last moment with a hastily placed hand high on his thigh. His very firm thigh.
The muscles contracted and turned to tempered steel beneath her fingers. She froze. Shocked, she met his amused gaze. Amusement that changed to heated invitation in the blink of an eye. Her tummy tumbled around like a roller coaster ride and she gasped when he placed his hand over hers and gently squeezed.
Oh, my lord.
The back of her fingers brushed against the swelling hardness and she moaned under her breath.
“What’s that, my dear?” Her uncle asked.
Laurel jumped and pulled away, but not before she got an eyeful of all… that. Swallowing the sudden dryness in her throat she attempted an easy smile as she turned her back on the temptation behind her.
“Nothing, Uncle. Would you like your tea warmed up?” And if her hands rattled the lid on the ceramic pot a little, hopefully the men put it down to clumsiness.
Determined to get back to a more even footing and find out just how much Jack knew about her uncle, Laurel lobbed the ball into his court.
“So, boss, you going to share what’s in that file, or keep us guessing all night?” She passed him a cup of tea made the way he liked it, two sugar, no cream, and was distracted by how carefully he held the delicate English porcelain. The flowery cup looked like a child’s play set in his giant hands, yet he handled it with seeming ease.
“Do either of you know a man by the name of Joe London?”
That got her attention.
11
T he embers in the fireplace spread warmth through Jack’s chilled bones. Well, cold except for the spot on his leg branded by Laurel’s sweet touch. He glanced around, hoping to see a cushion he could set on his lap to hide his burgeoning arousal. One touch was all it had taken to light a spark that set him burning for more.
Laurel and her uncle were studiously ignoring his question, pretending to doctor up their tea and butter the hell out of a couple of scones. If she stirred one more spoon of sugar into her cup he figured she’d have a nice batch of syrup.
Her fiery locks echoed the color of the fire’s flame. It took everything he had to keep his hands in his lap instead of combing them through the silken glory of her hair. He’d never seen anything quite like it, thick and lustrous with kiss-me curls highlighting peaches and cream skin and that little mole high on her cheekbone. She could have made a fortune as a Victoria Secret model. Oh, great . Now he was picturing her in a sexy little bra and panty ensemble, a set of pearly white wings, and wearing those fuck-me-now red heels she favoured.
Her uncle gave a great hacking cough, jerking Jack’s no doubt dazed eyes to meet his back-off-before-I-stab-you-with-this-bread-knife glare.
Laurel reached over and patted his hand. “I told you, you needed to give up your pipe, Uncle. Those things will kill you.”
Max smiled at his niece, but kept his gaze glued on Jack. “We all gotta die sometime, ain’t that right—sheriff?”
Jack had to give it to the old man. He had balls.
But was he a murderer? That remained to be seen.
“Funny you should mention death, Mr. Doyle.” Jack picked up the less than organized, slightly damp file, and passed it to Laurel’s outstretched hand. He kept a careful eye on the elder man as she leafed through the top pages. As soon as she reached the mugshot of Joseph Ray London, Laurel slammed the folder shut and glanced back at him, a very real fear darkening her eyes. Jack frowned.
“Something you want to tell me, Laurel?” He silently urged her to come clean. He couldn’t help if he didn’t know what the hell was happening.
“Laurel,” her uncle warned.
She met Max’s gaze head-on for a taut moment, then turned back to Jack. “Is he dead?” She held herself stiff and seemed strung as tight as a guitar string, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Jack couldn’t do it; he refused to be the one to break her spirit. “No. At least we’re not
The muscles contracted and turned to tempered steel beneath her fingers. She froze. Shocked, she met his amused gaze. Amusement that changed to heated invitation in the blink of an eye. Her tummy tumbled around like a roller coaster ride and she gasped when he placed his hand over hers and gently squeezed.
Oh, my lord.
The back of her fingers brushed against the swelling hardness and she moaned under her breath.
“What’s that, my dear?” Her uncle asked.
Laurel jumped and pulled away, but not before she got an eyeful of all… that. Swallowing the sudden dryness in her throat she attempted an easy smile as she turned her back on the temptation behind her.
“Nothing, Uncle. Would you like your tea warmed up?” And if her hands rattled the lid on the ceramic pot a little, hopefully the men put it down to clumsiness.
Determined to get back to a more even footing and find out just how much Jack knew about her uncle, Laurel lobbed the ball into his court.
“So, boss, you going to share what’s in that file, or keep us guessing all night?” She passed him a cup of tea made the way he liked it, two sugar, no cream, and was distracted by how carefully he held the delicate English porcelain. The flowery cup looked like a child’s play set in his giant hands, yet he handled it with seeming ease.
“Do either of you know a man by the name of Joe London?”
That got her attention.
11
T he embers in the fireplace spread warmth through Jack’s chilled bones. Well, cold except for the spot on his leg branded by Laurel’s sweet touch. He glanced around, hoping to see a cushion he could set on his lap to hide his burgeoning arousal. One touch was all it had taken to light a spark that set him burning for more.
Laurel and her uncle were studiously ignoring his question, pretending to doctor up their tea and butter the hell out of a couple of scones. If she stirred one more spoon of sugar into her cup he figured she’d have a nice batch of syrup.
Her fiery locks echoed the color of the fire’s flame. It took everything he had to keep his hands in his lap instead of combing them through the silken glory of her hair. He’d never seen anything quite like it, thick and lustrous with kiss-me curls highlighting peaches and cream skin and that little mole high on her cheekbone. She could have made a fortune as a Victoria Secret model. Oh, great . Now he was picturing her in a sexy little bra and panty ensemble, a set of pearly white wings, and wearing those fuck-me-now red heels she favoured.
Her uncle gave a great hacking cough, jerking Jack’s no doubt dazed eyes to meet his back-off-before-I-stab-you-with-this-bread-knife glare.
Laurel reached over and patted his hand. “I told you, you needed to give up your pipe, Uncle. Those things will kill you.”
Max smiled at his niece, but kept his gaze glued on Jack. “We all gotta die sometime, ain’t that right—sheriff?”
Jack had to give it to the old man. He had balls.
But was he a murderer? That remained to be seen.
“Funny you should mention death, Mr. Doyle.” Jack picked up the less than organized, slightly damp file, and passed it to Laurel’s outstretched hand. He kept a careful eye on the elder man as she leafed through the top pages. As soon as she reached the mugshot of Joseph Ray London, Laurel slammed the folder shut and glanced back at him, a very real fear darkening her eyes. Jack frowned.
“Something you want to tell me, Laurel?” He silently urged her to come clean. He couldn’t help if he didn’t know what the hell was happening.
“Laurel,” her uncle warned.
She met Max’s gaze head-on for a taut moment, then turned back to Jack. “Is he dead?” She held herself stiff and seemed strung as tight as a guitar string, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Jack couldn’t do it; he refused to be the one to break her spirit. “No. At least we’re not
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