Caught by Surprise Page 2

  “Brig McKay, darlin’. Here to sit in your slammer for a couple of months.”

  She took another step back, pulled a pair of handcuffs from a loop on her belt, and deftly snapped one cuff around his outstretched wrist. For a split second she noticed that it was a terrific wrist, strong-looking and covered in dark brown hair.

  “Call me Deputy Surprise,” she informed him coolly.

  There were shocked mutters in the crowd, but Millie ignored them. Brig McKay might think he was something special, but he was going to be treated just like any other convicted offender as far as she was concerned. His eyes widened with disbelief and he stared down at his shackled hand. Then, to her amazement, he began to chuckle.

  At that moment Raybo arrived beside them, and she looked up to find him staring at her bug-eyed. The sheriff was two degrees shy of exploding, she figured.

  “There’s no need for handcuffs, Deputy Surprise,” he said in a low, strained voice. “Unlock that damned thing immediately.” He turned toward Brig and introduced himself.

  Brig used his free hand to shake hands with the sheriff. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Deputy Surprise—lord, that name suited her to a tee—straighten with rigid pride. She was trying to look ten feet tall, and his respect for her tripled. He hadn’t meant to get her into trouble, and he felt bad about it. She faced the sheriff with her head high.

  “I overreacted,” she said formally, her bearing almost military. “I was wrong.” She snapped the cuff off his hand and secured the pair back on her belt without looking, her fingers moving with expert skill. She was a warrior going down with her ship in great honor, and Brig didn’t want her to drown on his account.

  “I don’t expect special treatment,” he interjected tactfully. “She was just doin’ her job. Guess I oughta get going with this jail term.” Groans from the crowd indicated that there were a lot more autographs to be signed. She glanced at him and he read the gratitude in her eyes. Brig knew he’d scored a few points for being a good sport.

  “Officially, we don’t have to take you into custody until you step inside the jail lobby,” Raybo told him. “Stay outside and finish your business, Mr. McKay. No hurry.” He glared at Millie. “Deputy, stay here with Mr. McKay. Well discuss this incident later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For a second Brig had the feeling that she might salute. He, accustomed to soft and fluffy women, was fascinated by this petite soldier. And charmed. And in big trouble.

  She turned toward him stiffly. If her eyes were the color of spring leaves, then a winter storm had just coated the leaves with ice. Her lightly tanned skin was the kind that showed red when she was upset. Man, was she upset right now. “Continue your business, Mr. McKay,” she said crisply, as someone thrust a copy of his latest album cover into his hands.

  While he signed autographs, Brig squinted one eye at her in a thoughtful way. “You work at the jail full-time, Deputy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will my life be in your hands?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Is my goose cooked?”

  Millie gave him a fiendish little smile. “To a crisp.”

  He had a cell with a small private bathroom, a window, a plain pine dresser, and brown indoor-outdoor carpeting. He could look out and see the rolling Florida landscape, which included an orange grove and numerous oak trees draped with Spanish moss. Not a bad view, Brig decided, but sure as hell a boring one if he had nothing else to look at for the next two months. He had his guitar and some notepads, so he guessed he’d write about a thousand songs.

  Subdued and more depressed than he wanted to admit, he sat on his bunk and peered down at his clothes. A friendly-faced deputy named Suds LaFont had taken his regular clothes and given him standard prisoner duds—a white T-shirt, a white short-sleeved shirt that he wore unbuttoned, and baggy white trousers with a blue stripe on the outside seam of both legs—but allowed him to keep his western boots and bush hat. Brig took one more look at his new clothes.

  “I feel like an ice cream delivery man gone bad,” he muttered. He lay down on the bunk, pulled his hat over his face, and concentrated on recalling every detail about Deputy Surprise. He fell asleep wondering how the memory of being tackled and handcuffed could be so pleasant.

  Millie had new resolve as she walked down the hallway between Paradise Springs’ four jail cells. She’d be firm but polite with Brig McKay. This Aussie import wouldn’t wreck her dignity again. She stopped in the hallway outside his cell and stared at his lazy, enticing form on the bunk.

  The man was a marvel. He gave new meaning to the term laid-back.

  “Wake up, McKay,” she ordered briskly. She put a magnetized card in the cell’s electronically controlled lock. The door clicked and slid open.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Wake up.” She walked into the cell, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited patiently. “It’s recreation time.”

  He tilted his head back and looked at her from under the brim of his hat, his eyes sleepy and teasing. “What game do you want to play, love?”

  She shook her head in mild disgust and motioned toward the cell door. “We’ve got a lounge with a TV and a pool table. There’s also a fenced-in yard with weight equipment. You can amuse yourself until dinner.”

  He sat up, swung his long legs off the side of the bunk, and tossed his hat across the room. It landed precisely on the dresser. “Can I stay put? I’ve got some thinkin’ to do.”

  Millie gave him a puzzled look. “You don’t want to sit in this cell all the time, do you? It’ll be a long two months.”

  “Gonna be a long two months no matter how I cut it.” He looked toward the window, his jaw set tightly. “I grew up in the outback. During the five years I’ve lived in the States, I’ve spent most of my time on the road playin’ gigs. I guess I’m used to being about as free as a man can get.”

  Millie studied the unhappiness in his face, and a traitorous feeling of sympathy lightened her stern attitude. “We’ll keep you busy,” she told him. “You’ll get put on work details, just like any other prisoner.”

  “I’m the only one in the pokey. Why don’t you go arrest somebody to keep me company?”

  “Oh, we’ll find some other n’er-do-wells to share the jail with you, don’t worry.”

  He turned to look at her, cocked his head to one side, and said in mild accusation, “So, my fine Sheila, you’ve got no heart for me and think I’m a bad guy.”

  His Australian accent had a way of turning the end of sentences up, as if he considered everything a question. He talked out of the side of his mouth in a way that she found mesmerizing. For a second she didn’t answer, but simply stood there and looked at him. A woman could lose herself in the sturdy contours of that well-lived-in face. Get a grip on yourself, she ordered silently, and took a deep breath.

  “Lots of people think you’re a bad guy,” she informed him. “You attacked a man for no good reason.”

  “Oh, I had a good reason.”

  “Hmmm. I’m not going to play judge, McKay. Let’s not discuss it any—”

  “It was over a woman,” he said in a wicked tone. “Everybody knows that. You’re just too polite to poke me for information yet.”

  “I don’t care about your love life.” It was a lie, but she would never admit that to him.

  “She was worth fightin’ for. Otherwise I wouldn’t have walloped that fellow in the Tennessee state senate. Punched him right in the rotunda.”

  Millie could picture the kind of woman who’d inspire such violence. She’d be tall, tall and delicate. Men didn’t beat each other up over short deputy sheriffs. She shook her head to clear away thoughts that were distinctly envious.

  “Let’s change the subject. The word you said when I, er, rammed you in the stomach—strewth—what’s that mean?”

  “Just a little oath. God’s truth, shortened. Aussies like to cut sentences down. Saves energy talkin’.”

  “Why’d you ca
ll me Sheila?”

  “It’s an Aussie word for a prime girl.”

  “Oh.” She frowned at him. “Blarney.”

  “Blamey?” he echoed.

  “Irish word. Means bullfeathers.”

  “Hmmm.” He let the insult pass without comment. “You Irish?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m part Scotch, meself. Great-great-great-granddaddy was a pure Scotsman.”

  “How’d he end up in Australia?”

  Brig grinned. “Came over on a convict ship.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “He was only fourteen. Stole a ham from a fat Englishman, and the English courts sailed him off to the penal colony.”

  “Hmmm. My great-great-great-grandfather was a pirate. French. He used to attack Spanish ships, and he retired to Paradise Springs after the Spanish ceded Florida to the United States. He was safe here.”

  “Hurray!” Brig stood up and applauded. “Pirates and convicts! We’re a bonzer pair then, love!”

  She rubbed her temples wearily. Bonzer. She didn’t intend to learn a new language from an Australian country-western singer, no matter how virile and intriguing and … lord, how her mind wandered when she was around Brig McKay—and he’d only been in Paradise Springs for two hours.

  “Bonzer?” she asked.

  “It means ‘good’. We’re a good pair.”

  She subdued the tingling sensation that remark created. “How do you survive in Nashville with a vocabulary that nobody can understand?”

  “They make fun of me, and I make fun of them. It’s good sport. And you Yanks love Aussie accents. It’s a plus.”

  “McKay, I’m a sixth-generation Florida native, and most of my relatives fought on the Confederate side of the Civil War. ’Round these parts, you better be careful who you call ‘Yank’.”

  “Oh. Gotcha. I love your accent, Scarlett.”

  “I love yours—” She stopped as a warning bell went off in her mind. She hadn’t intended to get friendly with him, but his eyes stayed on her in a disarming fashion and made her forget her purposes. Millie pointed toward the cell door. “Snap to, McKay.”

  He ambled toward her, hands on hips, and halted inches from her flushed, stern face. “Where’d you learn to boss people?” he inquired much too politely.

  “The navy,” she retorted.

  Brig gave her a stunned look. “Nah,” he said finally. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”

  “No, McKay, I was in the navy for several years. Navy police. I’ve been around. I’m older than I look—I’m twenty-nine.”

  He was now irrevocably enthralled with Deputy Surprise. She was a buttercup with steel in her blossoms.

  Millie gazed up at him grimly. His eyes gleamed with an emotion she couldn’t quite analyze, and it made her heart race. She knew that she didn’t present the most traditional female image in the world, and some men were put off by it.

  Ordinarily she didn’t give two hoots what anyone thought of her, but right now she was growing desperately angry because she just knew that Brig McKay, Mr. Aussie Macho, didn’t find her background appealing. Her reaction didn’t make a damned bit of sense.

  “You know, Deputy, I never kissed a navy veteran before,” he murmured.

  “You never what—” she began, just as he bent down and gave her a firm, fast, incredibly skillful kiss on the mouth. He kissed her just long enough to imprint her senses with his taste and scent, drawing her lower lip between his teeth for a nibble. She felt branded.

  Millie took a weak step back, gasping for breath and words. By the time she found both necessities, he was already out the cell door, chuckling, his hands in his trouser pockets.

  It was going to be an interesting two months.

  Two

  Millie walked him to the recreation room without another word. She was still stunned.

  “A real country club place, this is,” he announced with great innocence as he surveyed the big, pleasantly lit room. It was best to act as if nothing had happened, he decided.

  “But it’s still a jail, Mr. McKay, and there are rules you better follow or you’ll be here a lot longer than two months.”

  He turned to gaze down at her with a contrite expression. His wavy golden brown hair was a little disheveled, and Millie noted that he looked even sexier when he was rumpled.

  “I shouldn’t have done it, eh?” he admitted. “I know, I shouldn’t have kissed you. Now you’ve got to report me. The sheriff’ll probably make me wear a ball and chain around my ankle from now on.” His voice rose melodramatically. “It’s a price worth payin’. And at least …” He sighed grandly. “My lips’ll still be free.”

  “I’m not going to report it,” she answered in a cold tone. “I don’t want to be laughed at behind my back—and that’s exactly what would happen. But if you try it again, I’ll defend myself.”

  “Which means?” he asked.

  “Which means, pal, that I’d be perfectly justified to use physical force on a prisoner who threatens me. By the way, I’ve got a black belt in karate.”

  His mouth crooked up in a smile. “I wasn’t threatenin’ you, love, I was testin’ your resistance.” He shook a finger at her. “I dated a lady wrestler once. I like violent women.” He walked to a pool table in the middle of the room. “Want to play?” He cut his eyes at her rakishly.

  “I’d beat you, and that would hurt your pride.”

  He made a clucking noise. “Chicken.”

  “You may think I’m a joke,” she told him coldly, “but I’ve been a deputy sheriff for almost two years, and I’ve done a damned fine job of it. I take my work seriously, and you won’t get any favors out of me by flirting.”

  “You know, you’d make a good bodyguard. When I get my walking papers from the slammer, why don’t you come to work for me?”

  She eyed him speechlessly for a moment, and then she groaned in disgust. “You don’t need a bodyguard, you need a keeper.”

  “Ow.” He clutched his chest and looked wounded. “You’re the meanest woman I’ve ever met.” And the most irresistible, he added silently. It was crazy, but he was beginning to look forward to the next two months, because he’d be in daily contact with a little Amazon who threatened to beat him up if he kissed her again. Her mouth had been fantastic and more willing than she’d probably care to admit. He planned to kiss her again, and soon.

  “I bet you could be a good wrestler,” he continued jovially. “I’ll put up the money to sponsor you. I’ll call you Deputy Death. Or how about the Blond Bruiser?”

  “Let’s get something straight,” she said gruffly.

  He watched her intently as she paused. Her eyes were icy but there was something wistful looking about her expression, as if he’d hurt her feelings.

  “I’m not delicate and I’m not traditional, but you don’t have to treat me like a freak.”

  He almost winced. How could she so misinterpret his interest? Brig spoke gently. “Love, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Save the sweet talk for your songs, McKay,” she answered bluntly. Turning on her heel, she marched toward the door to the cell block.

  “Are you leavin’ me to rec-reate alone?”

  “Get used to it.”

  After she left the room he leaned against the pool table and stared at the ceiling, pondering ways to learn more about Deputy Surprise.

  Millie had the next two days off, so Brig was forced to cultivate sources for information about her. Suds LaFont, her fellow deputy, seemed like the perfect place to start. Suds was an affable young black man who wore wire-rimmed glasses and an air of studious amusement. Suds lived up to his name by providing beer with Brig’s dinners, then sat with him in the recreation room while he ate.

  “Millie’s from a navy family,” he told Brig. “No sisters, two brothers, mom died when they were little, father had to haul the kids all over the world to keep the family together. The navy was all she knew. Her brothers enlisted straight out of high school, and so did
she. Problem was, the navy’s not very good to women. She doesn’t talk about it much, but I think she had to put up with a lot of sexual harassment. She got out after a few years.”

  “What’d she do after that?”

  “Went to college at night, worked as a secretary during the day. You’ve heard of Rucker McClure, the guy who writes that syndicated newspaper column about southern life?”

  “Sure,” Brig said. “He wrote a nice piece about one of my albums, and I sent him a case of beer.”

  “Millie worked for him over in Alabama.”

  “How’d she end up in Paradise Springs?”

  “Her father was born and raised here. When he retired, he came back. He died two years ago, and she came down to settle the estate. Decided to stay on. Raybo had an opening for a deputy.”

  “She ever been married?”

  “No. But there was some guy in Alabama. I think he was one of the reasons she didn’t go back. You want to know why Raybo hired her? He was really uncertain about hiring a woman, especially such a little one.”

  “Yes. Why’d Raybo do it?”

  “Right after she put in her application, somebody tried to rob her house. She caught the guy and knocked out one of his teeth. Then she tied him up with a garden hose. The guy was an ex-marine. Raybo hired her the next day.”

  Brig whistled under his breath. What a woman! “She’s a regular little Tasmanian devil.”

  Suds propped his chin on his hands and looked over the rims of his glasses. “May I ask you a nosy question?”

  “Sure, mate.”

  “You’re in your mid-thirties, aren’t you?”

  “Somewhere thereabouts. Mother dropped me off with a tribe of Abos when I was a few days old, and they didn’t keep track of dates.”

  “Abos?” Suds inquired blankly.

  “Aborigines. I stayed with ’em about five years, ’till somebody from a sheep station came along and noticed me. Great way to grow up, that.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He went walkabout before I was born. He showed up again when I was ten or so. Grand guy. A little irresponsible, though.”