Shanna Evans’ stiletto heel marks were all over R.C.M.P. Constable Stephan LeClair’s back. Figuratively.

Lawyers and cops made strange bedfellows and, like dogs and cats, were a different species, at least in Stephan’s opinion. And Shanna was a cat with teeth bared and big, sharp claws.

“You arrested my client with no probable cause,” he mimicked as he drove out of Fredericton after a very long day in court. Probable cause her ass.

He loosened his tie and rolled down the window to let the cool autumn air fill the marked four-by-four. The SUV…another thing that had gone completely wrong. Before court, Stephan had driven the SUV to the dealer for a quick oil change, but had discovered something small and expensive had to be replaced. Since he’d signed out the car, he was responsible. If he had any luck at all today, he’d be able to get it back to the post garage and have the mechanics fix the problem before his next shift.

Once out on the back roads, he felt free to floor the accelerator and take out his frustrations by cranking up the radio. But even the ribbon of empty road and the massive expanse of New Brunswick forest wearing their myriad of cascading fall colors couldn’t wipe out the face that continued to intrude on his concentration.

A cat face, angular, with almond-shaped green eyes that flashed as she interrogated him on the stand. Long, lustrous brunette hair that swirled behind her like a shadow every time she turned to face the judge. Just the way a feline flicked its tail at you, dismissively, as if you didn’t matter. And her body…swaying casually as if she were unaware of the underlying sensuality she created with every click, click from the heels of her black leather shoes on the polished tile floor.

Shanna, with her teeth bared—straight, white and just as deadly—behind full lips painted a neutral shade. But most of all, it was that voice. Purring, trilling, pleading, and pouting on behalf of her innocent little angel, who sat at the defendant’s table, fidgeting in imported leather shoes and an expensive dark wool suit. Shanna, accusing Stephan as she pointed her perfectly manicured nails at him while the other hand tapped on a black and white photo of her client.

“Unnecessary roughness bordering on police brutality. Look at this photo, your honor. This boy endured a brutal beating at the hands of Constable LeClair…”

That boy was nineteen, drunk, and had beaten up on his girlfriend. Then he'd boasted, “Do you know who my father is, Mountie?”

Stephan knew exactly who his father was. He’d arrested the kid once before—as a juvenile, and his father had hired some high-priced child psychologist to earn the kid’s freedom back then, too. Only this time, junior had resisted arrest, prompting a high-speed chase, before he was cornered. Once out of the car, the little bastard led Stephan on a foot chase through some uneven brush, down into a shallow river and eventually into an empty lumber camp. Then the little angel had grabbed a shovel and took a few swings at Stephan.

Stephan had decided enough was enough and fired a warning shot. Oh, the darling dropped his shovel all right. But he decided to fight. After reholstering his sidearm, Stephan approached the punk, who tried to take a few swings at him. Stephan only needed one punch to reign in his suspect before cuffing him and half-dragging him back to the cruiser.

That was a prime example of “angels on coke.”

Never mind that by the end of the day, Stephan was bruised, wet, had torn his pants, and had a mountain of paperwork to finish before he could even think of getting cleaned up.

And at the end of it all, sexy Shanna sauntered and swayed her way into copping a misdemeanor and some community service for her misunderstood client.

Stephan eyed the aging judge and wondered just how much time he actually spent listening to the Crown’s evidence and how much attention he focused on watching Shanna’s legs in the sheer hose and above-her-knees skirt. Or perhaps he was mesmerized—as he was, Stephan guiltily admitted—by the form fitting sweater over her high, round breasts. Yet there was nothing immodest or improper about the way Shanna dressed. It was all presentation. Like a lovely, artfully decorated cake. Nice to look at but deadly for the waistline.

Lucky for him he was able to sit behind the witness bench with his legs crossed for a considerable amount of time. Otherwise, the entire court would be witness to the constant ebb and flow of blood to his cock. He maintained a professional decorum and concentrated on his answers. Eventually, the throbbing ceased. Probably due to Shanna ripping his probable cause to shreds and sucking up to the judge on behalf of her poor, disenfranchised client.

But what really irked him the most was the ribbing he’d have to take back at the detachment. That Stephan LeClair was yet another notch on sexy Shanna’s docket.

*          *          *

Shanna drove back to her office pleased that her last case had gone so well and relieved that she’d have no paperwork to take with her on vacation. Usually when she won a case she felt pleased, satisfied. She’d lived up to her reputation. She’d done what she’d promised the client she’d do. And in this case, it was the son of one of the Province’s most wealthy lumber barons. Gaetane Richmond had paid well for his son’s freedom—with a bonus, an all expenses paid week at Richmond’s private lodge. A perk usually reserved for the rich and famous.

Still, getting young Jean-Francoise off the hook was hardly self-satisfying. Shanna knew he was guilty of striking Constable LeClair. At least the kid had been honest with her about that. But it was knowing Jean-Francoise’s girlfriend had dropped her earlier charges that didn’t sit well with Shanna. By nature she abhorred men who abused women. By oath she was duty-bound to defend them if she took the case, which she rarely did.

In this case, it was only after she’d deposited the retainer and had the case prepared to go to court that she discovered the truth behind the girlfriend dropping the charges. Like everything else he couldn’t get by asking, Gaetane had quietly bought off the girl. No amount of intervention could get her to change her story that the altercation had been nothing more than a misunderstanding or that her injuries were due to an accident.

Once back at her apartment, Shanna shed her court clothes and showered. She didn’t just feel tired—she felt dirty, and not just from the natural course of the day. She soaped her hair twice and scrubbed herself all over with floral-scented shower gel. When she was done, she dried off and wrapped her hair in a towel. She wiped the steam covering the bathroom mirror and looked at herself.

“Just another day at the office,” she lectured. It was amazing what you could do to justify a good night’s sleep. She knew very well that Jean-Francoise Richmond would probably go out tonight and violate the conditions of his release by getting drunk and probably getting high. She wondered if Gaetane Richmond could sleep at all.

Yet for all her pondering on the state of her conscience and the fate of her clients, there was one thing she couldn’t get off her mind. From the first time he walked into the courtroom, Shanna wondered if Constable Stephan LeClair slept alone.

Stephan LeClair. She’d made discreet enquiries. Not married, not involved. Liked to fish, camp, canoe. A real outdoorsy type. Had spent two years in the army. An expert marksman. Played pool like a shark and Texas Hold ’em with cold, straight eyes. Dark eyes. Eyes that kept secrets and an unnerving calm behind a dead-pan, court-serious face. She’d bet her all-expenses-paid week that he was a walking testosterone dispenser when he put on that red serge and those high brown boots. Boots she wouldn’t mind having parked at the end of her bed. If she ever got the chance. Which was highly doubtful in view of the butt-kicking she’d given his ego. His last glance at her should have frozen her solid. Her name was probably mud with him now. Too bad. He was such a nice package—with a nice package!

On the other hand, the last thing she needed was a case of “scarlet fever.”

She turned her attention to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Too tired to eat, she made a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa. She grabbed the remote control and stabbed the on button for her CD player. She didn’t feel like the bump-and-grind rhythm of The Pussycat Dolls nor was she in the mood for the smooth-crooning Michael Bublé. She needed soothing instrumental; no words to get in the way of emptying her mind. She punched in a selection of assorted classical music and sipped her tea, letting the naturally calming herbs do their job. She leaned back on the sofa pillows and grabbed a steamy novel from where she’d abandoned it on the floor the night before.

Her eyes felt heavy and the words began to slur on the pages.

——

Dylan’s hands began to caress Victoria’s breasts…

Soon she was under his spell as he began to undress her. There was little resistance from her.

“Oh, Stephan, your hands are like magic. I feel like I’m under some kind of spell.”

Shanna shook her long hair over her shoulders. Stephan brushed aside the brown curtain of tresses and kissed the delicate nape of her neck. Shanna shuddered and gasped at the sudden surprise of her body responding to his touch. Her nipples greeted his ministrations by pouting into firm points. Her breasts swelled into his rough, waiting palms.

“Beautiful…tempting,” he whispered. “Food for a starving man, Shanna.” Stephan began to feast upon her breasts, kissing, licking, suckling the taut nipples he himself had created.

Shanna arched her back and groaned. She grabbed his dark head and pressed it closer into her breasts. She didn’t object when he climbed between her legs and nudged his massive erection against her virgin nest. She opened her legs farther, a silent greeting, a primitive urging.

“Oh, Stephan…take me, my love. Take me—now! Quickly…before I have to answer the phone….”

——

Shanna started and shook herself. Her cell phone trilled from somewhere on the coffee table in front of her. She must have fallen asleep. The paperback lay abandoned once again on the floor. Shanna reached for the phone.

“Hello,” she mumbled, her voice still muffled with sleep.

Nothing.

“Hello?”

“You’re so hot, councilor. I’d give anything to fuck you…and I will!”