Someone was shining a bright light in her face.

Ashley groaned and turned her head to the side…then groaned some more because the movement made the back of her skull ache like it was being pummeled by tiny jackhammers. The light followed her.

What the hell?

A scratching sound—like sandpaper rubbing against wood—invaded her consciousness. Slowly, realization dawned, and she opened her eyes. The light was coming from a window.

And she was in Smith’s guest room.

She shot upright, and the blankets fell to her waist. The jackhammers in her head pounded harder. “Ugh.” She brought her hands to her forehead. Her stomach pitched. She took shallow breaths through her mouth. After a minute, the roiling in her gut subsided.

There was more scratching—this time from the side of the bed. A low, canine whine sounded.

Nausea under control, she pulled her hands away from her face. Deuce rested his chin on the bed, his amber eyes doleful. Two triangle-shaped patches of tan fur outlined his eyes, giving him a perpetual look of faint surprise. She gazed around the room, which was decorated in a simple but tasteful style reminiscent of a quaint bed and breakfast. The wallpaper was a dark navy. A profusion of vines and delicate pink and white flowers saved it from being too overpowering. Gleaming mahogany woodwork as thick as her waist ran around the room’s perimeter. Matching crown molding hugged the ceiling.

Deuce made a soft sound, pulling her attention back to him. She rested her hand on the top of his head. The fur was much softer than it looked, especially the pale tufts around his ears. “Hey, boy. Did you stick around all night?”

His ears twitched forward.

“Well, if you did, thank you.”

Abruptly, he pulled his head from under her hand and trotted to the closed door. He looked back at her over his shoulder and whined.

She’d never had a pet, but the sign of a dog in need of a potty break was unmistakable.

She untangled herself from the covers and slid off the bed. As soon as her feet touched the floor, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She leaned against the mattress until it passed. A clock on the nightstand revealed it was two thirty. She looked at the two windows that flanked a chest of drawers. Sunlight spilled into the room and made rectangles on the floor. Holy crap, she’d slept through the night and into the afternoon.

Deuced whined again.

“Coming, boy.” On her way to the door, she noticed a stack of folded clothes on top of the dresser against the wall. A scrap of paper bearing Smith’s bold handwriting sat on top. Did that mean he’d left? She itched to read it, but Deuce was practically doing the potty dance by the door.

As soon as she opened it, he wiggled through and shot down the stairs in a clatter of toenails on hardwood. She stuck her head out the door and peered up and down the hallway, listening for any sign of Smith. When she heard nothing, she followed Deuce.

He waited for her at the front door, tail wagging. A security pad on the wall beamed a steady green light. She unlocked the door, which chimed with a robotic bell sound. Deuce shot across the porch and into the yard. As she leaned against the jamb, her gaze on Deuce, she recalled what Dean had said about Smith’s finances. Fancy home security systems didn’t come cheap. Cops weren’t known for their luxurious salaries, and a cop—even a police chief—in Prattsville couldn’t be bringing home all that much.

Deuce did his business quickly, then trotted back up the steps, tongue lolling.

She stood to the side so he could slip past her. Even with the extra space, he brushed his big body against her thigh on his way in. She shut the door, then turned and leaned against it. When Smith had brought her inside last night, she’d been woozy from the combination of wine, the knot on her head, and the long walk home in four-inch heels. Now that she had a chance to look around, she whistled under her breath. Wow.

There was nothing about the decor that screamed wealth, but it was obvious Smith had spared no expense when it came to restoring the home. The foyer walls were covered in dark mahogany paneling that matched the wood floors and stopped at hip height. Above it, an understated tan shade covered the smooth plaster. Ashley stepped to the wall and ran her hand over it. She knew more about antique furniture than houses, but she was fairly certain Smith had departed from Victorian style when he’d chosen paint over wallpaper. She couldn’t blame him. To say the Victorians had loved busy patterns was an understatement.

To the right of the hallway was a small sitting room with an ornate fireplace and a chandelier topped with a white plaster medallion. A gray area rug with a shag pile stretched across the floor. The room was furnished with a comfortable-looking sectional sofa and an oversized chair. Unlike the floral monstrosities in Grandma Winnie’s house, Smith’s furniture was cool and modern. The style should have clashed in the otherwise traditional room. Like the exterior color scheme, though, it somehow worked. The sitting room wouldn’t have looked out of place in a home magazine. How had a small-town police chief managed to pull together such an impressive space?

Clearly, there was more to Smith than met the eye.

Something nudged her leg, and she looked down and met Deuce’s gaze. The sight of him reminded her of the note she’d seen upstairs. She patted her thigh. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go see what your mysterious master has to say.”

As if he understood her intentions, Deuce let out a soft woof and trotted to the stairs. Smiling, she followed him back up to the guest room.

The note was written on a piece of stationery that said “Prattsville City Hall” at the top.

Ashley clucked her tongue as she picked it up. “Stealing government property, Chief Salvatierra?”

She’d only seen it one other time, but Smith’s bold handwriting was unmistakable. Wasn’t sure of your size. Make yourself at home. Back by 7 p.m. Need anything, call. — SVS. There was a phone number printed underneath.

Did the man always write in sentence fragments? She rubbed her thumb over his signature—or what passed for one. What did the V stand for? She hadn’t missed that he’d called her querida last night. So Dean had been right about Smith having Mexican roots?

As soon as she thought of Dean, the back of her head throbbed. She touched the lump on her skull. The swelling seemed better, but the knot was still tender around the edges. As she probed the wound, she realized with disgust that her hair felt grimy. She looked down at her tube top and jeans. Suddenly, she couldn’t get out of the clothes fast enough.

Her bladder also chose that moment to make its presence known.

She scooped up the bundle Smith had left and headed for the narrow door he’d pointed out the night before. Inside was a small but well-appointed bath with a stand-up shower tiled in dove gray. After she relieved her aching bladder, she showered quickly. A metal stand in the corner held a stack of fluffy white towels folded with the precision of a department store display. She wrapped one around her body and tied up her hair turban-style with another.

The clothes Smith had left were definitely his. She had to roll the waistband of the sweats three times to stop them from sliding down her hips. The gray cotton t-shirt fell to the tops of her thighs, the sleeves to her forearms. She stared at the pile of her dirty clothes on the floor. Smith hadn’t provided any underwear, and the feel of his sweats brushing against her sex was curiously intimate. Her red panties lay on top of her jeans. For a second, she considered washing her panties in the sink, but she shook her head. She had no way to dry them, and there was no way in hell she was stringing up her underwear in Smith’s bathroom.

In the end, she folded her clothes and left them stacked on the sink. A quick search of the vanity drawers revealed a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a toothbrush still wrapped in plastic. She set the toothbrush on the counter and stared at it as she brushed the tangles from her hair. How on earth was Smith single? When Pia heard he stocked his guest rooms like a hotel, she was going to be on the first flight from L.A.

Ashley brushed her teeth and wandered back into the bedroom. Deuce, who lay curled up like a donut next to the bed, lifted his head.

The clock on the nightstand said four thirty. As if her shower exertions had caught up with her, a wave of dizziness threatened to send her crashing to the floor. She made it to the bed and slipped under the covers.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, snuggling under a heavy blanket with a guard dog watching the door. The scent of laundry detergent and the same spicy aftershave she’d smelled last night wafted around her. She lifted the t-shirt to her nose and inhaled. Smith’s scent was faint, but it was there.

Danger. The warning shot through her drowsy mind like a spear. It was so very dangerous to give in to temptation—especially with Smith Salvatierra. She knew practically nothing about him, except that he valued his privacy and preferred the company of his dog over people.

But at that moment, the pleasure of sinking into his bed, surrounded by his scent, was a temptation she wasn’t willing to ignore.

She let her eyes drift shut, and then dove headfirst into the sleep that beckoned to her.