Operation Power Play by Justine Davis

this time she fought it down. “I’m assuming you’re playing devil’s advocate here.”
    Relieved, he said, “Exactly. I just know what they might say. I’ve dealt with them enough.”
    “So what do I do? I’ll fight them tooth and nail, but I have to have something to fight with.”
    He knew she would. In those videos of the hearings he’d seen her do it, against a much bigger entity than the local government of a sparsely populated county. But when she’d gone up against the feds, she’d had documents and compelling audio and video evidence proving her case. And she’d been fearless, he thought, remembering the moments when one particularly nasty questioner had tried to beat her down. She’d quietly yet determinedly stood up to him, angering him, and in the process made him look like the malicious bully he was, berating a grief-stricken widow and accusing her of lying.
    He’d felt a ridiculous urge, even after all this time, to go hunt that bully down and give him a taste of what he’d put her through. For his own peace of mind, not for Sloan’s sake. She was tough; she didn’t need his protection.
    He wished she did.
    Even as he thought it, near panic seized him.
Back off, back off, back off.
It clanged at him like an alarm on a fire engine in reverse.
    “I think,” he said, desperately grabbing for an answer, “it may be time for you to meet Cutter’s people.”
    The dog, who had been standing quietly aside, seemingly satisfied he’d done his job, barked as if in agreement.
    You,
Brett thought,
are going out of your mind. He’s. A. Dog.
    And she was dangerous. To him, anyway. Because she was making him think about things he’d given up on long ago.
    * * *
    He’d been scrupulously polite as they’d organized the logistics, Sloan thought. Almost as if he was using good manners to keep distance between them, in the same way he’d called her Mrs. Burke after they’d progressed to Sloan.
    He’d made a temporary repair on the pipe to stop the water flow, while she’d done her best to clean up the muddy dog. He’d cut short his run and headed home for a quick shower—and she sternly ordered her mind not to dwell on that, wondering when she’d developed this fascination with male hygiene—then come back in his car to pick her up.
    It had taken Sloan a few moments to get over the oddity of riding in a car with a large radio/computer installed in the console, discreet red and blue flashing lights aimed out the windshield, and a shotgun in a rack above her head. It brought rather fiercely home the reminder that this man was a cop, and all that entailed. Especially the danger and the knowledge that any day on the job could be his last. She would already feel bad enough if anything happened to him. He was a nice guy, and one of the good guys. As Jason had been.
    Good thing she had no intention of this going anywhere, she thought.
And what was it the road to hell was paved with?
    She tried to shut up that pesky part of her mind that seemed to have slipped the leash. Yes, he was a very attractive man. She wasn’t in the market. Period.
    After a few miles of silence, she finally spoke. “Should I report that leak?”
    He shook his head. “Let’s wait until we find out what all we’re dealing with. I think that plug will hold for a while.”
    More silence. She couldn’t tell if he was lost in thought or if he simply didn’t talk much. Finally, as they turned onto a narrow lane, he began to tell her a bit more about Cutter’s people. She listened, fascinated by the very idea of Foxworth. And liking the way he sounded when he spoke of them. She liked a man who cared about his friends.
    Stop it!
she ordered herself.
    “Who’s left here?” Sloan asked as he slowed to take a gravel driveway that wound its way through thick tall trees. “If the two at the top are on their honeymoon, and the one who was going to dogsit is off with his girlfriend, and another back home in Texas, how many are