Page 23 of Dirty Cowboy

She nods.

“Not as innocent as I thought.”

“There’s nothing innocent about the work I do.”

That mischievous sparkle sets me on alert and makes me want to flirt.

“Does that include stripping?” I lift a brow.

“The job comes with unforeseen repercussions,” she muses. “Like sexy cowboys kidnapping me off stage and peeling gems off my private parts.”

“You think I kidnapped you?”

“Wrong choice of words.”

But fuck, Ilikeher choice of words.

“Removing you was necessary.”

“Was cupping my ass cheek necessary?” she taunts.

Fuck.

Heat surges through me, and judging by the way her gaze flickers downward, she knows exactly what effect she’s having.

She grins. “I can’t believe you still have Shadow.”

“She’s the best workhorse I have.”

Emma’s eyes brighten, her lips curving. “She’s my favorite.”

Maybe, just maybe, this week won’t be a disaster, after all.

I smirk. “That’s…nice. And unexpected. Never thought of you and the country in the same sentence.”

Emma leans in, her expression teasing. “What have you thought of?”

“Not you stripping at Wagner’s club.” I close the distance just a fraction, enough to watch her pupils dilate. “You?”

“I’m thinking of you in cowboy boots, dirty jeans, no shirt…” She presses her index finger into her cheek. ”Knee-deep in horseshit.”

Her laughter spills into the small cabin, warm and easy, brushing away some of the tension that had thickened the air between us. For a moment, the weight of lies, schemes, and family obligations fades into something almost lighthearted, almost real.

“Why wouldn’t I have a shirt?” I ask, grinning.

“It’s my imagination.” She shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “And I get to do anything I want with that.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “Seems like you enjoy control as much as I do.”

“How’s that?”

“Because you control your imagination.”

“Well, we can’t control everything, can we?” Her voice dips slightly, her smile faltering. “Like kidnappings and cancers.” She takes a sip of her sparkling wine and lowers her feet to the ground. The flicker of humor in her eyes dims into something more focused, more determined. “Speaking of which…”

She reaches for her briefcase, retrieves her laptop and opens the screen. Her fingers quickly find a search engine, gliding over the keys as she murmurs, “Lords Valley police department. Let’s see where John Huntz is hiding.”

I exhale, bracing myself. “I don’t think you’ll find much.”

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