Liz Talley - A Touch of Scarlet

“Just give me the ticket so I can get on with my day. I’ve got a wedding to stop.”

At this, the officer’s mouth drew into a line. No more semimocking curve. “What wedding?”

Scarlet gave him a New Yorker smile—kind of a smart-ass smirk. “Now, that, Officer—” she looked at his nameplate “—Hinton, is none of your business, is it?”

Officer Adam Hinton jabbed a finger toward the city-limit sign that sat behind her black BMW convertible. “This is my town. Everything in it is my business.”

Scarlet pulled on the viperous persona of Veronica as easily as she shrugged into a jacket. “Now, that’s where I’m thinking you’re wrong, Officer Hinton.”

Don’t make me bite you, dude.

She loved Veronica, the alter ego she sometimes donned merely because the vampire queen could control everything about her world. So what if it were pretend? Playing the dangerous, sultry vampire allowed her to feel powerful. She showed him her teeth for good measure. It was a hard smile, sans fangs, designed to put him in his place.

“Can I have your license and registration please?”

Okay. So she had no effect on him. Fine. He probably squeaked when he walked. Even his damn badge was perfectly lined up adjacent to the button on his uniform shirt. He probably flossed three times a day and took a multivitamin. Jogged the same path, ate the same foods and cut his lawn with methodical precision.

She tugged her wallet from the oversize purse, flipped it open and pulled out the license she’d obtained last month. Her very first driver’s license procured specially for the trip to Texas. As a New Yorker, she’d never learned to drive. Subways and cabs had worked fine.

She handed her license over without a smile. “Here you go.”

“Registration?” he asked, taking the hard plastic license from her hand.

She leaned over, popped open the glove box and rooted around. Stefan had said he left everything she’d need in there. A string of condoms slithered to the floorboard along with a pack of cigarettes, a package of Zingers and a small airport bottle of rum. Nice. Her roommate had a weird-ass sense of humor. Finally she located a zippered owner’s manual and found the registration inside, along with a proof of insurance. The insurance card had her name on it. Stefan must have placed it inside for her. Okay, she’d let him live.

“Here. Everything should be inside.” She jabbed the manual at the police officer. Then she dismissed him, flipping down the visor mirror and checking her bangs, for no other reason than it pleased her to shut him out.

The sun pressed on her shoulders. The end of August was hotter than hell in East Texas, but it was her first road trip so she’d kept the top down most of the way along the East Coast and hadn’t put it up on her trek across the South. She’d stopped to see an old friend in Atlanta, putting her behind schedule in getting to Oak Stand. She’d gotten even with the city-limit sign when Officer Tight Ass had pulled her over.

She was tired, too warm and not feeling friendly at all. Texas hadn’t been on her list of vacation destinations, but saving her sister, Rayne, from the ridiculous fascination she had for Brent Hamilton topped lounging on the beach in France. Well, almost topped it.

Scarlet’s bangs looked fine, so she snapped the mirror shut and tried to look bored as the lean cop scribbled stuff onto his little notepad.

“Have you been drinking this afternoon?” His voice seemed monotone. Automated.

Crap. The stupid minibottle of rum.

“Of course not.”

“Would you mind stepping from your car, ma’am?”

“Actually, I would mind. Why do you need me to get out of the car if you’re merely giving me a speeding ticket?” She studied the teal polish on her fingernails. It was very divalike behavior—something she never did. But at this point, she knew it aggravated Officer Hinton. So it felt good.

“Out of the car,” he said, swinging the door open. “Step around to the back of the vehicle, place your hands on the trunk and wait. Please.”

He’d nearly choked on the last word. She’d ticked the cop off. Might not have been the smartest move, but that was Scarlet’s modus operandi—react, then regret. A car passed by on the highway, and she caught a glimpse of a curious driver. She waved.

“What an excellent way to make an entrance,” she said, climbing from the car. She was glad she’d left her flip-flops at her friend’s house, because the mile-high wedges she wore boosted her five-foot-eight frame by four inches and made her feel more powerful. It brought her eye level with the cop, who watched as she unfurled from the car.

Her tank top had tiny jewels embedded around the low neck and hugged her torso all the way down to the tight, ripped jeans. Aside from her plump lips, her body was her trademark. Scarlet had kicking curves that looked so good in a bodysuit they’d given her the part of Veronica before she even read for it. Not really. They’d made her read to make sure she could act. But still, she felt as if she’d been born for the role of Collinstown’s audacious vampire.

Her director’s voice came back.

Stroll to the rear of the car. Make sure it’s a do-me walk. Then place your hands on the trunk, feet apart, and arch your back. Slowly smile at your prey.

Scarlet stretched like a cat, then moved into position. She purposely stood far away so the pose she struck looked seductive. She didn’t know why she did it, other than she got perverse satisfaction in needling Officer Hinton. It was rapidly becoming her new favorite game to play.

Piss Off Hinton. Coming to stores near you. Oops, I dropped my license in the vodka. Is that a nightstick in your pocket or are you happy to see me? Make Officer Hinton crack, and you can win all the marbles!

He cleared his throat, snapping her out of the board-game commercial playing in her head. “Is this all the alcohol you have in the car?”

“Yes. And I have to say, your detective skills are lacking. That little bottle hasn’t been opened yet.”

Officer Hinton stared at her a good two minutes before approaching. “I’m doing my job, ma’am. Now, I’m going to briefly pat you down, Miss Rose.”

“No dinner first?” she said as she stared at the back of her bucket seat and pretended she got pulled over and frisked all the time. No big deal that a cop was about to run his hands all over her on the side of the road. She braced herself for his touch.

His hands moved beneath her arms, over her ribs, down her waist and hips to her thighs. Quickly, his hand slid inside her knee and moved down to her calves. It was quick, methodical and professional. No reason for any match to be struck. Nevertheless, Scarlet felt strange. Little pulses erupted in her belly. It shocked her. She hadn’t felt even a nudge of sexual interest since John. It made her want to get away from this small-town cop. Made her want to hide her emotions. Protect herself. Pretend she felt nothing.

The whole thing was crazy.

“Turn toward me, please.”

He’d taken off his sunglasses and it was as if a mask had been removed. He was damn gorgeous in a Robert Redford/Clint Eastwood sort of way. His eyes searched hers, presumably for signs she’d been swigging cough syrup. But the perusal didn’t feel accusatory. It felt raw. As though he was peering inside her soul. Inside to where her self-doubt hid along with her insecurities.

She pushed her sweaty bangs back and pretended she was on set.

Now Veronica portrays impatience. She needs to get rid of the cop. She can’t allow the cop to see who she really is.

But it didn’t work.

His green eyes were clear and searching. They unnerved, and she wanted to escape them.