Close To The Edge (Westen #2)

Close To The Edge

By Suzanne Ferrell

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

For Lyndsey Michelle:

You once asked me why we spelled your name so differently. Your name means gently flowing gift from God and it couldn’t be any truer. Daily I am amazed by your talent. Your joy in life, your family, your faith—all encourage me and anyone who knows you. It has been awe inspiring and a blessing to be your mother—to watch you grow and mature into the beautiful wife, mother and woman you are despite the trials you’ve had to endure. You are truly an inspiration!

P.S. Thank you for all my fantastic covers!

Chapter One

H
er ass was by far the finest he'd ever seen in this town.

Westen Township Sheriff, Gage Justice, pulled his cruiser in behind the brown sedan parked in the alley between the town’s only bank and Gold’s Foodmart. His deputy Cleetus was right. Someone was definitely digging around in the trash dumpster.

A satisfied smile of pure male appreciation split Gage’s lips and a warmth spread over his body as he sat back and admired the view. This didn’t look to be your typical dumpster diver. The woman stood tiptoe on the hood of her car, the top half of her body bent over and into the container’s edge. The way the perp’s jeans clung and stretched around her thighs and nice round bottom warmed more than his smile.

Oh, yeah. A man could spend all day holding those round cheeks in his hands. Wonder if the top half of her was as nice as the bottom?

He gave himself a mental shake. The more important question was why was she rifling through the trash?

Without making a sound, he eased himself out of the cruiser, leaving the door open. Careful not to step on anything to alert her of his presence, he moved past her car to stand just below her and off to the side. He looked at her feet.

Awful small, even for a woman
.

The jeans clung to her legs, which weren’t supermodel thin, but nicely shaped. He resisted the urge to reach up and squeeze her calves.

“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” he asked in his best bad-cop voice.

Startled, she jumped and lifted her top half out of the bin. For a brief second he caught sight of her face. It wasn’t the kind that stopped men dead in their tracks, but the curious brown eyes, the arched dark eyebrows, and the soft lips rounded in an
O
of surprise caught his attention.

At that moment her foot slipped.

In almost slow motion her balance shifted. Dark hair flying about her, she waved her arms around in big helicopter circles, papers drifting down like confetti. She twisted to one side as if she meant to catch herself on the edge of the dumpster, only to slip again. This time that lovely butt came directly at him. Despite something wet dribbling down on his shirt, Gage shifted sideways and did the only gentlemanly thing he could do. He held out both arms to catch her.

Just as her bottom and thighs filled his arms, she threw her arm around his neck, emptying the contents of a brown paper bag on top of him. “Oh, crap! Thank you…” her voice trailed off as she looked at him.

He couldn’t help but smile. Her voice reminded him of a soft summer night, warm and whispery. “Gage Justice, Westen’s Sheriff. You’re welcome, Miss?”

“Sheriff Justice? That name’s just too perfect.” She laughed softly as she lifted the half-eaten chicken salad sandwich off his shoulder and tossed it back to the trash bin. Then she smiled—a genuine hundred-watt stunner from the heart. “I’m Roberta Roberts, but my friends call me Bobby.”

Gage turned to set the shapely woman on the ground then glanced over her shoulder through the driver’s window and froze.

The contents of her purse were scattered on the car’s passenger seat. Peeking out of the bag was the butt-end of a gun.

“So, Bobby,” he quickly set her on the ground and moved so he stood between her and the door handle, “want to tell me why you have a gun in the front seat of your car?”

“I’m a private investigator and I have a permit for my gun, Sheriff.”  She gave him another smile.

The words private investigator chilled whatever response he’d have for her. “Don’t suppose you have some identification and a permit on you, do you?”

“They’re in my bag.”

She started to reach for the door handle, but he caught her arm to stop her. “I have to get them out to show you.”

“How about I get your bag for you?”

“Sure. Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He released her and she stepped back, giving him a mutinous stare, those deep-brown eyes narrowed like a mad cat. Opening the door, he forced her to move away farther. Careful not to turn his back completely on her he retrieved her things, handing her the bag, but keeping her weapon in his hand.

Still casting him a rebellious look, she snatched her bag and dropped it onto the car hood, fishing around inside.

“I know it’s in here. I put the permit in before leaving home.”

“And where is home?” he asked, watching her rummage.

“Cincinnati,” she said, starting to pull items out—wallet, bottle of water, notebook, granola bar, collapsible umbrella, reading book, sunglasses, lipstick case—laying them on the hood of her car one at a time. Every time he thought she reached the bottom she’d pull something else out. She rifled through each set of folded papers. “I know it’s in here.”

“How big is that bag?”

She slanted her head toward him a moment, disgust in her eyes, before turning back to her mission. He fought hard to swallow the grin that itched to pop out at her schoolmarm expression, the gun in his hand reminding him of the seriousness of the situation.

Finally, she turned her bag upside down and shook. The only thing that fell out was a gum wrapper.

“I can’t find it.” Her shoulders slumped a little, she reached for her wallet. “I can show you my PI license.”

“How about we take a little trip over to the jail and I’ll run a check.” He gripped her arm and stopped her, turning her to face the car.

In all her life, Bobby Roberts had never seen a man turn from a knight-in-shining-armor into an-ice-cold-robotic-cop in a matter of seconds.

“Excuse me?”
He couldn’t be serious.

“You heard me, hands on the hood, lady.” His voice, which had been warm and teasing a minute earlier, had turned as cold as a Midwestern snowstorm. She didn’t doubt for one second that he meant business.

Not wishing to anger him any further, she placed her hands on the hood of her car and spread her legs. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“You have the right to remain silent, which I highly suggest you take advantage of.”

He was really going to arrest her. Oh crap! She’d never even had so much as a parking ticket in her life. “This trash is in the alley, which makes it public domain. You can’t arrest me.”

She glanced over her shoulder. His jaw was as hard as granite, his lips pressed into an angry line, and those stupid reflective aviator glasses kept her from seeing his eyes. The metal badge, pinned to the blue denim shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, reflected what little sunlight filtered into the alley.

Oh, yeah. He was the town sheriff and he meant to let her know he was in charge. She recognized the silent intimidation. It was one of her favorite tactics to use on any number of her students over the years.

He ran his hands down her back all the way to her feet. If she didn’t know better she’d swear he went a little too slow over her bottom. Next he brought those big hands up her legs and the outside of her torso. Despite the situation, she found herself wishing he’d do it again.

She gave herself a mental shake.
Stupid woman, he’s arresting you, not starting foreplay. Get your mind out of your pants and his. This is reality at its worst
.

He leaned in, his body’s heat warming her and she closed her eyes. It took all her willpower not to moan. Suddenly, he grasped one arm from the hood and brought it around her back. When she felt the metal of the cuffs encircle her wrist, her eyes snapped open.

“Officer, won’t you just listen to me? I told you, I’m a private investigator. I know my rights. I was simply looking for a letter my client sent to this bank.”

“Private investigator?” He looked from her head to her toes again. “Yeah, right.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong.” She tried to turn and wiggle free of his grasp.

“Keep it up and I’ll charge you with resisting an officer. For the moment, I’m taking you into my office. We’ll talk about your suspicious activity and this unlicensed handgun.”

“Suspicious? You can’t arrest me for searching public trash.”

“Keep talking and I’ll add a noise complaint, too.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“How about public nuisance?”

“Because I dumped trash on you?”

“You don’t know how to remain silent, do you?” He pushed her against the car and cuffed her other arm behind her, then hauled her backward.

Abruptly, the internet warning about women being stopped and raped by fake cops along the interstate popped into her mind. He wasn’t dressed in an official uniform—just a blue denim shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and that stupid badge. Panic spread over her like a whirlwind. Her heart jumped into hyper-drive. All she could think of was she shouldn’t let him put her in that car. She started to wiggle as he led her toward his cruiser.

“Stop wiggling.” He opened the back of the car.

“How do I know you’re really a police officer? You haven’t shown me any identification.”

“Let’s see, cruiser, badge, gun.” He pointed at each item as he named it. “Don’t I look like the sheriff?”

“No. You look like a farmer with an Indians baseball cap and badge.”

He growled, opened the front door, leaned in and picked up the radio. “Cleetus?”

“Yes, Sheriff? What’s your 20?”

“I’m out back of the bank with the suspect in custody. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Roger, Sheriff.”

The big man looked down at her, still no smile. “Satisfied?”

“Okay, I believe you’re who you say you are, but I don’t see why you’ve handcuffed me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I can sue you for false arrest.”

He closed the door on her threat and went back to her car, shoved her things back into her purse, closed her door, then returned, climbing into the driver’s side. He set the bag and her gun on the passenger’s seat then started his car.

“Wait. You can’t just leave my car out here. What if it gets stolen?”

He huffed—the same masculine sound she remembered her father giving her mother when she was a child—and took off his sunglasses, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Your car will be fine. And to be sure, I locked all the doors. Happy?”

“I’d be happier if you’d take off these ridiculous cuffs.”

“Lady, that’s not happening until you’re back at the jail.” The stony look he gave her in the mirror told her any further discussion was a waste of her breath.

“Fine. But when you find out I really am a private investigator, you’re going to feel really stupid.”

As he pulled the cruiser out of the alley, the radio sounded.

“Sheriff?”

He palmed the mic. “Yeah, Cleetus?”

“We’ve got a situation out on the state highway.”

The sheriff stopped the cruiser. “What kind of situation?”

“Ralph Fenway’s herd is loose and blocking the traffic in both directions.”

“I’m bringing in the perp, after that you can go out and handle it.”

“Sheriff, Doc Clint called from his car, he’s one of the people stuck behind three semi trucks. Says one of the truck drivers just got out of his rig and Ralph’s standing in the middle of the road holding a shotgun to protect his cows.”