Ginny glared harder at the tall, strapping hunk of man—police officer—who stood before her. She supposed being a police officer didn’t exclude him from being a man, but at the moment she felt a little fuzzy about it. In any case, he was much too good-looking, well over six feet, with a good set of shoulders, reddish hair, and features that had been entirely too well carved. And those eyes—just look at those eyes: bright blue and snapping with rage.

She detested handsome men.

He had to be the most detestable she’d ever seen. And his voice! That Irish accent of his caressed his words the way his tongue might well caress a woman.

“I do not wish to be arrested. What blame fool would want to get arrested?”

“Then hand over your weapon. You can reclaim it tomorrow at the station.”

How professional he was. How well he kept his anger under control. But Ginny could feel it, and she wondered what it would take to make him lose that control.

“I’ve had this steam cannon since I was fourteen years old.”

“Well, you and it are going to have to spend the rest of the night apart. Dennis?” The officer jerked his head at the second cop—at least Ginny thought there were two and she wasn’t just seeing double. The two of them closed in on her again, one from either side.

She raised the weapon, dimly aware it was a stupid thing to do.