Christyne Butler - The Sheriff's Secret Wife

Racy pushed away from the desk and took a wide circle around him.

Not wide enough. Her bare arm bushed against his jacket as she headed for the door. The movement caused goose bumps to skate down to her fingers.

One booted foot hesitated across the threshold. A rocking country song that warned of T-R-O-U-B-L-E rang in the rafters.

Gage’s arm shot out.

His palm landed against the door jamb, blocking her exit. “If you keep walking, I’m going to follow.” He leaned in, his mouth at her ear in order to be heard over the loud music. “Do you want everyone to find out we’re still married?”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever met someone who was your total opposite, but deep inside you shared kindred souls? Someone that conventionality and common sense said was all wrong for you, and as much as you try, you still found yourselves the definition of “opposites attract”?

Well, Racy Dillon and Gage Steele didn’t just attract, they created a magnetic force that has continued to pull them to each other ever since they were teenagers. Now adults, both think they have found their place in the world, until one wild night in Vegas changes everything. And the harder they try to fix things, the messier it gets! Throw in meddling family members and a golden retriever that can’t seem to remember which house is his, and you have a wacky and wonderful love story—my favorite kind!

Enjoy!

Christyne

CHRISTYNE BUTLERfell in love with romance novels while serving in the United States Navy and started writing her own stories six years ago. She considers selling her book a dream come true and enjoys writing contemporary romances full of life, love, a hint of laughter and perhaps a dash of danger, too. And there has to be a happily-ever-after or she’s just not satisfied.

She lives with her family in central Massachusetts and loves to hear from her readers at chris@christynebutler. com or by visiting her website at www.christynebutler.com

THE SHERIFF’S

SECRET WIFE

BY

CHRISTYNE BUTLER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my daughter, Cagney,

whose passionate and independent spirit

continues to inspire me … you are my greatest joy

and my husband, Len, who is always there to

fix things for me

Last week of August …

Racy Dillon swore on her daddy’s grave the four-foot-tall trophy, its imitation walnut base and three tiers separated by shiny purple-and-gold columns, was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen. Thanks to her still-fuzzy brain it took a few blinks and squints before the award came fully into focus.

Yep, still ugly.

Even the winged female figure atop the highest tier looked tacky, especially with Racy’s pink lace panties hanging from the five-pointed star the figure held aloft over her head.

The black brass plate read First Place, Midwest Re-gionals, U.S. Bartenders Challenge, Las Vegas, Nevada, thank you very much. She’d come here all the way from Destiny, Wyoming, to kick butt and take names.

Mission accomplished. Hangover accomplished, too.

It felt like a chorus line of jackhammers doing high kicks inside her skull. Even so, they couldn’t erase last night’s memory of hearing her name called out with a near perfect score. She’d made a show of tucking the prize money into the cleavage of her push-up corset and then the celebrating had started. Hey, if anyone knew how to party it was bartenders. It had begun with a round of tequila shooters and had just got better. Of course, the memories grew fainter from that point, too. It’d been years since she’d tied one on like she’d done last night.

Racy closed her eyes. Not only to erase the slight tilt of the room, but to block the sunlight sneaking past the floor-to-ceiling curtains that barred the best view of the Vegas Strip. Another perk of winning. An upgrade from a standard room to this luxurious suite for the rest of the weekend.

She stretched beneath the sheets, enjoying the coolness of the five-hundred-count cotton material on her naked skin. Grateful for the plush pillows that cradled her throbbing head, she rolled to the edge of the bed.

Damn, she needed a tall glass of ice-cold apple juice. She didn’t know why, but it always cleared her brain after a night of wild—

A deep groan and movement from behind her caused Racy to freeze. Before she could move, a wall of heat and muscles spooned up against her. A jawline, complete with bristly stubble, rested against her shoulder as a heavy arm draped over her hip.

Another groan—no, it was more like a moan, then a nuzzle at her hair and the press of a mouth to her skin—before he stilled. Deep breathing relayed his trip back to a peaceful slumber. Not entirely peaceful, if the hardness pressing against her backside, and the sheets caught between their bodies, meant anything.

Oh, no. She didn’t. She didn’t do stuff like this anymore. In her reckless past, sure, but not now.

Racy pressed her fingers to her pounding forehead. Think, girlfriend. What the hell happened last night?

She remembered celebrating in one of the hotel bars. There was a slick guy, like someone out of The Godfather, who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d pinched her ass. She’d slapped him. He’d raised his hand, but someone—tall, broad shoulders, killer smile—had stepped in and defused the situation.

Then what?

Shoot ‘em?

She’d told the stranger who’d rescued her to shoot someone? Her mind whirled. The rest of the night was a blur of bright lights, loud music, the jangling of slot machines, and more alcohol. And him.

His face was blurry, but she recalled dark brown hair and strong hands. Hands that had caressed her body while they’d danced. Powerful arms that had carried her out of the fountain she’d insisted on dancing through. And a mouth that had delivered hot, wet, soul-stirring kisses. On the dance floor, up against a palm tree, in a taxi on the way to … where?

And Elvis?

No, it must be a dream. A bad dream. A nightmare.

Only it wasn’t. And she’d brought her rescuer back to her room.

Memories flashed in her mind. The desperate need to undress. Hands tugging, clothes flying and with only her corset, denim miniskirt and stilettos, she’d gotten naked first. He’d lunged for her, but she’d slipped free. Then she was in a whirlpool tub big enough for six, pouring bubble bath into the rising water.

It had taken him long er. why? Cowboy boots. He couldn’t get his boots off and she’d laughed. Laughed until he’d finally joined her in the hot, bubbly water and made her moan. In the tub, on the stairs that led to the king-size bed, beneath the snow-white sheets that had stood out against his tanned skin—

“No.” The word came out a desperate whisper. She dropped her hand to her breasts and clutched at the sheet. “No, no, no.”

She had to get out of this bed and away from—oh, God—she couldn’t even remember his name. How was it she could recall the feeling of his mouth on her body, but not the man’s name?

Reaching to remove the weight of his hand from her hip, her fingers brushed over something smooth and cool.

A wedding ring.

Racy’s stomach turned, an even more vile taste filling her mouth. She’d never picked up a married man. In her line of work, she could spot them a mile away, ring or not. Married men gave off a scent of possession, of belonging to someone else and, despite the craziness of her life, she wouldn’t—