Page 10 of Hot to Trot

"You know they're planning a protest, don't you? Gosh dang liberals. As if we don’t have bigger things to worry about in this country. Misguided fools, the whole pack of them." Thecouncilman shook his head, disgust plainly etched across his weathered brow.

Harvey Primm served on the city council as he had for the past twenty-odd years. He was a self-proclaimed pillar of the community. Once a tire salesman, he now worked from home, producing a questionable piece of journalism called theHoward County Examiner,which unleashed gossip about his neighbors. Ironically, he also served as a deacon in a nondenominational church on the outskirts of Oak Stand. Adam found the man to be overbearing, insufferable, and a little cracked. Supposedly, Harvey had grown increasingly obsessed with stopping evil in all forms ever since his wife had been killed by a drunk driver several years before. Harvey's feverish climb onto his soapbox had him extolling his views on everything from prohibiting the sale of alcohol to this newest cause-the removal of a children's book containing witchcraft from the county library. Adam tired of the man shadowing his doorstep nearly once a week.

"I'm aware, but this is neither the time nor the place. Come by and we'll talk," Adam said, trying to slide past Harvey.

The man's hand clamped down on his arm. “There’s no better time than the present. The library board voted. It's done and all the protestors in the state of Texas can't stop us from removing that filth from the shelves of our library. Away from the hands of our innocent children."

Adam removed Harvey's hand. "Mr. Primm, if you wish to discuss potential problems that might arise as a result of the library board's vote, stop by my office."

With that, Adam turned and plowed through a small crowd of people, many of whom likely overheard the exchange if their silence was any indication.

Harvey didn't follow him, but Adam could feel the hard stare of the man burrowing into his back. A prickle of unease crept up his spine. Harvey, who had wholeheartedly supported Adam'shire as the new police chief, was turning out to be trouble. Adam supposed the man thought a younger appointment would be easier to control.

Guess he hadn't done his research.

Adam was definitely by the book, but he also wasn't a man to be pushed around by the whims of an egotistical, conspiracy theorist who liked the soap box more than he liked the pew.

A flash of red caught his eye.

But it wasn't Scarlet. It was Betty Monk wearing a lavish red sequined dress paired with matching cowboy boots. Not quite fitting with the homespun, earthy decor of the reception. How he knew it was that was beyond him. Must have been something he picked up from the decorating magazine Roz had left in the john at the station.

Time to shake Brent Hamilton's hand, then get out of Dodge. Go to the station. File a report. Drink a cup of Roz Lane's bitter coffee. Forget about buxom beauties and how splendid they looked in black leather and red lipstick.

Betty raised her painted-on eyebrows and started barreling toward Adam.

He slid to the right, ducking behind a cluster of occupied tables. He didn't want to hear about how no one picked up after their dogs when they walked through the downtown park. Nor could he tolerate her incessant touching. She flirted as if she were a twenty-year-old. And seemed absolutely convinced he was into her.

To hell with shaking Brent's hand. Adam would grab cake and head for the hills.

He was a good cop, but he wasn't a saint.

CHAPTER THREE

SCARLET LEANED HER HEAD against the fluffy pillows on the bed and studied Rayne. The last time she'd seen her sister had been four months ago when she'd come to New York City to meet with producers and TV execs. At that time, her older sister had looked thinner and more stressed. Scarlet had concluded the wear and tear to be caused by her career and dealing with being a single mother. She hadn't known Rayne had been seeing Oak Stand stud-muffin-extraordinaire Brent Hamilton. When Rayne mentioned she'd been seeing the man, Scarlet had nearly gone through the roof of the upscale bar they'd sat in.

It was obvious Rayne had given little credence to Scarlet's warning about how men like Brent never changed, since she sat in a ladder-backed chair, wearing an ivory wedding dress.

Scarlet had to admit. Rayne looked good. She'd gained weight and as she'd glided down the church steps, hand in hand with her new husband, she'd been glowing most radiantly. God, Scarlet hoped Rayne wasn't pregnant.

Now, as the shadows fell and the party-supply workers packed up the tents and folding chairs outside, Rayne looked... uncomfortable, like a kid who faced the dreaded flu shot.

Scarlet crossed her arms and glared at her older sister until their gazes finally met across the room.

"I called you," Rayne said. "I left two messages this past week alone."

Scarlet sniffed and tossed her hair over one shoulder.

"Summer," Rayne said, her words plainly apologetic. "I called and left a message on your answering service. And I sent you an email. Have you checked your messages?"

"My name is not Summer. Not anymore."

Rayne frowned. “But you'll always be Summer to me."

Scarlet shrugged, dismissing the mushy sentiment. She'd changed her name to Scarlet when she started acting. She preferred it over the misnomer her parents had given her. Nothing light and sweet about her. Especially now that her heart had been broken into a billion throbbing pieces.

"You know my cellphone number. Any thought I might be on the move, since we're on hiatus?" Scarlet drawled. She wasn't buying her sister's story. She had an inkling Rayne hadn't wanted her here for the wedding. Which hurt like hell.

"You never answer your cell. I called the number you gave me. I did." Rayne spread her hands apart. "You never called me back."

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