His Arch Enemy's Daughter

“Besides,” added Gary, “her daddy’ll kill you if something happens to her.”

“I wasn’t put here to please Horatio Spencer,” Sam said, shutting the door on Gary’s answer.

The cold air nipped at his skin, and he thought of Ashlyn’s thin, fashionable red sweater and ankle-skimming pants. What was going through her mind?

He settled himself into the Bronco, easing the vehicle onto the road again. Ashlyn Spencer—a synonym for trouble, if there ever was one.

He cruised to the outskirts of town, near the Spencer mansion, intending to backtrack from there to Locksley Field. When a flash of red sweater filtered into his headlight view, he slowed to a near stop, putting down the window to talk with Ashlyn.

She kept going, barely glancing at him, forcing him to do a U-turn and roll down the passenger window.

“Get in before I lasso you in.”

Her walk was easy, swivel-hipped, casual. As if she were enjoying a sunny afternoon, parasol tipped over her head, fountains splashing in the background.

“I’m fine, Sheriff Sam.”

He kept his silence, knowing words couldn’t approach where his anger was leading him.

She seemed to catch his frustration, stopped, tilted her head. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”

His vision went dark for a moment. All he could do was nod, accepting her sentiment. He would’ve apologized to her for his sharp attitude in the office, but he found it hard to speak with his throat burning as sorely as it was.

Damned wimp. Since when did he get so emotional?

He put the Bronco in neutral, pulled the emergency brake, slid over to open the door and extended a hand to help her into the vehicle. An eternity seemed to pass before she accepted, blazing his skin with the touch of hers.

Wasting no time once she was inside, he retreated back to his side of the car, angry at his body’s reaction to her soft skin, her colorful eyes, her sweetheart smile.

Dammit.

He started up the car, drove a little faster than necessary in the hope of getting her away from him.

The police scanner did the talking for them, bits and pieces of static, beeps and Deputy Joanson’s monotone saying, “Testing, testing…” He really needed to hire that dispatcher. As soon as possible, too.

It was no use thinking about the job. He was much too aware of her honey-and-almond scent, the way her hair stuck out at interesting angles, making her seem as though she’d just tumbled out of bed. It was a long drive all right.

After what seemed like generations later, they pulled up to the Spencer mansion. Normally, its thunderous iron gates were like muscle-bound arms crossed to the rest of the world. But tonight the gates were open.

He and Ashlyn exchanged looks, noting the oddity.

The engine purred as Sam hesitated, peering up the stretch of driveway, past the fortress of pines—trees that blocked the brick Colonial-style mansion from gawkers, those unworthy enough to happen upon the Spencers’ seclusion.

He started to turn the steering wheel, aiming for the driveway.

Ashlyn reached out, her fingers clutching his biceps. They remained for a beat too long, lazily sketching down the length of his forearm as she absently peeked out the window at her grandiose home. He wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing, touching him like this, leaving a trail of dangerous fire that had spread from his arm to his stomach.

“I’ll bet my father’s waiting for me,” she said.

The words sounded ominous because Sam thought maybe Horatio Spencer was waiting for him, too. Waiting to blast him a glare he usually reserved for Sam’s foster brother, the one who’d purchased the all-important businesses from under the Spencers’ noses.

It didn’t matter that Nick had been helping needful families by giving them houses and businesses with money from his self-constructed fortune. Horatio Spencer looked upon the whole episode as a young man’s revenge against Chad, his son. The son who’d framed a teenage Nick for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Sam held back a grimace, welcoming this chance to greet Horatio.

Ashlyn’s hand left his skin, traveling from his arm to her neck, toying with the necklace she wore. It was a chunk of ordinary gravel, surrounded by gleaming silver half circles. He wondered why someone as rich as Ashlyn Spencer wasn’t wearing emeralds or sapphires to go with the shine of her eyes.

He couldn’t help asking about the charm. “Is your talisman strong enough to get you out of trouble?”

She started, maybe just realizing that she’d been rubbing it as if it were Aladdin’s lamp. “I’ve got my own strength.”

Shut out, as he’d done to her so many times tonight. “Right.”

Her smile was wistful. “It’s nothing, anyway. Just my albatross.”

He cocked his brow, not knowing what to say. Instead, they both returned their attention to the open gates.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Chapter Three

Ashlyn couldn’t believe Sam had cared enough to hunt her down and drive her home.

But, she told herself, don’t read too much into it. He’s the sheriff. He protects people.

Her hand still tingled from when she’d touched his muscled arm—tingles powered by a little girl’s dreams. If Horatio Spencer saw her in this car with someone who could be considered the family enemy, she’d have hell to pay. Even Ashlyn’s mother wasn’t too fond of the Renos and their foster son, Nick Cassidy.

Ashlyn still recalled the day she’d come home from Meg and Nick’s wedding, having served as an impromptu maid-of-honor. They’d caught her hanging out with the old men from the general store, rocking on the porch, exchanging salty jokes and laughter. She’d been oddly touched when Meg had hopped from Nick’s beat-up truck, five-month-pregnant tummy and all, to ask her to stand up for their union. Ashlyn had taken great pride in picking wildflowers for the bridal bouquet, in standing next to Meg at the altar while they’d exchanged vows.

She’d mattered to someone. She’d played a positive part in Meg and Nick’s happiness.

But when her mother had caught wind of the gossip, she’d all but keeled over. Ashlyn didn’t even want to remember what her father had said.

Sam floored the gas pedal, and Ashlyn grabbed the door handle. The Bronco flew up the driveway.

While trees swished by, Ashlyn tried to calm herself, hoping that she’d been wrong about her father being home. Maybe he was still at work, practicing his usual late-night hours.

They pulled onto the circular path that looped in front of the white doors and columns of her home. No one stood outside. Ashlyn breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped short when her gaze traveled to the second story.

Framed by a window, her mother’s silhouette stood sentinel, hand raised to her mouth. Ashlyn could imagine a cough racking Edwina Spencer’s body and the pills she would take to make her ailments disappear. Until the next sickness came along. And the next.

Her mother’s shadow seemed all the more desolate due to the two nearly deserted mansion wings spanning either side of her. All the windows reflected darkness, silence.

After Ashlyn left Sam, she’d shuffle to her room in one of those wings, alone, listening to the wind whistling through the halls, wondering if she’d ever have the courage or confidence to leave the only place she felt comfortable being a Spencer.

Sam pulled up to the doorway, stopping the vehicle. He watched her mother’s shadow, too, perhaps wishing he had a family to come home to. Or maybe Ashlyn was being overly fanciful, interpreting his softened gaze as more than it was.

His mouth turned up in a slight smile as Ashlyn realized she was staring again.