Lori Armstrong
Silent Mercy
Mercy Gunderson – 2.50
Blowing by a cop car at 140 miles per hour is a surefire way to get noticed.
Or arrested.
My brain conjured up all sorts of interesting “resisting-arrest” scenarios, featuring handcuffs as sexy-as-sin Eagle River County sheriff Dawson manhandled me and whispered the words “Spread ’em” in my ear.
You are one depraved woman, Mercy Gunderson.
For taunting the lawman I cohabitated with? Maybe. But I’d been gone from home for four months for FBI training at Quantico. I’d missed many things about my life on the family ranch in western South Dakota and the intimate relationship with Sheriff Mason Dawson was at the top of the list. Since I’d returned, our alone time had been hit-and-miss. Our nights out-or even our nights in-were interrupted by either his job or mine. We were both frustrated, and neither of us believed this predicament would end any time soon.
So I’d decided to mix things up on a boring Sunday night. Tempt Dawson to be Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner. Smokey to my Bandit. The KGB to my Jason Bourne.
But so far, the road in front of me and behind me looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. Nothing but miles of empty.
When another three minutes ticked by and I didn’t see a patrol vehicle hot on my tires, I lifted my lead foot off the gas and pulled a U-turn.
Guess I’d play this another way.
I cranked up Dierks Bentley’s “What Was I Thinkin’?” and belted out the words as I floored it. The dotted center lines blurring into a single white line when my Viper hit the 130-miles-per-hour mark.
Even with my compromised night vision-an eye injury I brought home from the Gulf War-I saw the swirling lights alongside the road in the same place I’d passed the vehicle the first time.
Hey. The man hadn’t even moved. He hadn’t even tried to catch me.
Where was the fun in that?
I could’ve slowed down. I should’ve slowed down.
But I whizzed right past him.
After I’d dropped to a respectable thirty miles per hour, I slammed on the brakes. My tires screeched, smoked, and laid rubber until the car stopped. No use in paying a shit ton of money for top-of-the-line tires if I didn’t test them occasionally. I threw it in reverse and backed up with the finesse of a Hollywood stunt driver. After parking on the shoulder across from the patrol vehicle, I turned off the ignition and looked at him.
Sheriff Dawson was leaning against the driver’s-side door, his arms folded in his usual don’t-fuck-with-me stance. At six feet three, with wide shoulders, a broad chest, and dark blond hair, he embodied a modern-day Viking. He’s an imposing man, so my heart skipped a beat or two when he started toward me.
I dutifully rolled down the window after he tapped on it. “Yes, sir?”
His big hands curled over the window frame. “Step out of the car, Miz Gunderson.”
Crap. Dawson wasn’t wearing his amused face; he was wearing his pissed-off face. “Look, Mason, I was-”
He stuck his head completely inside the car. “It’s Sheriff Dawson to you right now,” he snapped. “Get out of the fucking car.”
“Get your head out of the way and I will,” I snapped back.
He snarled something incoherent, but he moved.
This was not going according to plan. I rolled up the window, flipped on my hazard lights, and pocketed my wallet, keys, and cell phone.
As soon as I exited the car, Dawson said, “Are you armed?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’d better answer the damn question, Sergeant Major.”
Now he was using my army rank in that brusque tone, which wasn’t a good sign. “Yes, I’m armed. I’m carrying my Kahr Arms P380 in my right coat pocket.” Just to be a smart-ass, I added, “As an FBI agent I don’t need a permit to carry concealed.”
“No shit, Special Agent Gunderson. Is that the only weapon on your person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hold open your coat.”
I didn’t coo sexily and beg him to take hours frisking me. I closed my eyes against the fury I could practically feel pulsing from him. The heavy fabric of my trench coat flapped loudly in the stillness of the prairie night.
Silence. Then, “Christ, woman. Are you tryin’ to make my head explode?”
My eyes flew open. “What?”
Dawson gestured to my outfit, a skintight black lace shirt, a super-short silver miniskirt, and black-and-silver studded stiletto boots. “I doubt that clothing is standard FBI issue.”
“No kidding.”
“You hate to wear dresses. And there sure as hell ain’t anyplace to hide even your smallest gun in that outfit.”
Yeah, I wasn’t a girly girl on my best day. So glad he’d pointed that out.
When our gazes connected, I saw male appreciation in his eyes, which lessened the sting of my humiliation.
But that look vanished so fast I feared it might’ve been wishful thinking when he barked, “What in the name of God were you doing driving like that?”
“Umm… My boot heel accidentally got stuck in the mat, forcing my foot to press the accelerator all the way to the floor?”
Dawson growled, “Bullshit. Try again.”
“Fine. I was blowing out the cobwebs since I haven’t driven her in months.”
“I’ll buy that. But it’s still, oh, illegal to drive that goddamn fast.” He got right in my face. “Really, Mercy? With your bad eye, you’re ripping down the road, on a moonless night, at a hundred forty miles an hour? Do you have a death wish?”
“No.” I bristled. “I’ve driven that fast plenty of times, and I know how to handle her.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know how to handle you when you’re like this.”
“Like what?”
“Restless, careless, and thoughtless.” He jammed his hand through his hair, a sign of his aggravation. “You about gave me heart failure. All’s it would’ve taken was one jerk of the steering wheel-one lousy, unintentional jerk-and you would’ve gone end over end. I would’ve had to sit here and watch, knowing I couldn’t stop it. And if you’d gotten lucky and your sports car hadn’t burst into flames upon impact with the ditch at that ridiculous speed, then I would’ve had to pull your broken body out of a mangled car to try to keep you from dying right in front of me.”
I felt a little queasy when he put it that way-and a lot guilty.
Dawson stormed across the road to his vehicle.
I followed him like a whipped puppy. “Hey. Sheriff?”
He whirled around. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
His skeptical gaze sharpened. “Are you?”
“Yes! I wasn’t thinking, okay? It was immature to think it’d be funny if you had to chase me down at full throttle.”
“Funny?” he repeated. “Know what’s not funny? How much I want to throttle you right now.” Mason abruptly turned and paced alongside the road.
The longer I waited for him to decide whether to throw the book at me, the more I suspected I’d used up all my get-out-of-jail-free cards with him.
Static sliced through the night air, and he snatched the police radio from his utility belt as he paced.
His eyes met mine when he spoke into the radio. “Fifteen. Maybe twenty.”
Had he radioed ahead to secure the jail cell I’d previously occupied? Because this wouldn’t be the first time Dawson had arrested me. “What’s going on?”
Tersely, he said, “Nothing. Get in the vehicle.”
“Can’t we just-”
“No.”
I skirted the front end and climbed in the passenger’s seat.
Inside the cop car, Dawson stared straight ahead, left hand gripping the wheel, right forearm resting on the console.
I expected he’d be furiously writing me a ticket. Or maybe he’d just berate me until I cracked. I preferred the ticket; I’d cracked in front of him plenty. When I saw the ticket book tucked between the seat and the console, I grabbed it.