Excerpt of Most Wanted Woman by Maggie Price

The instant the stranger stepped through the tavern's front door, a weight dropped on Regan Ford's chest, pressing against her heart so hard she could hear the panicked beat of it in her ears.

In his denim work shirt and worn jeans he looked tall, tough and sinewy. He stood with his feet wide, chest a bit forward for balance. His right leg was slightly back, as if keeping an invisible holster out of reach.

Cop! her senses warned.

The quick, instinctive fear of cornered prey had her swiveling toward the cash register. Fear barreling in like a locomotive, she rang up the pitcher of beer she'd just served to the pair of grizzled regulars gossiping about the day's catch. Keeping her back to the man, she focused her gaze on the mirror that spanned the length of the bar. Her breathing grew shallow as she studied him through the gray haze of smoky air.

His thick, black hair brushed the wrinkled collar of the shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal muscled, sun-bronzed forearms. The faded jeans molded powerful legs. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. There was a ruggedness about his tanned face that reached all the way to his eyes. Eyes that looked as sharp as a stiletto while he studied his surroundings.

Was he here for her? Had her flight from the law — which had begun exactly one year ago today — come to an end?

While a country song about the misery of lost love crooned from the jukebox, Regan did a quick survey of the patrons who sat shoulder to shoulder at every table and overflowed the booths. Except for a few stools at the bar, the only vacant seats belonged to the people crowded onto the dance floor. The panic sizzling through her made her want to cut and run, try to lose herself in the crowd, then slip out the back door where her car was parked. But if the cop was here for her, he'd be armed with more than just an arrest warrant. He would have a gun, and be within his legal rights to pull it while pursuing a wanted murderer. Her trying to make a break right now could get an innocent person hurt. Killed.

Regan reminded herself that people in this cozy, out-of- theway town wouldn't just stand by and watch him drag her away. She thought of Howie Lyons, the night shift cook working in the kitchen. Mindful of trouble that sometimes broke out when alcohol mixed with rowdy customers, Howie kept a Louisville Slugger stashed beneath the grill. Then there was Deni Graham.

Regan swept her gaze around the tavern's dim interior until she spotted the blond waitress. Dressed in a snug red tank top and tight jeans, Deni stood at a table, laughing and flirting with six men while she jotted their orders on her pad.

Regan conceded she didn't know her coworkers all that well. Wouldn't let them get to know her. But she felt sure they would help her if the cop slapped a pair of cuffs on her. She would demand they call Sundown's police chief, remind him it was within her rights to be locked up in his jail while she fought extradition to New Orleans. During that time, she could maybe figure out a way to escape and run. Again. For the rest of her life, she had to run.

Hands unsteady, she tidied the liquor bottles lining the bar's mirrored shelf while she watched the cop through her lashes. A not-so-subtle masculine power drifted with him as he strode toward her across the peanut-shell-scattered wooden floor.

A faint, liquid tug in her belly had Regan blinking. For a year she had been dead inside. No laughter, no warmth, no feeling. That some sort of primitive awareness of this man, this cop, could spark something inside her had her spine going as stiff as a blade.

"Josh McCall!" Deni squealed then engulfed the stranger in a hug and gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth. "It's about time you came back to Sundown."

Regan eased out a breath. The waitress's familiarity with the man went far toward assuring her he wasn't there at the devil's bidding.

Still, she was positive he carried a badge. Knowing that kept the prickles of fear at the back of her neck. She knew better than anyone there was no one more capable of treachery than a cop.

With the jukebox now between selections, the crack and clatter of pool balls drifted from the back room. Regan rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease her tension and turned in time to see the man send Deni a grin that was all charm.

"Long time no see, angel face." They stood close enough to the bar for Regan to hear his voice, which was as smooth as the move he made to extract himself from Deni's embrace.

"I swear, Josh, it seems like an eternity since you've been here." She tugged him the few remaining steps to the bar while giving him the once-over. "You look as good as always."

"So do you."

Deni slid a palm up and down his arm. "When'd you get to town?"

"Just now. I wasn't sure what I'd find in the cabin's pantry so I decided to stop here first."

She fluttered her lashes. "Maybe you'll stay in Sundown long enough this time for us to get together?"

When he eased a hip onto one of the bar stools, his gaze met Regan's. For the space of a heartbeat, his eyes focused on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on an otherwise empty stage.

That one searing look, along with the whispers of awareness already stirring her senses, made Regan's throat go even more dry.

He gave her the merest fraction of a nod, then shifted his attention back to Deni.

"I'll be here about three weeks."

Just then, Howie's voice bellowed an order number through the open wall hatch between the kitchen and the bar.

"That's my cue," Deni said. "You want your regular for dinner, Josh?"

"You bet."

While Deni sauntered toward the kitchen's swinging door, Regan steeled her nerves and slid a napkin onto the bar. She couldn't exactly ignore a customer.

"What can I get you?"

"Corona." When he shifted on the stool, light fell on the thin scar winding out of his collar and up the right side of his neck.

"I'm Josh McCall."

"Nice to meet you."

"You're new to Sundown."

She turned to the cooler, met his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were intent on her face. Too intent. "Right."

"Been here long?"

"A few months." She retrieved a bottle, twisted off its cap.

"Have relatives around here?"

"No." She topped the bottle with a lime wedge. "Do you?"

"More like extended family." His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. "So, where's home?"

What should have been a simple question was as loaded as a shotgun that had been primed and pumped. "Here. There. Everywhere. I'm a gypsy at heart." Regan had rehearsed the response so many times it now sounded normal.

She settled the bottle onto the napkin, then wiped a cloth across the bar, its gleaming wood nearly black with age.

"Sounds like you've known Deni awhile," she commented.

"My family owns a cabin here. We used to spend every summer in Sundown. Mostly now we make it here for holidays." He took a long sip of his drink. "The South."

"The South what?"

"You've spent time in the South. There's a trace of it in your voice."

Regan kept her face blank, her hands loose while her insides clenched. "I've been in that part of the country a few times," she improvised. She'd practiced endless hours to lose her native Louisiana accent. The fact he'd pegged it within minutes had her nerves scrambling.

"What about you?" She placed a plastic bowl of unshelled peanuts beside the beer bottle. Despite her inner turmoil, her voice remained steady. "Where are you from?"

He eyed her while he snagged a peanut, cracked it. "Oklahoma City. Ever pass through on your way to here, there and everywhere?"

"No. Is your family's cabin on the lake?"

"Yeah. It sits just to the west of your boss's house." He popped a peanut in his mouth, chased it with a swallow of beer.

"You know it?"

"Yes." Since just standing there had her wanting to jump out of her skin, she plunged her hands into the warm soapy water in the small metal sink and began washing glasses. "I wouldn't call it a cabin. It's one of the biggest houses on the lake. And sits on the lot with about the best view of the water."

"Point taken." He palmed more peanuts, began shelling them onto the cocktail napkin. "When my grandfather bought the land and built the house, he made sure the place was roomy enough for all his kids, then later the grandkids. The entire McCall clan's descending here for the Fourth of July. I volunteered to come down ahead of time and make repairs."

"The holiday's weeks away. Is the house in bad shape?" The shot glass she was currently rinsing had Regan glancing at the big bear of a man seated at one end of the bar. Seamus O'Toole owned several used car lots in Dallas and was an avid participant in Paradise Lake's annual fishing derby. He'd been here an hour and already had empty shot glasses stacked in a pyramid before him.

"No, there's just a lot of minor repairs that need to be done." McCall's comment had her looking back at him. She saw that his gaze had followed hers to O'Toole.

"Maybe you'll have time to get some fishing in," she said.

"Maybe." He glanced toward the kitchen door. "I spotted Etta's car parked in the back. If she's in the office slaving over the books, I'd like to stick my head in and tell her hello. Give her a kiss."

"You're a friendly neighbor."

"More than. Etta's like a second mom to me and my brothers and sisters." He took another drink. "To tell you the truth, I'm crazy in love with your boss."

Regan arched a brow. Etta Truelove was a vibrant sixty- something widow with ten grandchildren, two great- grandchildren and a fiancé. "Does Etta know how you feel about her?"

"I tell her all the time." His mouth curved in a wide, reckless grin. "One taste of her apple pie, the woman owned my heart. If she would dumpA.C. and run off with me, I'd die a happy man."

Regan was sure that glib talk and grin tumbled women like bowling pins. There had been a time in her life Josh McCall would have had the same effect on her. And, yes, she admitted, there was something about him that, despite her panic, her fear, had her heartbeat kicking hard. But she would ignore that something — easily ignore it — because she'd learned too well that you never knew, not for certain, what was under a cop's smooth words and smiles.

With the glasses washed, she retrieved a rag and began drying. "I guess you haven't heard about Etta's accident."

He set his beer aside while what looked like genuine concern settled in his eyes. "What accident?"

"She broke a bone in her foot when she slipped and fell at the marina."

"Is she okay?"

"Well enough, considering she has to stay cooped up in her house with her leg in a walking cast. She can hobble around using a cane, but the doctor doesn't want her on her feet for any length of time. He's banned her from work because he knows she'd start tending bar the minute she got here. Just to make sure she follows the doc's orders, I confiscated her car. That's why it's parked out back."

"I'll stop by her place when I leave here. Find out if she needs anything."

"It'll be dark out by the time you finish dinner," Regan said.

"Sundown's got a prowler running around, so people are nervous. I'll call Etta to let her know to expect you."

He frowned. "What kind of prowler?"

"Beats me. He wears black and creeps around at night." She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "Etta mentioned him the day she hired me, so he's been at it awhile."

Regan felt a rush of relief when Deni stepped to the bar with a tray heaped with empties and a pad of orders. She'd spent enough time talking to McCall. Far too long in his presence that was unsettling on numerous levels. She planned to spend the rest of her shift — and his entire time in Sundown — avoiding him.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Let me know if you need a refill."

"Sure. Before you go, tell me one thing."

"What?"

"Your name."

She hesitated. "Regan."

"Nice name. Unusual."

She'd thought the same thing when she saw it on a tomb- stone. She scooped a bag of peanuts from beneath the counter.

"I've got work."

"Okay. Nice to meet you, Regan."