A Lawman in Her Stocking by Kathie DeNosky

town of Tranquillity faded to nothingness when his groan of pleasure vibrated against her mouth.
    Encouraged by his reaction, she tangled her hands in his thick hair as she lost herself in the moment. Sparkles of light danced behind her eyelids, but the thrill of kissing him once again was nothing compared to the feel of his hands on her body as he slid his palms beneath her sweater to stroke the sensitive skin across her rib cage. At the feel of his hard arousal against her bottom, shivers of excitement coursed through her and headed straight for the pit of her belly.
    The feeling was so poignant that it startled her with its intensity and allowed a degree of sanity to intrude. “Dylan, what are we—”
    Pulling his hands from beneath her sweater, Dylan’s chest rose and fell against hers as he took several deep breaths. “Don’t worry, darlin’.” He placed her on the couch beside him, then handed her the bowl of popcorn. “I meant it when I told you we’d take this one step at a time.”
    “I think we just skipped step one and moved right on to step two,” she said, feeling as if she’d run a marathon.
    His deep, sexy chuckle sent a fresh wave of goose bumps skipping over her skin. Without a word, she handed him the bowl of popcorn, then reached into the candy dish on the coffee table for a handful of chocolate drops. Having chocolate was much safer than having Dylan, she told herself as she hastily unwrapped the silver foil and popped a piece of candy into her mouth.

Six
    W hen the mayor and councilmen arrived Monday morning for the meeting he had requested, Dylan ushered them into his office and slammed the door. “Which one of you gave the B.S. Club permission to paint the fire hydrants?” he asked, motioning for the three men to seat themselves in the chairs in front of his desk.
    “It sure wasn’t me,” Luke Washburn said emphatically, plopping down in one of the chairs.
    Ed Taylor shook his head as he and Myron took their seats. “It wasn’t me either.”
    When they all turned to stare at Myron, he remained strangely silent, and Dylan thought the man just might hang himself if he didn’t stop fingering his bolo tie.
    “Myron, do you have any idea who gave the B.S.Club permission to do this?” Dylan asked, already knowing the answer as he sank into the chair behind his desk.
    The rotund little man’s face turned beet-red. “Cornelia said it would be done in good taste and—”
    “Good taste?” Dylan and the other men shouted in unison.
    Myron’s shoulders sagged “—she threatened to stop cookin’.”
    “Well, hell, Myron, you didn’t have to let them vandalize the fire hydrants,” Luke said, sounding as disgusted as he looked. “I run a restaurant. I could of fed you.”
    Myron’s expression conveyed his misery. “She said I’d have to sleep on the couch till I came to my senses, too.”
    “I guess it would get mighty lonely sleepin’ by yourself,” Ed said, understanding written all over his face.
    Myron snorted. “Aw, hell, Ed. I ain’t worried about sleepin’ by myself, or doin’ without for a while. It’s that damned couch that bothers me. There’s a loose spring right in the middle of the blasted thing that pokes me in the butt every time I lay down.” He rubbed his rump as if the thought of it caused pain. “I think she keeps it around just to threaten me when she wants her way.”
    Dylan watched the exchange, then sighed heavily. “Giving them permission to paint the hydrants isn’t the problem. What I’d like to know is whose bright idea it was to plaster my face on the one outside?”
    “They painted every one of the danged things to resemble somebody,” Luke Washburn complained.“My wife, Helen, painted the one in front of our place and made me look like a damned Santa troll.”
    “Yeah, one that’s been on a real bender,” Ed chortled.
    “If I were you, I wouldn’t act too cocky, Taylor.” Luke laughed. “Your wife painted yours with its eyes