certain. Didn’t you notice anything unusual about it?”
    â€œIt’s my first workshop, so I don’t have anything to compare it to. If you’re talking about the fact that six days of cooking your own meals and sleeping on a torture device costs almost as much as an ocean cruise, then yeah, I definitely noticed that.”
    â€œTorture device, hmm?” There was a long pause, during which her mind took off on a wild tangent. Then he said, “What I’m talking about—Silver’s culled the applicants so he has just the right mix. Mostly women, mostly retirees.”
    She waited for the punch line.
    â€œWhat’s the most vulnerable portion of society these days?”
    â€œBabies? Kids who do dumb stuff and think it’s smart?” Women who get themselves kissed and are ready to send for the preacher? “I give up, who?”
    â€œSenior citizens, that’s who. Like my grandmother and all those other grandmothers he cons into signing up for his so-called art lessons. A captive audience, that’s who. Give him a week to soften them up and he’ll have at least two-thirds of them lining up to buy his pictures.” He shook his head. “And yeah, I know—if they’re done by hand they’re paintings, but the ones he sold my grandmother weren’t. The only thing done by hand was his signature in pencil, so if it’s his autograph he’s selling, why not just say so?”
    â€œBecause he’s not famous enough, so nobody would want it?”
    â€œBingo. Trust me, I know what I’m talking abouthere. I didn’t just