Be Mine, Miss Valentine Page 2

  When the door opened, Ronnie almost toppled over from shock. She couldn't believe her eyes. Her mouth fell open, and she stared. Alexander Summerfield stared back. Part of her registered the fact that he really was drop-dead gorgeous; she hadn't been wrong in her first impression of him. And now that she could see all of him, he was even better looking than she'd first thought, with thick black hair threaded with silver and eyes that reminded her of gray cashmere. What was he doing in the carriage house? Where was Bernie Maxwell?

  "Well, well, well. What have we here?" Alexander Summerfield said. "I do believe it's the same law-enforcement officer I had the pleasure of meeting earlier today. Still hot on the heels of criminals, officer? What law have I broken now?" His gray eyes glittered like smoky diamonds, and the hint of a smile lurked around his well-shaped mouth.

  He stood with his hands on his hips. His toasty brown skin and the smooth muscles of his arms and chest were clearly visible in the scanty covering of a gray T-shirt. He wore black nylon running shorts, and on his feet were a beat-up pair of Nikes. Sweat glistened on his exposed skin.

  Ronnie realized she was gawking. She gave herself a mental shake. So he was gorgeous. So what? Just because there were no gorgeous men in Juliette, except for Ed Traymore, who owned the hardware store and didn't count because he was married and had five kids—soon to be six—was no excuse for her to act like a stage-door groupie.

  "Uh..." she said, then could have bitten her tongue off. That's great, Valentine, she told herself. Just great. Stand there and stare for ten minutes, then say uh. That's real professional. That's the way to show your authority and competence.

  Forcing herself to quit looking at his body, Ronnie cleared her throat, drew herself up to her full five-feet-two and said firmly, "Hello, Mr. Summerfield." I will not lose my temper.

  "You have me at a disadvantage, officer. You know my name, but I don't know yours." Now there was more than a hint of a smile on his face. The gray eyes were filled with mocking amusement as they dropped to the vicinity of her chest.

  Ronnie debated whether to smack the smirk off his face or ignore his attempt to goad her into a childish retort. She knew darn well he had read her name on her breast pocket. Her good sense won out, and she replied evenly, "I'm Sheriff Valentine, Mr. Summerfield, and Sam ... Mr. Barzini..." She gestured in Sam's direction. "... has informed me that you have captured his pet cat and refuse to release him. Is that correct?"

  Alexander Summerfield's gray eyes continued to study her with a lazy warmth, and Ronnie's heart did crazy leap-frog type things. His smile expanded into a grin, and perfect white teeth sparkled like new-fallen snow. "Yes, that's correct," he said in the husky, low voice she'd noticed earlier. "But I meant your first name."

  His voice shimmered over her body. "My first name is irrelevant," she said, trying to keep her mind on the subject at hand and ignore his blatant sex appeal. "And it's against the law to steal someone's pet." Don't be swayed by his smile, she told herself. Remember, he thinks he's God's gift to women.

  The smile disappeared but not completely. There was still a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looked at her, looked her up and down in a way that made her squirm uneasily. She wondered what he was thinking. Then she wasn't sure she really wanted to know. It would probably make her mad.

  "Well, Miss Irrelevant, I should also think it's against the law for someone's pet to leap out at someone and attempt to tear them apart." He turned around and pointed to his well-formed calf muscle—now blemished by distinct puncture wounds. "I thought you told me that all laws are important to you. If I remember your exact words you said everyone is treated the same here, no matter who the person is. But now it looks as if the laws are different for the people who live here and the people who visit here."

  Ronnie winced at his words. He was right. And Sam was in the wrong. It really didn't matter that Hector had had his shots and that he'd never really hurt anyone when he'd gone into his tiger act before. Hector was a nuisance, and his bites hurt.

  "The laws do apply equally to everyone, Mr. Summerfield. Hector shouldn't be permitted to attack people, but it isn't up to you to decide on punishment or keep him imprisoned. He's not your property. Now, show me where he is, and I'll take care of this."

  Ignoring her order, Alexander Summerfield said, "I don't know why any sane person would want a cat like that." He raised his eyebrows, and the left one went up higher than the right.

  Fascinated, Ronnie watched it quiver there. "I realize Hector is a little aggressive at times—"

  "A little aggressive? That's hardly an apt description. I'd have selected words like vicious and predatory and a public menace."

  "Oh, come on. We're talking about a house cat, not a mountain lion." Although she agreed with him, she had no intention of letting him think he had the upper hand. She'd grown up in a house full of males; she'd learned to deal with male intimidation early in life. She didn't flinch as he stared at her, the amusement in his eyes returning. I refuse to smile, she thought. He's entirely too sure of himself. His charm didn't work before, and it won't work now.

  "Easy for you to say," he countered. "You're not the one standing here with bite marks on your leg. For all I know, I could get rabies. That orange hellcat belongs in the jungle."

  "You won't get rabies, if that's what you're so worried about," Sam said. "Hector's had all his shots. I'll show you the papers."

  The two men glared at each other, and Ronnie sighed. Males could be so childish. "Mr. Summerfield. Let's try to be reasonable, shall we? It's ridiculous for us to stand here arguing. Do you, or do you not, intend to release Sam's cat?"

  "I do not." His eyes now glinted like shining steel.

  "I see." Good grief, what now? It wasn't as if she were facing a bank robber or a rapist or even a murderer. She'd been in the right earlier today, but this episode was a different story. She'd feel a bit silly pulling out her gun and threatening him.

  "Now, see here," Sam sputtered. "You'd better give Hector back to me, or Ronnie ... Sheriff Valentine ... will just have to arrest you."

  Ronnie cringed, but she loyally backed up Sam's threat. "He's right, Mr. Summerfield. If you refuse to release the cat peacefully, I'll have to invoke the law." Although uneasy about the look in Alexander Summerfield's eyes, she refused to drop her gaze. Instead she returned his glittering stare unflinchingly. Her insides felt like a twisted pretzel, and she could feel her face heat under his scrutiny.

  The silence stretched. The only sounds were the chirping of robins and the buzzing of bees around the lilac bushes and the hum of a motor bike on the road beyond.

  Finally Alexander Summerfield spoke. "I'll let you come in and get the cat on one condition."

  Ronnie bristled at the term condition, but she said, "And that is?" Right now all she wanted was the return of Hector, so that Sam would calm down. She'd deal with Mr. Perfection later.

  "That Barzini keep his cat confined. I do not intend to run the risk of being bitten by that fleabag every time I set foot out of my front door."

  "But—" Sam protested.

  "Or," Alexander Summerfield continued, staring at Sam, "if you prefer, I'll go out and buy myself a nice, big, cat-eating Doberman!"

  "Now just a cotton-pickin' minute!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm getting a little fed up with you!"

  Ronnie glared at Sam. Be quiet, the look said. She turned to Summerfield. "We agree to your condition."

  "Good. I knew you'd see it my way." He moved aside in the doorway. "You can come in and get the cat."

  Ronnie nudged a still-sputtering Sam past Alexander Summerfield before he could change his mind. They found Hector, none the worse for his confinement, but fighting mad, skulking in the back of the broom closet in the kitchen.

  "It's okay, Hector," Sam crooned as he petted the loudly complaining cat. "You're all right."

  Hector spied his tormentor and bared his teeth, hissing and spitting in fury.

  "Thank you, Mr. Summerfield," Ronnie murmured as s
he took Sam's arm. "Let's go," she muttered, "before your mountain lion here decides to strike again." Hector's coppery fur stood straight up as they made their escape.

  Ronnie looked back once on her way out. Alexander Summerfield leaned against the door frame of the open kitchen doorway, and for a long moment, their eyes locked. Then he very slowly gave her a onceover, letting his silvery eyes glide down her body, then back up. The corners of his wide mouth quirked up.

  A queer breathlessness seized Ronnie. What was he looking at? She nearly voiced the question, then thought better of it. Just ignore him, she told herself. He wants you to lose your temper and say something stupid. Don't do it.

  "I wonder what great crime will bring us together next time, sheriff," he drawled.

  Don't answer.

  "Maybe I'll be playing my stereo too loud..."

  Don't answer.

  "Or maybe it'll be something really serious like whistling at pretty girls on Main Street..."

  Ronnie whirled around. "Listen, Big Shot, don't try to impress me with how witty you are because you're wasting your breath. Most of the time..." She paused for emphasis. "Most of the time I'm called out about serious problems, not because someone is making a nuisance of himself!"

  "No kidding?" His eyes twinkled. "The men in your department stand for that?"

  Ronnie knew she should have left five minutes ago. "What's that remark supposed to mean?"

  With that infuriating twinkle still in his eyes, he said slowly, deliberately, "I figured you for the catnapping, ticket writing detail, and the men for the serious crime detail. You know—the kinds of problems a female half-pint like you can't handle."

  Ronnie's temper exploded. She wanted to kick him. Instead she settled for putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. "Listen, you Neanderthal," she said, "I'm almost thirty years old, I've got a degree in law enforcement and criminal justice, I've been with the sheriff’s department for nearly seven years, and I can handle anything that comes my way. And that includes you!"

  Chapter 2

  He laughed out loud. "Thirty years old. Who'd have believed it?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He shrugged, the infuriating smirk still plastered to his face. "Just that I'd have pegged you for about eighteen."

  Eighteen! Looking young was the bane of Ronnie's existence, but no one had made disparaging remarks about her age for so long, she'd almost forgotten the feeling of impotence and frustration such remarks inspired.

  "I may look young," she said with dignity, "but at least I act my age, which is more than I can say for you." Then she swung around and marched away, keeping her head high.

  "I'm looking forward to our next encounter, Sheriff," he called, laughter tinging his words. "Maybe Juliette won't be boring after all."

  She refused to give him the satisfaction of answering him, no matter how much she wanted to. She muttered all the way back to her office. She hadn't acquitted herself well this afternoon, despite what she'd said to Mr. Know-it-all. And it was no consolation that he would probably be quite embarrassed when he discovered she lived not twenty feet from his back door, and that they were going to be neighbors for the entire summer. Just because he'd made fun of her was no reason for her to lose control and lash back at him. She was an officer of the law, for God's sake. She should have been cool, calm, professional. That was the only way to put men like Alexander Summerfield in their place.

  She sighed heavily, but since there wasn't anyone in her office, the sigh was wasted as high drama. Damn. It had been a frustrating day. She'd admired Alexander Summerfield's work for years, and now he'd turned out to be a conceited smart-mouth. And to top it all off, he'd managed to make her lose her temper, which had brought her down to his level.

  But no matter how many times she told herself he was a jerk, not worth paying any attention to, it rankled to know he thought she was someone to joke about, someone not to be taken seriously. Oh, what difference did it make what he thought of her? Alexander Summerfield was obviously pompous and arrogant. In fact, she couldn't stand him. He represented the very worst in male egocentricity, and he could go stuff himself.

  Trying to forget the unfortunate set of circumstances surrounding her two meetings with her new neighbor, Ronnie wandered back to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She took the pins out of her hair, brushed it, then twisted it back up and repinned it. Fiddle. No matter what she did, she looked the same. Young. If only she were taller. One time when she'd had to appear in court she met a lawyer named Jeanne something, who was tall and elegant, with straight blonde hair, a precise, deep voice, and an angular figure that looked wonderful in tailored clothes. She had commanded respect not only because she was smart and competent but because she looked the part of a professional with her grown-up face.

  Ronnie hated her own face. It was too round, too little-girl looking. She hated it when people did a double-take when they found out she was almost thirty years old. She knew that in today's world she was probably in the minority. Most women were obsessed with looking young and would give anything to be taken for ten years younger than they actually were. But most women hadn't been fighting for respect in a profession where how you looked might make the difference in how a criminal reacted to you. Or whether the voters voted for you.

  And, Ronnie admitted to herself, most women hadn't just come up against the ridicule of Alexander Summerfield. The same Alexander Summerfield who had written A Day for Lovers and Good Neighbors and Big Girls Don't Cry and Weeping Willow. Plays that had made Ronnie laugh and cry. Plays that were gripping and sensitive and emotion-packed.

  That's what puzzled her about him. How could he write plays with the kind of depth his contained?

  There must be more to him than good looks and arrogance.

  Her pride demanded that he respect her, that he think of her as a capable, intelligent woman. Someone interesting.

  Someone he might be interested in.

  Ronnie felt her face heat as the unbidden thought crept insidiously into her mind. Come on, Valentine, she lectured herself. You're not really attracted to him, are you? No, of course not. She only wanted him to be interested in her so she could spurn him. After all, she rationalized, it would give her the greatest pleasure to knock him down a peg or two. Show him there were women in the world immune to his sex appeal.

  Grinning, Ronnie went back to her office and attacked the stack of paperwork she'd abandoned earlier. But throughout the afternoon her mind kept wandering back to the carriage house and the sound of Alexander Summerfield's throaty laugh as she'd made her ignominious retreat.

  * * *

  When Miss Prissy-Pants and his rotund landlord disappeared from Alex Summerfield's view, he was still chuckling. What had possessed him to bait the little sheriff like that? He hadn't behaved this badly toward anyone in years, and he couldn't imagine why he'd done it today.

  But the sight of her, so furious, with those enormous blue eyes and that shiny mass of chestnut-colored hair, had been irresistible. She'd been so mad. Her creamy cheeks had flushed an attractive shade of pink, and the smattering of golden freckles decorating her tip-tilted nose had deepened to pale amber.

  Golden freckles? Tip-tilted nose? Alex gave himself a mental shake. Thinking like that was dangerous. He had more important things to do with his time than daydream about a woman. Remember Margo. Thinking of his ex-wife caused Alex's lighthearted mood to darken. Getting involved with a demanding woman was what had put him in this fix to start with. He'd better remember that. So no matter how intriguing the pretty sheriff was—Ronnie, that was what Barzini had called her—no matter how tempting it might be to find out more about her, he'd better put her out of his mind. He'd better remember he'd sworn off women—and why.

  Determinedly, Alex turned and walked into the sunny kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he removed a bottle of Beck's beer from the supply he'd stocked earlier. As the cool, rich brew slid down his throat, he closed his eyes.
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  Okay, Summerfield, he told himself. You're here to get Signposts whipped into shape. Remember that. You can't afford any involvements or distractions. It's been three years since you've written anything worth two cents. Your involvement, no, your obsession with Margo was the reason you couldn't write anything. Remember that, too. Keep your mind on your goal, and forget all about women.

  Besides, Bernie would kill him if he screwed up again. Alex smiled as he thought of Bernie. Bernie Maxwell: his agent, friend, and father confessor. He was the one who had recommended the drastic change in Alex's lifestyle and the one who had arranged for the rental of the carriage house for the summer.

  "Dick Girard, an old friend of mine, stayed there one summer, and I went up to visit him," Bernie said. "I was really taken with the place. It's perfect for your purposes—pretty, quiet, and the people are great. You should get a lot of work done."

  Alex walked slowly over to the open window and stared out. Lush maple, elm, and silver birch trees shaded the yard, as well as a half dozen fruit trees. Colorful beds of flowers decorated the property. The view was radically different than the view from his New York apartment. Alex hoped Bernie was right and this tiny hamlet would prove to be the sanctuary he needed.

  Turning away from the window, Alex decided to call Bernie, then finish unpacking and take a walk to explore the town. He picked up the phone and pressed the familiar numbers.

  "Hey, kid. How's it goin'?" Bernie's voice boomed across the long-distance wire. "Settled in all right?"

  "Yes. You were right, Bernie. Juliette's a beautiful place, and I think the peace and quiet are exactly what I need right now."

  "I know I'm right, kid. Mark my words, stayin' away from the bright lights and the foxes will be just the ticket. You'll get that play whipped into shape in no time."

  "I hope so," Alex said. "When do you plan to come up?"

  "Sometime toward the end of July. And I expect you to have Act II and most of Act III revised and polished by then."