Some men were just pure badass motherfucker rolled in a healthy dose of don't-fuck-with-me. Obadiah Matlock was somewhere between the latter and Satan-himself-is-terrified. No one fucked with Marshal Obadiah Matlock. So when the esteemed marshal pulled over the little red convertible, he damned sure didn't expect the chocolate-skinned beauty to have the unmitigated gall to hop out of the car, slamming the door as she did, and meet him halfway. Not only did she display an inappropriate amount of temper, she actually put her hands on her hips and demanded... "What the fuck did I do wrong this time?" Yeah, Megan Tully was nothing if not a little spitfire. A man might get used to all those curves and that lush mouth, but the temper had to fucking go. "You were doing fifty," he replied, arms crossed over his chest, ticket book in hand. "So?" "In a twenty-five." "Well, who in their right fucking mind made this road a twenty-five? No one has lived here in years and I'm the only person who drives it anymore." "It's still the law, Ms.
