Stirring up the Sheriff (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 3) Read online

  "I'll let you in on a secret: this is actually my second garden." Marianne chuckled sheepishly. "I had a bit of trouble with the local jackrabbits, but once I got the fencing up…"

  They rounded the corner and found the garden plot, all right. What they also found was a jeans-clad male posterior, flexed and in full view. The conversation died on their lips instantly as both women paused to watch.

  Marianne had been from Texas to Colorado and back again. She felt confident in thinking there was nothing quite like the sight of Sheriff Trent Wild doubled over in a patch of dirt. The man took to gardening with more positive vigor than she ever had. The way he squatted now, with one knee bent beneath him and the other planted as firmly as the seeds he was spreading, made the denim of his jeans hug his muscular ass in a way that was borderline indecent.

  Marianne cleared her throat, partly to free her stalled train of thought and partly to let Trent know that they were behind him. He glanced up, letting the sun hit his face beneath his hat brim. He rose from the plot, hitching his belt a little as he did. His face and neck were flecked with dirt, and a dark patch of sweat stained the unbuttoned collar of his open shirt. Marianne thought being filthy had never looked so utterly appealing.

  "And that's Sheriff Wild. Fences don't work on him," she informed Cheryl, who looked both flushed and suddenly winded by the sight of him. "He's something like my assistant brewer."

  "Something like that." Trent stripped off his gardening gloves and came forward, offering his large palm in a handshake. Cheryl juggled her pen quickly and settled on stabbing it into her bun to free up her hand. "Trent Wild, ma'am. At your service."

  "Cheryl Lynn. What service I can be remains to be seen," Cheryl replied. To Marianne, she said: "This is a great photo op. Do you mind if I get a few pictures of the two of you out here by the garden together?"

  "Not at all!" Marianne moved to Trent's side, trying to flatten some of the frizz out of her hair. It was hopeless with the humidity; she should have known it was double-hopeless the moment she saw the wicked glint in Trent's eye. Before she knew what was happening to her, he seized her around the waist and dipped her over his knee…only he didn't stop at his knee. "Trent, don't you dare!" she exclaimed, but of course he didn't listen. Soon she was so low she could feel the dampness from the ground leeching into the backs of her knees and thighs.

  He hauled her back up again before letting her drop completely on her ass. What a gentleman, Marianne thought furiously. Cheryl was laughing, which had probably only egged Trent on in his campaign to torment her.

  Marianne patted the back of her jeans, and her hands came away soaked in black mud. Trent's own booming laugh drew her attention from her ruined appearance, and her horror turned vengeful. She slapped her palms against his chest in a shove, leaving black handprints in her wake.

  Now she laughed, and Trent's eyebrows shot up. "So that's how you want to play it?" he asked.

  "Hey, you started it!" Marianne accused. "Now I’ve ended it!"

  "You ended shit. Come here."

  She was back in his arms before she had a chance to escape. Trent leaned in for a kiss, and Marianne threw up her hands to ward off the exhibition—which only resulted in his jaw getting muddy and Trent transferring that mud to her when he kissed her anyway.

  "Guess we'll have to hold off on the photoshoot," Marianne laughed apologetically as she pulled away. "Sorry, Cheryl. My assistant brewer has been out here a long time today. He's a little sun drunk."

  Cheryl shook her head. "No way! This is some great stuff! Now I've got a whole reel of you guys looking fun and natural." She tapped one nail against the viewing screen of her camera. "Our readers want to see authentic people. Country people. Movers and shakers who aren't afraid to get a little dirty."

  "Trust me, Marianne isn't afraid to get dirty," Trent volunteered. Marianne glared at him, but then he corralled her close under his arm, making it impossible for her to keep up the evil eye. Cheryl's cellphone trilled. The journalist fished it out of her back pocket and gave them an apologetic look.

  "It's my editor," she explained. "Do you mind if I take this real quick?"

  "Not at all." Marianne grinned. “Is your editor already trying to get you on a flight out of here?"

  "I've already booked a room in town," Cheryl said. "I'm not going anywhere." She took the call and disappeared around the front of the bar.

  "She seems nice," Trent commented.

  Marianne elbowed him in the ribs. "You seem like you need a break from the sun. It's making you goofy."

  "Well, you seem like you're damn beautiful. Maybe that's why I'm acting this way." Trent caught her chin in his hand, and Marianne's breath hitched with anticipation—but he was only looking the banish some of the mud from her cheek. His thumb swept her jawline, and she had to bite back what felt like a purr bubbling up in her throat. "Look how far you've come. Used to be you couldn't stand the sight of dirt, much less having it on you." He grinned, and his teeth were the most sparkling clean thing about him at present. Marianne couldn't help but mirror him with a smile of her own. "This article is just the start. There will be plenty more publicity where that came from once the world gets a taste of you."

  "Then why don't you shut up and get to tasting me?" she murmured. Trent's thumb stroked down her cheek, but too softly to brush off any remaining dirt. She leaned into his touch as Trent leaned into her.

  She'd been searching all her adult life for that perfect ambrosia, the divine collision of texture and taste that made the lips sing with pleasure. Any good brewer knew that the best combinations often came unexpectedly, maybe even by complete accident—and as Trent's lips merged with her own, Marianne finally discovered the crowning ingredient to pure, undiluted happiness.

  End of Stirring Up The sheriff

  Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book Three

  PLUS: Do you love bold tantalizing men who will stop at nothing to keep their loved ones safe? Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from Leslie North’s bestselling novel, Her Ruthless Russian, Book One of The Karev Brothers series.

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  BLURB

  Born into a Russian Mafia family, Vlad Karev is no stranger to violence…but this time it’s personal. Someone has murdered his father and Vlad can’t rest until he finds the killer. When the trail leads to an art gallery, Vlad wants to dig deeper, but he needs help from the owner’s daughter. The pretty redhead is far too innocent for a man like Vlad, but he’ll do what it takes to get the information he needs. His obligations are to the family, even if that means using the fiery woman.

  Madison O’Connor works hard to keep her family’s gallery going, although secretly she has little interest in art. But when she discovers her father’s been laundering money for the Russian Mafia, she’ll do everything she can to keep him out of jail. She hates to lie, but she has a plan…seduce the Russian bad boy to learn the mob’s secrets. Never mind his dangerous exterior or icy blue eyes, Madison’s going to get her family free of the mob, even if she has to use Vlad Karev to do it.

  As the killer gets closer, so do Vlad and Madison. But is their connection just the means to an end, or could their romance be real?

  Get your copy of Her Ruthless Russian from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  "I'm sorry, but are these wood frames?" the woman exclaimed. "Are you trying to ship me broken wood frames?"

  "Five perc
ent discount," the supervisor said pulling out a cigarette and popping one end into his mouth.

  "Five percent?"

  The man reached out to seize her clipboard. The woman cried out, but when she reached to wrestle it back again, the supervisor shoved her roughly away.

  Vlad took that as his cue to intervene. Raising his hand, he signaled to his bodyguards to remain in the car before crossing the street without even looking for traffic, his attention solely focused on the scene in the alley. His long strides devolved into a more casual stroll as he came up beside the woman; she turned to regard his arrival with a stricken expression, unwittingly opening up her private exchange with the mover to encompass him as well.

  "Fifty percent discount, and she gets to keep the clipboard," Vlad said.

  The self-described supervisor looked him up and down. He had to look much more up than down. "Why do I give a fuck what you think?" the man demanded. "Mind your own business and keep walking!"

  The look Vlad was getting from the woman wasn't much more encouraging. Up close, she was as beautiful and harassed as he had guessed from across the street. Thick, red hair blazed like a firestorm around her neck and shoulders, giving the impression that she had wrestled with it that morning before ultimately deciding to take it down from its restraints. The color of her mane contrasted with the starched monochrome of her white blouse, which was just translucent enough to betray the dark impression of the brazier she wore beneath it. A smattering of freckles across her high cheeks and button nose filled Vlad with an immediate and unexpected desire to see just how far the constellation extended. Did they cover the rest of her body; her neck, her shoulders…? Did her lovers count them before going to sleep on them?

  Those were the tamest of the thoughts he entertained while looking at her. Even though his eyes were concealed behind his sunglasses, he thought she felt the suggestive weight of his gaze. He watched with interest as a mute flush rose up beneath the freckles whose full territory he was considering.

  "Hey! You listening to me, pal?" the driver demanded. The two movers had returned from inside the gallery, their hands freed from carting the broken frame. They flanked their supervisor, although they eyed Vlad with a good deal more wariness.

  Vlad turned his attention away from the beautiful woman to eye the three movers with far less interest. The accumulation of their upper body strength was something worth considering, at least. These weren't meatheads who zealously pumped iron at the gym—these were men who made their living hauling heavy objects, and they had the practical strength to show for it.

  "Move whatever remains inside," Vlad instructed, "and apply the zero to your offered discount. I won't repeat myself."

  "Sir, I can take care of this," the woman said uncertainly. Her tone made it clear she was uncomfortable with his easy command of the proceedings. He thought it likely her discomfort stemmed from the fact that she hadn't been able to tighten the leash on these men herself. "There's no need for you to get involved," she added.

  "Why don't you tell the fire-crotch to learn how to handle her own business?" the supervisor demanded.

  The woman gasped, as if all the wind had been knocked out of her by the crass insult. A meditative moment passed, and then Vlad put his coffee on a nearby ledge and struck out with the flat of his palm.

  His single-handed shove sent the driver flying backward against the truck trailer. The container rang hollowly at the impact, and the man's shoulder gave a sharp crack to rival the shattered wood frame from earlier, although Vlad was confident he hadn't used enough force to break any bones. The two movers sprang out of the way, and the woman's hand flew to her mouth.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I—"

  "Get a move on," Vlad advised the three men. "Be glad I didn't spill my coffee."

  The threat in his tone was thinly veiled, and the movers collaborated to unload the items much more expediently after that. A thorough apology from the stricken supervisor preceded a complete refund, and it wasn't long before Vlad and the woman found themselves standing alone in the alley amid a cloud of dispersing exhaust. The truck was gone, carrying with it the three stooges who had given her such a hard time.

  "Terminate your contract with them," Vlad advised.

  "You don't have to tell me twice," the woman agreed.

  Generously, he held out his coffee to her. The woman accepted his offer without a second thought as to what she was doing, exhaling a long sigh, she raised the paper cup to her lips. In the next moment, she spat its contents out onto the ground.

  "Does this have… is that vodka?" she exclaimed incredulously.

  Vlad shrugged. It was as much a morning staple to him as cream was to professionals who had less vital business to attend to.

  "You cannot come into the gallery if you are intoxicated," the woman said, delivering her verdict in a clipped procession of words.

  Vlad raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?" He didn't bother correcting her assessment of his sobriety.

  The woman fisted her knuckles on her diminutive hips. Any pair of hands could get lost in a set of curves like that, he mused privately. "No, you cannot," she emphasized. "This is my family's gallery, and I won’t have someone like you…that is to say…there’s been enough damage for one day."

  There were two details in particular about the woman's comments that Vlad found far more interesting than her refusal to let him enter: one was her personal relationship to the gallery, and the other was her remark concerning someone like him. There was no mistaking the resentment in her tone. It may have been his intention to keep a low profile while visiting the gallery, but this woman saw right through him.

  Then again, maybe it was the sharp sting of the vodka on her tongue that clued her in.

  Get your copy of the Her Ruthless Russian from www.LeslieNorthBooks.com