Barbara Dunlop: Out of Order

Dear Reader,

When I came up with the character of Shelby Jacobs, I envisioned her as the sidekick in my first Flipside novel. But it quickly became apparent that this woman was in control of the story. She’s hip, sassy and not afraid to speak her mind.

Sure, her life might be a little out of control at the moment, but she’s working on that. And she knows she’s the bane of Dallas Williams’s existence, but she figures that’s his problem. She only gets in his way when it’s absolutely necessary, and she’s the one fighting their sexual fascination. He’s perfectly willing to throw caution to the wind and complicate their lives unbearably.

I hope you enjoy Shelby’s journey, from getting arrested to rescuing risqué photos to falling for the one man she needs to avoid. I had an absolutely delightful time writing her story, and I’m excited to share it.

If you’d care to drop me a line through my Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com, I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading.

Barbara Dunlop

Dallas asked, turning to the uniformed officer.

The arresting officer opened his black notebook. “We have three hundred pirated copies of Midnight Run, two-dozen Uzis, ten AK-47s and a bazooka.”

Shelby sucked in a quick breath. “I didn’t—”

“As your attorney, I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut.”

Her eyes emitted more sapphire sparks. This time Dallas felt them for sure. Perfect. Sexual awareness. Perhaps one of the officers would be good enough to shoot him now.

“Name?” the desk sergeant repeated.

Shelby mutinously kept her mouth shut.

“You can answer that,” said Dallas with a sigh.

“Why thank you. Shelby Jacobs. I didn’t know about any of the guns. I’ve—”

“Just your name,” interrupted Dallas.

She clamped her jaw shut again and muttered something between her clenched teeth. It was going to be a long night….

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Flipside author Barbara Dunlop writes romantic comedy stories curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately, she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood, feed the horses and plow the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters.

A two-time winner of the RWA Golden Heart Award, Barbara has written for the Temptation, Duets and Flipside lines for Harlequin. She loves to travel to writers’ conferences to meet fellow authors and explore new cities—though reporting the first leg of the journey by dogsled can sometimes be exhausting.

Barbara loves to hear from readers in big cities and small towns all over the world. You can contact her through her Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com.

HARLEQUIN DUETS

54B—THE MOUNTIE STEALS A WIFE

90B—A GROOM IN HER STOCKING

98A—THE WISH-LIST WIFE

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

848—FOREVER JAKE

901—NEXT TO NOTHING!

940—TOO CLOSE TO CALL

For my son, Eric

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

WHEN THE COP burst through the front door of Gerry’s Game-O-Rama video arcade with his gun drawn and his eyes suspicious slits in a pug-dog face, Shelby Jacobs should have guessed her day was headed straight downhill.

His partner whipped around the steel-bar reinforced door and Shelby took a startled step away from the cash register, subconsciously getting ready to duck if the bullets started flying.

She’d known when she’d taken this job last week that Black Street wasn’t in the best part of Chicago. But it was the first one she’d been offered. It was near the El Station and only fifteen minutes from her friend Allison’s apartment.

And beggars, as they said, couldn’t be choosers.

“Nobody move,” shouted the pug-dog cop as he hustled between video terminal number six and the Rally Car Challenge, twisting his gun from side to side to keep everybody in his sights. His holster hit a half-empty bag of popcorn, scattering white kernels across the black strip of rubber that disguised a cracked concrete floor.

Cop number two held his position, gun at the ready, eyes scanning the crowd of a dozen or so streetwise teenagers, all but daring somebody to make a sudden move. The gamers’s hands stilled on the controls and the pings and simulated tire squeals died away.

Shelby found it a little hard to believe that desperate criminals would drop in for a round of Midnight Run between heists. But, what did she know? Once you’d robbed the bank, she supposed you had the rest of the day to kill.

Squat and broad-shouldered, his divided chin tipped at an arrogant angle, the pug-dog cop came to a halt in front of Shelby.

Her hand reflexively tightened around a fistful of game tokens as her stomach clenched to the size of a walnut.

He tipped slightly forward, his unibrow dropping even lower over his dark eyes. “I’m lookin’ for Gerry Bonnaducci.”

The unexpected statement surprised the fear right out of her. “You want Gerry?”

“Where is he?”

“What did he do?” Gerry had been right here since ten o’clock this morning. Shelby could vouch for that.

“Put your hands on the counter.” Pug-dog’s voice lowered to a growl as he trained his gun on her.

Staring down the steel-gray muzzle of his .38 was definitely enough to convince Shelby to give up Gerry. Employee loyalty only went so far.

“He’s in the back,” she said.

“Put your hands on the counter where I can see them”

“But—”

“Now!”

Right. Shelby slapped her palms against the faded, gray Formica countertop, crunching the metal tokens against her palm.

A muscle in the cop’s cheek twitched and he shifted his gun, barrel pointing to the ceiling. He nodded to his partner, who nodded back and fixed his attention on Shelby.

Then pug-dog crept along the counter toward the office where Gerry was feeding coins into the separating machine. The sound of quarters, dimes and nickels clanked and clattered through the closed door, counterpoint to the repetitive rap music and synthesized voices patiently giving next instructions to the frozen players.

Shelby wondered if she should give the players refunds for their interrupted games. Gerry was a bit of a tightwad, but surely under these circumstances they deserved a replay.

Pug-dog kicked the office door open with his black boot.

“Freeze,” he yelled, planting his feet apart, both hands training the gun on Gerry.

Gerry swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth, knocking once against his striped tie before hitting the concrete floor, leaving an ash trail as it rolled to a stop.