Dressed now, he snatched up his car keys and left his house. His patrol car started right up, though one would have thought the engine was reluctant by the way Ty floorboarded the accelerator. Thankfully, the streets of town were just coming to life and there wasn’t much traffic.
The sun was barely up, but it was already hot. His shirt was sticking to his back when he entered his offices at the courthouse. He was sporting a deep scowl and a tiny piece of toilet paper on his chin to stop the bleeding from the cut.
“Hi,” George Henderson said, turning around as the door crashed closed behind Ty. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
“I don’t want any. Did you get those reports typed up yesterday?”
George was taken aback by the abrupt question. “Yeah. They’re on your desk.”
“It’s about time,” Ty grumbled.
Ty’s dark mood was uncharacteristic. So was his mussed, damp hair, which looked like it had gone uncombed since his shower. So was the aimless way he prowled the office as though looking for something to strike at.
“Bad night?” George asked guilelessly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I was just asking.”
“Well, don’t ask. I’ll be in my office.”
His hand was on the doorknob when George halted him with another brave question. “How’s our bet going?”
Ty whirled around. “You haven’t won it yet.”
George laughed. “I haven’t lost it, either, according to your mood.”
Ty stalked into his office and rattled the glass when he slammed the door. He flopped down into his creaky leather chair and planted his boots firmly on the corner of his desk. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.
Sunny’s image was vividly imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. And just as vividly he remembered the way her breasts had looked behind that damn silky, lacy, crotch-grabbing temptation called a camisole.
He dug into his stinging, gritty eyelids with his fingertips and stifled a groan he was afraid his deputy might hear. Why was he torturing himself this way? Why hadn’t he taken her last night and ended this thing once and for all?
Because he had known that one romp in bed wouldn’t end it. His wanting her went way beyond the ridiculous wager with George. He wanted more than one night. He couldn’t fathom a time in the near future when he wouldn’t want her. Or in the distant future, for that matter.
She wasn’t like all the others he had bedded lustily but emotionlessly. When he took Sunny to bed, he wanted more than their glands to be involved. He wanted everything—emotions, fears, dreams—to play a part in their lovemaking.
But why?
Because she intrigued him. She put up a nonchalant, sophisticated front he’d seen straight through the minute he spotted her from across the room at the country club. She had a vulnerability she kept carefully concealed. He had wanted to discover the source of it. Last night he had.
So, fine. Now that he knew why she’d been so beguiling, why wasn’t he content? Now that he knew Sunny Chandler’s deep, dark secret, why wasn’t he satisfied? He had no one to blame but himself for not taking her up on her offer to go to bed with him. What was wrong with him?
The heat. The humidity. He could blame his itchy skin and short temper, his sleeplessness and sexual arousal, his fantastic fantasies and foul mood, on the weather.
Or he could squarely face the grim alternative.
He had fallen in love.
Eight
Sunny rolled out of bed and stumbled through the cabin to answer the telephone extension in the living room. It had been almost dawn before she fell asleep, and then she hadn’t slept well. Her head felt like it was stuffed with feathers, but there were bowling balls trying to push their way out through her eye sockets.
“Hello?”
“You had quite a night!”
“Hi, Fran.” Yawning broadly, Sunny folded herself into one of the easy chairs and drew her feet up beneath her. “What’s going on?”