LITMIR.BIZ

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she greeted Trace, her dimple flashing as she smiled.

      “Trace, your nanny just introduced me to your son. I never heard you had a child. All this time I’ve chattered away about my grandkids and you never mentioned you had a little boy.” Lydia’s teasing reprimand held more than a hint of hurt. “He’s so precious.”

      Damn, moments like this were exactly why he liked to keep his private life separate from his public service. Personal exchanges required too many complex twists of emotional discourse. So what if he suffered occasional bouts of loneliness? He preferred things simple.

      “Thanks. He’s only been with me a short time. His grandmother has been caring for him while I got settled.” Trace hated to explain himself, to expose his personal life, but it was that or subject himself and Mickey to the gossip mill for civic entertainment. That he couldn’t tolerate.

      “Well and fine. I bet you’ve missed him every day.” Lydia gave a sympathetic nod.

      “It’s been hard,” Trace acknowledged, “but we’re together now.” He focused his attention on his wayward nanny. “Ms. Rhodes, I wasn’t expecting you.”

      “They called from the diner to say your order was ready.” She lifted the red gingham napkin, revealing two dozen pieces of fried chicken. “Mickey and I were looking for something to do, so we decided to save you a trip and pick it up.”

      It looked as good as it smelled. Her homey touch adding to the presentation. Who knew he even owned a gingham napkin?

      “You didn’t need to do that,” he informed her.

      “I know.” She glanced at Lydia and shrugged. “He’s the perfect boss. He never wants me to go out of my way for him.”

      “You’re a nanny, not a housekeeper.” Again with the explanations. How much easier if she’d stayed at home.

      Not once had Donna come to visit him at work, and he never remembered his mom dropping in on his dad. Of course if she’d ever shown more interest in what the old man did, got him talking about it, maybe he would have found it easier to express himself at other times. And if his dad had been better at communication maybe his son would be, too.

      “Don’t worry, there’s no extra charge.” Nikki waved off his clarification. Instead she grinned and gave an exaggerated look around. “All it’s going to cost you is a tour of the place. I’ve never been in a sheriff’s station before. Do you have cells here?”

      “We have a couple of holding cells.” Now, there was a thought. Maybe one of those could hold her long enough to give him a few minutes’ peace. He took control of the stroller and started toward the back hall. “Grab the chicken. We’ll begin with my office.”

      “Don’t forget your meeting with the Mayor and the city council before the community meeting starts,” Lydia called after them. He waved an acknowledgment.

      For someone who always seemed to move at a slow glide, Nikki easily kept pace. “I really do want a tour, but if you don’t have time I understand. I know the meeting starts in an hour. We can do this another time if you like.”

      What he’d like was her pressed up against his office wall, with the door shut and the blinds closed…

      He almost tripped over his own feet as the scene played out in his head.

      “Are you okay?” she asked when he came to a dead stop.

      “Yeah, fine.” Holy heck, where had that come from? “On second thought—” he made a U-turn away from his office “—let’s put the chicken in the kitchen.”

      The illicit vision was wrong on so many levels, yet so vivid he practically tasted her on his lips.

      He was the Sheriff, this was his office, she was his employee. And those were only the obvious objections. He had a son to worry about—a son who needed her more than Trace needed his libido ignited.

      If none of that existed he still wouldn’t act on the crazy desire. She was all about love and commitment, and he’d already proved he knew next to nothing about those commodities.

      “Have you always wanted to be a cop?” Nikki asked Trace as they neared the end of the impromptu tour. Pride in what he did showed in every word he said as he took her through the small station. She’d been booked, fingerprinted and was about to be processed.

      “I was military first. Marine, like my dad. But I decided I liked having more control over my life, so I only did four years. Law enforcement seemed a natural choice from there.”

      “Structure and discipline on your own terms?”

      He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, obviously bothered at being pegged so accurately in a casual observation. Actually, he’d surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to be so at ease, so funny. This was where he felt at home.

      “As a teacher of twenty to thirty five-year-olds, I’d think you‘d be a fan of a controlled environment,” he challenged her.

      She laughed. “What I know, as the teacher of thirty kindergarteners, is that control is an illusion.”

      “Come on, you give me a schedule for Mickey every day. You have routine down to a science.”

      “Oh, I’m all about structure and routine,” she readily agreed—those were a teacher’s biggest tools. But his version and hers were polar opposites. “But in the classroom my day moves from one chaotic moment to the next. When you work with kids you have to be flexible. You never know what’s going to happen, so you have to be prepared for anything. I imagine your days are much the same.”

      He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re comparing a kindergarten class with criminals?”

      “Of course not,” she assured him. “But keeping the peace, monitoring behavior, dealing with cultural differences. It’s all part of our day.”

      “I never really thought of it that way.”

      “Most people don’t, but a classroom is a microcosm of the community. Oh!” She spotted a stack of thick books full of photos. “Are these mugshots? Can I look?”

      “Yeah, they’re older versions, hard copies. Most mugshots are online now. Technology is great. It helps to narrow down by characteristics—height, weight, coloring, etcetera. But sorry.” Trace walked to the counter holding the books and flipped the covers closed. “The pictures are for case purposes only.” He shrugged. “Every one gets their privacy protected these days. Even known felons.”

      “Actually, I can understand that.” Nikki fingered the edge of one of the books. “I check the public Web site for sex offenders on a fairly regular basis. And I can tell some people are only there because of indiscretions gone public.”

      “Let me guess.” He stood hands on hips, every inch the hardcore cop. “You think it’s unfair for a dumb college prank like mooning someone in a passing car to classify someone as a sex offender?”

      “No,” she disagreed—surprising him, no doubt. She drew in a calming breath and tried very hard not to think beyond the conversation. “It’s a hard line, but if someone is stupid enough to expose themselves in public then it could be a precursor of future deviant acts. When it comes to the safety of kids, I don’t think the line can be too hard.”

      Needing the distraction, and a reminder of all things innocent and good in life, she checked on Mickey. He slept peacefully in his stroller, his thick lashes a dark shadow on baby-soft skin. His sweetness helped settle the ghosts of harsh memories.

      When she stood up straight, Trace was too close.

      “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

      “What?”

      “You’ve dealt with a victim of sexual abuse?”

      She swallowed hard. Obviously she hadn’t

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