Her stomach did that weird little flutter thing again, and she reminded herself that she’d forgotten to eat. She’d been working and hadn’t eaten breakfast. Plus, she’d drunk about a pot of coffee. Hope opened the car door and he must have heard that, because he finally glanced up.
He paused by the left front fender of her car and looked at her from beneath the brim his hat. The corner of one eye was swollen and black-and-blue. “Hey, there, how are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I’m fine, but you don’t look so good.”
“You should see Emmett.”
“Pretty bad?”
“He got what he deserved.” Dylan walked toward her, moving close until only the car door separated them. The man didn’t seem to know the rules of personal space. “I’m surprised to see you before noon,” he said.
Hope looked into his green eyes staring at her. Being the focus of his intent gaze was a little disconcerting, and she wrapped her hands around the top of the doorframe. “Why, because I’m working?”
“No, because of your hangover.”
“I wasn’t that drunk.” When he simply kept staring at her, she confessed with a shrug, “Well, maybe a little, but I have to be worshiping at the porcelain shrine before I get a hangover.”
“Lucky you.” With the tip of his index finger, he pushed back his Stetson. “What are you busy working on today? Your flora-and-fauna article for that Northwest magazine?”
“Actually, this afternoon I’m going to take pictures of the area.”
His gaze slid to the front of her shirt, framed in the car window. “Dressed like that?”
“I thought I’d change.”
He placed his hands beside hers on the doorframe and slowly raised his eyes back up to her face. “Where are you going to take your pictures?”
“I’m not real sure. Why?”
“ ‘Cause I don’t want to get another call like last night.”
“Are you saying last night was my fault?”
“No. I’m saying you have a talent for trouble, and maybe you should just stay close to home for a while.” His hands brushed the outsides of hers and she felt his touch clear to her elbows.
She stood a little straighter and tried to ignore the sensation. “Maybe you shouldn’t think you can tell me what to do.”
“And maybe you should do something about that smart mouth.” He leaned closer. “I’ve never said this to a woman, and it’s just an opinion.” He paused, and she thought he might kiss her, but he didn’t. “Maybe you should consider becoming an alcoholic. You’re a lot nicer when you’re loaded.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. But in the future, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask you for it.”
“Really?” A slow, evil smile curved his mouth. “Honey, are you going to ask me on the bone phone, or should I make other plans?”
Hope felt her brows pinch together. That phrase was not only offensive but juvenile. She hadn’t heard it since college, when she and her friends used it to refer to oral sex. She opened her mouth to tell him to grow up, to tell him real men didn’t talk to women like that; then she recalled in perfect detail their conversation last night about the busty blonde in the Buckhorn.
She made a long, mental groan and quickly climbed into her car. “You should make other plans,” she said and tried to shut the car door.
Dylan easily held it open. “Just in case, do you want my number?”
She gave one hard tug and he finally let go. Without a word, she fired up the Porsche and shoved it into reverse. She already had his number and it was 666.
Hope pulled the Porsche into the parking lot behind the Gospel Public Library. She hadn’t written anything nonfiction in a while, but the first place she always liked to start was with old newspaper articles. It wouldn’t hurt to check and see what the library had stored on the late Sheriff Donnelly. Shelly had seemed hesitant to talk about Hiram, and Hope didn’t know anyone else in town-except Dylan. There was no way she’d ask him for anything. Not now. She didn’t want to be within a mile, let alone speaking distance, of him. Not after he’d told her she should become an alcoholic. And especially not after the way she’d humiliated herself the night before. Her cheeks still burned when she remembered what she’d said, which had always been her biggest problem with booze and why she rarely got tanked. She thought she was funny when she wasn’t.
If she wanted information, she would have to rely mostly on FBI files. It could take a while for them to comply, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to write an unsolicited article. That was a lot of work for no guarantee, and even if she did decide to write it, she didn’t know what angle she would use-if she would slant it more toward a publication like Time or People. But the more she discovered about the old sheriff, the more intrigued she became. How had he gotten caught? And exactly how much money had he embezzled? Last night Dylan had mentioned something about videos. Had they been circulated through town? What was on them, and who’d seen them?
The Gospel Public Library building was about the size of two double-wide trailers stuck end to end, and the compact windows let in very little natural light. The inside was crammed with shelves and tables, and the front desk was piled with books. Regina Cladis stood behind the desk, her white hair a perfect dome on her round head. She studied several Goose Bumps books held close to her face, then shoved her Coke-bottle glasses down her nose and turned her head to study the covers out of the corner of one eye.
“Wash your hands before you open these,” she admonished three boys as she pushed her glasses back up her nose. “I don’t want any more black fingerprints on the pages.”