Caught by Surprise

  #288 WHERE THERE’S SMOKE, THERE’S FIRE by Terry Lawrence

  #289 THANKSGIVING by Janet Evanovich

  #290 CAUGHT BY SURPRISE by Deborah Smith

  #291 MAN OF THE NIGHT by Joan Elliott Pickart

  #292 TIME OUT by Patt Bucheister

  #293 WATER WITCH by Jan Hudson

  “It’s just a twinge,” Millie protested.

  “It’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “I have my doubts,” Brig said. “Lie on your stomach and let old Doc McKay’s magic fingers do some massaging’.” His hands were deliciously strong as he helped her turn over on the bed.

  Brig sat down beside her and stifled the groan of pleasure that rose in his throat. She looked so tempting, her blond hair tousled on the pillow, her head turned to one side so he could see her flushed face. He wondered if she would look that way after lovemaking.

  He flattened his hands beneath her shoulder blades and stroked down to the top of her shorts, pulling her T-shirt up and enjoying the smoothness of her skin. “Do you know what’s best for this kind of muscle strain?” he asked.

  “Ice pack,” she murmured, barely able to form the words. His touch was mesmerizing.

  “Nope. Moist heat.” He bent over and placed his damp, hot lips into the curve of her back. Slowly, he slid his mouth up her spine, branding each vertebra with the tip of his tongue. She moaned with pleasure as heat pinked her skin. Nothing had ever felt this good.…

  CAUGHT BY SURPRISE

  A Bantam Book / November 1988

  LOVESWEPT® and the wave device are registered trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and elsewhere.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1988 by Deborah Smith.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-79665-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  v3.1

  To the Thursday night group—

  Sandra, Marian, and Nancy

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  One

  Millie Surprise had learned to enjoy chaos when she worked for Rucker McClure, the famous newspaper columnist, but that had been two years ago. She was used to serenity now, and the noisy mob of women in the small lobby of the Paradise Springs jail was getting on her nerves.

  Hardly anything ever rattled her, so she chalked her restlessness up to the impending arrival of Brig McKay. They’d never had an out-of-state prisoner before, much less a celebrity prisoner. She was going to enjoy fingerprinting a VIP.

  “I’m scared,” said a wispy voice.

  Millie peered over the counter of the receiving desk into the wide eyes of a tiny, auburn-haired girl in a blue sunsuit. The room was packed and she looked as if she might be in danger of being flattened by the restless crowd. “Where’s your mom, sweetie?”

  “By the door. She told me to wait here. I’m getting squashed.”

  Millie swung a half-door open, stepped out, picked the little girl up, and sat her on the counter. “How’s that?”

  “Good.” The child eyed Millie’s deputy uniform dubiously but smiled after a moment. “You’re little,” she observed.

  “I know,” Millie answered drolly, and smiled back. She understood that part of her rapport with children came from her nonthreatening size.

  She went back behind the counter and studied the chaos in dismay. The lobby was sleekly modern and tastefully decorated—it hardly looked like the reception area for a jail. The mob hardly looked like a mob either—it was comprised of carefully tanned locals wearing designer sport clothes.

  These women should be out playing golf, Millie thought, or shopping in Paradise Springs boutiques. From their style she would have guessed they were fans of artsy New Age music, not Brig McKay’s honky-tonk brand of country-western.

  A door banged open behind the reception area and the sheriff stuck his head out, a telephone clasped in his hand. Millie smiled ruefully at him. Graying, lanky Raybo Rivers made every effort to be Andy Griffith, folksy and sweet, but his true nature kept getting the best of him. He glowered at the scene in the lobby.

  “Millie, what’s going on out here? I can barely hear myself think!”

  “You said it was okay to let McKay’s fans in, because he told his local fan club he’d sign autographs when he got here today.”

  “I thought he meant four or five people, not half the town! The Nashville courts transferred McKay down here to get him away from publicity!”

  She sighed. “I take it that you want me to arm wrestle the cream of Paradise Springs society? That’s the only way I’ll get these ladies out of here. I don’t know what McKay’s appeal is, but he sure inspires devotion.”

  Raybo smiled grimly. “If anyone can whip this crowd into order, you can, Deputy. I’d put you up against a nest of alligators.”

  “I’ll tell these ladies you made that comparison.”

  “Don’t you dare! Get Charlie and Suds on the radio and make sure they’re on the way. We’ll need ’em.”

  “Just talked to them, Raybo. Charlie’s tied up with another plant theft. Somebody stole four azaleas and a rosebush from a home on South Lakeside. Suds is hunting for two kids who went joyriding in a boat down at the marina.” She grinned. “Crime never stops in the big city.”

  “Then it’s just you and me, Millie. Buzz me when McKay gets here. We’ll block a path for him.”

  “Raybo? This guy’s not going to get special treatment the whole time he’s here, is he?”

  “Nah. Just today.” Looking suspiciously sheepish, Raybo withdrew and shut his office door.

  Millie thought she smelled a rat. Paradise Springs was a small, affluent resort town in Florida’s inland lake region. People called it a miniature Beverly Hills. There wasn’t much serious crime, and the town council had voted years ago to rent out extra jail space. Raybo obviously liked the idea of hosting this hell-raising entertainer. She made a mental note to ask Raybo’s wife if he had any of Brig McKay’s albums in his collection of country-western music.

  Sighing, she turned toward her counter mate. “What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked the little girl.

  “Ann.”

  “Well, Ann, we’re the only two girls here who aren’t excited about meeting Brig McKay.”

  Ten minutes later Millie was on the radio with her fellow deputy, Charlie McGown, when the lobby erupted in cheers. “Gotta run, Charlie. Our rebel without a cause will be here any minu
te.”

  “Hot damn! I can’t wait to meet him.”

  She was completely surrounded by Brig McKay fans, Millie realized with disgust. She called Raybo on the intercom, then patted Ann on the shoulder. “I don’t want you to fall off, hon. Let’s find your mom.

  Brigand Howser McKay was going to jail. While he knew that he was hardly the first McKay to run amok of the law, he was the first famous McKay to do so, and he felt sort of proud about it. He came from a long line of rowdy, independent men and women, and he wanted to uphold the family heritage. He pulled the brim of his battered khaki bush hat low on his forehead, tilted his head back on the seat of the rented Cadillac, and eyed the Florida landscape slipping past.

  “Cripes, Chuckie, look at those billabongs over there,” he grumbled mildly to the heavyset man in the passenger’s seat. Brig took one hand off the steering wheel and pointed out the window. “If I was really keen on bein’ eaten by mozzies, this’d be a fantastic place.”

  “Speak English,” his business manager demanded in a rich southern drawl. “Dammit, Brig, I ain’t ever gonna figure out your Aussie talk, and I give up tryin’ a long time ago.”

  “I’ll translate,” Brig said patiently. “ ‘Look at those lakes over there. If I wanted to be a meal for mozzies—that’s mosquitoes—this’d be the perfect place.’ ”

  “Florida ain’t bad. You’ll like it.”

  “It’s bloody hot here in June.”

  “The jail is air-conditioned. Brig.”

  “Oughta be gold-plated too. Took a lot of money for the record company’s legal eagles to get me transferred here.”

  “That’s the price you pay for privacy—and luxury. As jails go, it’s a palace.”

  Brig chuckled. “I would’ve been happy with a spot at the big pokey in Nashville. Least I’d be near home. And I like givin’ the record company boys indigestion.”

  “Go easy on ’em, Brig. The promotions people don’t get a kick out of seein’ one of their biggest names serve time for punchin’ a state senator.”

  “No worries, mate. I’ll do my sixty days quietly. Maybe get time off for good behavior.”

  Brig’s business manager grunted in disbelief. “Son, I’ve knowed you ever since you ambled off the plane from Australia. You wouldn’t recognize good behavior if it bit you on the behind.”

  Brig grinned nonchalantly. “If it looks like a mosquito, I’ll just swat it, mate.”

  • • •

  Millie felt a quick draw of breath evaporating from her lungs. The man who climbed out of the Cadillac’s front seat wasn’t Brig McKay’s chauffeur, she knew immediately from the squeals of the crowd behind her.

  Brig McKay was everything a man should be, and more.

  So this was the womanizer, brawler, tabloid darling, and winner of every major award in country-western music. So this was Brig McKay, about six feet of brawny male perfection in cowboy boots, faded jeans, a white polo shirt, and a wide-brimmed khaki hat that looked as if kangaroos had bounced on it a few times.

  He had the rugged, weathered appearance of a man who spent time outdoors doing something a lot more physical than making music. Under the hat she noted a blunt, handsome nose and a droll smile that radiated trouble.

  McKay shut the car door with a jaunty slap of one hand, looked up, and stared straight into her eyes. The self-amused smile faded away, and his gaze roamed over her like a heat-seeking missile in search of a target. Millie realized suddenly that her mouth was open in amazement.

  Brig thought he’d stopped breathing. After a moment, he covered his heart with one hand and nodded to her solemnly. He felt a thrill of challenge as she stiffened at his melodramatics and her chin went up proudly. Face like an angel, body like a blessing, eyes like a wary tiger, he thought. The combination appealed to him immensely.

  “G’day, gorgeous,” he called in a deep voice. He swept his hat off, revealing a short-cropped head of wavy, golden brown hair, and bowed low to her. The gesture was both flattering and absurdly teasing. Every woman in the jail thought it was meant for her alone.

  Millie staggered as the crowd of female fans shoved past her. She caught the door with one hand and frowned, annoyed that Brig McKay had disrupted her concentration on duty. But she’d never even seen a picture of the man before—how could she have been prepared for a bolt of Australian lightning?

  Brig watched as a small child hugged the uniformed woman’s legs. The woman reached down and stroked her hair in a soothing, gentle way. That maternal action made a homey and stirring sight to his bachelor’s heart. As the colorful crowd of enticing women streamed out of the jail and surrounded him, he put on his most flirtatious smile, but his eyes stayed riveted to the adorable blond deputy. Even if she had been dressed like the others, she would have snared his attention.

  A woman stopped beside her at the top of the steps and reached for the little girl. Brig watched as the child blew the deputy a kiss, then turned toward the other woman and said “Hello, Mommy!” So blondie wasn’t the mother. Maybe blondie wasn’t even married. He realized that he’d been holding his breath.

  “I may have copped it sweet here,” Brig murmured aloud.

  “Oooh, he’s talking Australian!” someone yelled.

  He dragged his attention away from the deputy as a woman threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Easy, doll, I’m breakable,” he managed to say, just before she squealed in delight.

  Millie grimaced as pandemonium erupted around Brig McKay. Every woman in the crowd seemed determined to touch him, and he seemed determined to let himself be touched.

  She was studying him intently when he suddenly looked at her again. It startled her since he was in the process of brushing a platonic kiss on the cheek of a tiny, elderly woman wearing a purple tennis suit. The senior citizen had a wrestling grip on his neck. Brig McKay gave Millie a devilish wink, and it said unmistakably that he had a different kind of kiss in mind for her.

  Brig saw her gasp, then frown, then turn to the side and look at the sky and shake her head in disbelief. She had full breasts under the crisp white shirt with emblems and badges of authority on it. Creased, camel-colored slacks neatly encased an athletically-rounded rump and slender legs. Her hair was short, honey-blond, and curly. She looked back at him, one blond eyebrow arched, one hand on her hip, her attitude disgusted.

  “Work your way through to his right side!” Raybo called. “I’ll get beside him on the left!”

  Millie nodded, then angled her way down the steps, prying women aside and feeling short because she was short, just an inch over five feet. She ducked her head and peered between bodies as she made her way. Her brother Jeopard had once called her a small blond bulldozer. She’d nearly broken his thumb in retaliation, but he was right.

  Mature, sophisticated women were leaping up and down like extras in a bad teenage beach movie. Brig stood languidly in the middle of the action, being pawed by adoring female hands, grinning, signing autographs, and still enjoying himself immensely.

  “Deputy sheriff. Let me through,” Millie ordered in her gruffest voice. No one listened. Raybo was drowning in a sea of crazed women on the other side of Brig, so it was up to her alone to represent authority and save their prisoner from excessive hero worship. Millie put her head down and aimed for an opening between a pink shorts set and a yellow sundress.

  She shoved through, caught her foot on someone’s ankle, and gained unexpected momentum in a forward lunge. Her head connected with the center of a hard, flat, nonfemale stomach. The crowd gasped in unison.

  “Strewth!” Brig exclaimed in an outrush of air just before he dropped his hat and she slammed him against the side of the Cadillac.

  Oh, no, Millie thought desperately. She’d gored the only famous prisoner they’d ever had.

  Two strong hands latched into her tossled hair. She was off balance, so she sprawled against his incredibly muscular body, which smelled of denim, leather, and good cologne. Her face was mashed so tightly against his ch
est that she could feel the mat of curly hair under his shirt.

  “Strewth!” he said again. “For such a little Sheila, you scored a wallop!”

  His accent was straight from a Paul Hogan commercial for Australia, and combined with his deep voice it was the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. She pushed herself away from his voice and his body, then swallowed hard to regain her dignity in the face of humiliation.

  “Sorry, McKay,” she said in a raspy voice. “If I hurt you, you can file a complaint.”

  His hands were still immersed in her hair. She’d knocked the breath out of him, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t notice that her hair looked like sunshine between his fingers and her eyes were the deep green of new leaves in the spring. He gazed down at her with amused respect at the stern, take-charge tone. “No worries, love. I like this kind of pain.”

  Love. The nonchalant endearment annoyed her because it was obviously what he called every woman. He let his hands trail slowly through her hair as she stepped back. Lord, the man had eyes bluer than the sky after a rain. His face was expressive and full of good humor, but those eyes held the kind of quiet maturity that comes from years of hard living. She was breathing just as heavily as he was.

  “Brig boy, you okay? Y’all ladies get back and give him some breathin’ room!” Millie glanced blankly toward the sound of the rolling drawl which sounded as though it were built of grits and molasses. A big redheaded man in a three-piece suit had just gotten out of the Cadillac’s passenger side, and now he was trying to make his way through the crowd on this side of the car.

  Brig McKay nodded, kept looking down at her, and waved the redhead’s concern away with a distracted gesture. “No sweat, pal,” he murmured. “I like bein’ attacked by little bitty gorgeous women. She couldn’t hurt a flea.”

  Millie smiled grimly and her embarrassment faded. He was as misinformed about her as most men, and she’d have to set him straight. It was nice to have a package that men admired, but the contents didn’t fit their expectations. He stuck out one brawny hand for an introduction.