Silent Mercy

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Blowing by a cop car at 140 miles per hour is a surefire way to get noticed.

Or arrested.

My brain conjured up all sorts of interesting “resisting-arrest” scenarios, featuring handcuffs as sexy-as-sin Eagle River County sheriff Dawson manhandled me and whispered the words “Spread ’em” in my ear.

You are one depraved woman, Mercy Gunderson.

For taunting the lawman I cohabitated with? Maybe. But I’d been gone from home for four months for FBI training at Quantico. I’d missed many things about my life on the family ranch in western South Dakota and the intimate relationship with Sheriff Mason Dawson was at the top of the list. Since I’d returned, our alone time had been hit-and-miss. Our nights out-or even our nights in-were interrupted by either his job or mine. We were both frustrated, and neither of us believed this predicament would end any time soon.

So I’d decided to mix things up on a boring Sunday night. Tempt Dawson to be Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner. Smokey to my Bandit. The KGB to my Jason Bourne.

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