Night Thunder by Jill Gregory

in the darkness, or the sultry night, or the clean scent of soap and the sage-scented outdoors on the man whose arm encircled her waist, but somehow there was an intimacy here that felt completely unlike the typical scene at Suede or Nocturne.
    “Did you get that flat tire fixed all right?”
    His words yanked her out of her thoughts. “Oh . . . yes. I did.” She forced herself to say the word. “Thanks.”
    There was silence then between them as the music flowed, and she might have relaxed a little except that she was intensely aware of the heat where his hand touched her waist.
    “That rig of yours looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    He shook his head as if she were a dimwitted child. “Never mind.” He was glancing over at the pool table, no doubt regretting the fact that someone seemed to have taken his place there. Josy felt a surge of annoyance.
    “Look,” she said. Her chin angled up so she could meet his eyes. “I appreciate your trying to make up for before, but it isn’t necessary. You don’t have to be nice to me or try to make small talk with me. The song’s almost over. Your torture will be ended soon.”
    His eyes glinted like cobalt through the dim, smoky light. “You’re the one who seems tortured. I’m holding up just fine.”
    “Are you?”
    “Considering.”
    She gritted her teeth. “I can’t imagine why your cousin is so eager to set you up in a dance with a complete stranger. With your charm, you must be able to score plenty of phone numbers on your own.”
    Ouch,
Ty thought, amused. This one could bite. He let the sarcasm slide and glanced at her again, this slim lithe blonde with the cameo face and eyes the color of new Wyoming grass. She looked elegant and delicate, as if a strong wind would carry her off. As if she didn’t belong here in this town, or in this bar, but someplace sheltered and protected, someplace soft and tame.
    “I’m not into scoring phone numbers,” he told her with a shrug.
    “Obviously.” She saw Corinne and Roy dancing only a few feet away, both of them looking dreamy-eyed. It was the only reason, she told herself, why she wouldn’t kill Roy Hewett the moment the song ended. She sighed. “So what
are
you into?”
    “Now who’s making small talk? You don’t want to know.”
    “Oh, c’mon, try me. What else do I have to do?”
    He looked her dead in the eye. “Guns, handcuffs, and Krispy Kremes.”
    “
What?
”
    “I’m a cop.” He deftly turned her so that a huge cowboy dancing with a woman almost as tall as her partner avoided smashing into them. “More specifically, I’m the sheriff here in Thunder Creek.”
    The
sheriff
. Josy lost track of her feet and stepped on his toes. “Sorry,” she murmured, as he glanced downward. Her three-inch boot heel must have dug into his big toe, but if it hurt at all through the leather of his own boot, he didn’t show it.
    “You’re not . . . wearing a uniform,” she stammered.
    “I’m off-duty.” He was looking carefully at her, she realized in dismay. Examining her face. He appeared torn between amusement and something else. Like the beginnings of suspicion. “It seems to bother you that I’m a cop. Why is that?”
    Josy drew a deep breath. She wasn’t about to tell him, though he’d no doubt be fascinated to learn that he was dancing with a woman on the run, a woman hiding out from other cops, cops like him. And from whoever had killed Archie—and ransacked her apartment—and framed Ricky.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she heard herself say in an airy tone that sounded just a little too shrill. She tried again. “It doesn’t bother me,” she assured him. “It’s just . . . you don’t
look
like a cop.”
    Actually he did. Like Ricky, he had an alertness about him, a toughness. And that same flat, intense way of looking at you that seemed to be x-raying your brain.
    He was doing it now.
    “So, what do you do for a living?” he asked,