One Good Man
Julie Miller
Mitch Taylor had faith in his gun, his badge, and his years of experience. But he knew society girl Casey Maynard was trouble, and protecting her would be hell. Twenty years on the force had toned Mitch’s body and honed his senses: keeping Casey safe from her stalker wasn't the issue. Keeping himself from falling for her was.She'd been alone, scared, for so long. But in Mitch’s arms Casey felt things she thought she’d lost forever: safety, trust… passion. She needed him there as a cop, to serve and protect. But she wanted him there as a man, to give her something worth living for….
“I am not afraid of cops. And despite what you’re implying, I am not some snob who looks down on them because I’m a judge’s daughter and you’re an officer who serves the court.”
“So why don’t you want me here?” Mitch demanded, the top of his nose nearly touching hers.
“Because I’m afraid of…” Of what? Him? Men? What he reminded her of? What he made her feel? That he made her feel, period?
“What scares you, princess?” he whispered.
Casey zeroed in on the mouth that spoke such a challenge. Sexy. Firm and flat and as unerringly masculine as the breadth of his shoulders or the timbre of his voice.
He liked to argue. He seemed to bring out the worst in her red-haired temperament. Sparring with him made her feel strong. Opinionated.
What if he simply silenced her with a kiss?
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
It’s autumn, and there’s no better time to fall in love with Harlequin Intrigue!
Book two of TEXAS CONFIDENTIAL, The Agent’s Secret Child (#585) by B.J. Daniels, will thrill you with heart-stopping suspense and passion. When secret agent Jake Cantrell is sent to retrieve a Colombian gangster’s widow and her little girl, he is shocked to find the woman he’d once loved and lost—and a child who called him Daddy….
Nick Travis had hired missing persons expert Taryn Scott to find a client, in Debbi Rawlins’s SECRET IDENTITY story, Her Mysterious Stranger (#587).Working so closely with the secretive Nick was dangerous to Taryn’s life, for her heart was his for the taking. But when his secrets put her life at risk, Nick had no choice but to put himself in the line of fire to protect her.
Susan Kearney begins her new Western trilogy, THE SUTTON BABIES, with Cradle Will Rock (#586). When a family of Colorado ranchers is besieged by a secret enemy, will they be able to preserve the one thing that matters most—a future for their children?
New author Julie Miller knows all a woman needs is One Good Man (#588). Casey Maynard had suffered a vicious attack that scarred not only her body, but her soul. Shut up in a dreary mansion, she and sexy Mitch Taylor, the cop assigned to protect her, strike sparks off each other. Could Mitch save her when a stalker returned to finish the job? This book is truly a spine-tingling pager-turner!
As always, Harlequin Intrigue is committed to giving readers the best in romantic suspense.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
One Good Man
Julie Miller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Julie believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
Books by Julie Miller
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
588—ONE GOOD MAN
THE TAYLOR CLAN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Mitch Taylor—Captain of the Fourth Precinct. Gladiator in a suit and tie. He was once a kid of the streets, and the last thing this veteran cop wants to do is baby-sit a Plaza princess.
Cassandra (Casey) Maynard—She lost her family and her future in one horrible act of violence. She knows it’s just a matter of time before her stalker returns to finish what he started.
Commissioner James Reed—Uncle Jimmy is the only family Casey has left. But is he too busy with his reelection to listen to her fears?
Iris Webster—She’s been James’s right hand for years. She’d do anything to protect him.
Emmett Raines—A master of disguise. Toying with his victims is all part of the game.
Darlene Raines—Emmett’s twin. Together, they devised a perfect plan.
Judith and Ben McDonald—They’ve served the Maynards for years.
Jack Maynard—His reputation as the “No-Budge Judge” cost his family dearly.
Steven Craighead—Bodyguard or betrayer?
Cynthia DeBecque—Why does the murdered prostitute’s name keep popping up?
For the Fensoms.
Thank you for always making me feel welcome.
Happy holidays!
And for the IMPROV gang.
You really are making a difference in the lives of young
people. You made a difference in mine.
Contents
Chapter One (#uc383fbea-c91d-5b4e-97da-f51a5d21a995)
Chapter Two (#u174d617c-a78b-5c01-81a4-4ed97e0e49a1)
Chapter Three (#uf30601b6-1c50-590c-b49b-53424b2b5d77)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
What a hell of a day.
Mitch pushed the door buzzer on the Gothic fortress of a house north of the Plaza and waited. He hated sucking up to the commissioner like this. But when the man in charge of his next promotion called and asked for a personal favor, Mitch was hardly in a position to refuse.
A house check was so routine, he normally would have assigned it to a uniformed patrol. He’d have passed it on to his staff sergeant for her to assign it to a uniformed patrol. He’d even offered to send two of his best detectives in his stead. But Commissioner Reed had insisted on privacy.
Mitch pocketed the electronic gate key the commissioner had given him to get onto the estate grounds, and wondered just what kind of fool’s errand he’d been sent on. His boss had been closemouthed to the extent that Mitch knew very few details about what he was even checking for. “It’s an old family friend,” he’d said. “Just see if there’s any trouble.”
Trouble? Like what? A break-in? Vandalism? A lunatic relative running around naked and embarrassing the family?
Why the hush-hush discretion?
If he was honest with himself, Mitch didn’t really mind doing such a favor. He missed having regular contact with the people who really needed the police’s help, instead of spending most of his hours talking to the press or running the administrative end of Kansas City’s Fourth Precinct.
But not this kind of house. Not these kind of people.
The commissioner didn’t know what he was asking of him.
Mitch checked his watch and then smoothed his leather gloves back into place. It was 6:00 p.m. Surely no one went to bed this early anymore. Maybe the gray November air had driven the residents to the far wing of the house, where they nestled in front of a fireplace, sipping cognac to chase away the chill of the evening.
He punched the doorbell again, laying on the buzzer for an impolite length of time. They could damn well send the servants to answer the door, the tips of his ears were feeling the bite of Missouri’s damp winter.
“This has to be a wild-goose chase,” he muttered to himself, ready to climb back into his Jeep Grand Cherokee and phone Reed on his private line to report no one at home. This was probably some test of his loyalty before the new assistant commissioner was named in January.
Well, Mitch Taylor didn’t play games. If he got the job because he was the best qualified, then fine, he deserved it. But if the selection would be based on politics, he didn’t have a prayer.
Schmooze or you lose, the commissioner had once advised him. If that was the case, Mitch was bound to lose.
His annoying second-guessing was cut short by the crackle of static from a hidden intercom panel. “Yes?”
Mitch looked up toward the source of the raspy voice and located the speaker and camera recessed behind the carved walnut paneling lining the front door. He stepped back, reached inside his coat and pulled his badge from his belt. Holding the identification beside his face, he looked up at the camera.
“I’m Captain Mitch Taylor, KCPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am, and, if possible, check the premises for you. We got an anonymous call that there was some trouble here.”
Following orders, he left out the commissioner’s name and treated this like a routine investigation of a reported disturbance. Then, confident that the ID and his authoritative voice would reassure the woman this visit was simply standard procedure, he clipped the badge onto the breast pocket of his coat and waited to be let in.
“There’s no trouble here.” The woman responded too quickly and too breathlessly for him to believe her.
Ah, hell, if Reed had sent him out on a domestic-violence call without any backup…
Mitch reached inside his coat and unsnapped the holster beneath his blazer. His guard-dog hackles went up at the possibility of facing a cop’s most dreaded call, but he forced his voice to remain calm and even pitched.
“Ma’am, if you could just come to the door, I’d like to speak to you face-to-face.”
Before the intercom went silent, he heard a flurry of activity. Mitch’s initial suspicions flared a notch. He adjusted his tie, never blinking his gaze from the doorknob. Then, through the double blockade of the front door and storm door, he heard the distinctive sound of a solid object crashing to the floor, followed by a stifled yelp.
His hand stilled on the knot of his tie.
“Ma’am?” he called. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Nothing but dead silence answered him. Rusty warning signals that had kept him alive when he worked on the streets labored into overdrive. A spot at the nape of his neck tingled with awareness whenever he sensed something was wrong. Right now, the skin above his collar tickled like crazy.
He unholstered his Glock 9 mm pistol from beneath his suit jacket.
“Ma’am?”
Nothing.
Damn. This was supposed to be routine. A polite introduction, sorry to disturb you and good-night. Some routine. More like a shot in the dark. He’d wake the commissioner tonight and find out exactly what kind of wild ride he’d been sent on.
But first, he had to protect that woman.
“I’m coming in,” he announced.
Mitch flipped his gun around, clutched the barrel and hammered at the glass in the locked storm door. When it shattered, he reached inside and opened it. The wooden door inside was locked, as well. Taking two steps back, he released the safety, aimed his weapon and fired two rounds into the locking mechanism.
The wood splintered around the knob, and the door loosened from its frame. Leaning his shoulder against it, he braced his legs and pushed. The door swung open and he stumbled inside.
The lights in the house immediately flashed on, and a loud, repetitive alarm blared to life. The woman screamed from the back of the house, yelling a warning over the din.
“Routine, hell!” he muttered under his breath.
He rolled to the wall and straightened himself against the ceiling-high paneling. The security lights he’d tripped had a strobe effect on his vision, blinding him more than the utter darkness of the place had.
Mitch relied on his sense of touch to get his bearings. He slid along the paneling until he found a set of double French doors. Locked. He peered in through the glass and saw shrouded objects each time the lights blinked on. A closed-off wing of the house.
A few steps farther his foot hit an abutment. He lifted his foot and found another level. Stairs. With narrowed eyes, he made out a grand staircase leading up to a second-floor landing.
But the cry had come from the main floor.
Moving around the stairs to the opposite side, Mitch trailed his right hand along the paneling. His fingers curled into a recess in the wall and touched something hard, cold and smooth. When the lights flashed on, he jumped back from the face staring at him.
He slammed his gun between both hands and stepped out to defend himself. The lights flashed on again and he swore.
He’d bumped into some sort of damn shrine filled with trophies, framed medals and photos. With one slow, steadying breath, he regained his equilibrium. The woman’s face staring back at him belonged to a framed, glossy photograph. He’d been spooked by a picture of a coltish young redhead waving a bouquet of flowers in one hand and gripping a medal in the other.
Pushing aside his curiosity, Mitch closed his eyes to listen for any telltale movements in the house. Except for the deafening blare of the alarm, the place was quiet. Too quiet.
Holding his gun up in his left hand, he crept farther into the interior of the house.
The next recess he came to was an open doorway. Catching his breath and thinking a prayer for no more false alarms to increase his blood pressure, he cautiously stepped around and peered inside.
The lights flashed on long enough for him to see an object hurtling through the air toward him. He was plunged into darkness a split second before it whacked him across the face.
His string of curses was brief and to the point. The blow hadn’t been hard enough to do serious damage, but his nose and skull throbbed with the impact.
“Police! Put down your weapon!” He recited the line by rote, feeling the rising rush of adrenaline crowding out his more rational thoughts.
Mitch reached out blindly and was rewarded with another blow to his wrist, this time solid enough to knock the gun from his grasp.
“Son of a…”
When the lights flashed off again, Mitch was ready. He glimpsed the grayish afterimage of his attacker and lunged in that direction.
With all the finesse of a linebacker sacking the quarterback, he rammed his assailant, pinned his arms and took him down, landing the perp flat on his back with Mitch on top. A strangled “oof” grunted between them made him hope he’d knocked the wind out of the guy.
But in seconds, his enemy recovered. One leg coiled beneath him. He guessed the intended direction and rolled, flipping the smaller, wiry man onto his stomach. Mitch snatched a flailing elbow and pinned the twisting body to the floor with his knee.
The other elbow connected with his chin, and Mitch’s temper kicked in. “There are laws against assaulting a cop.”
He clamped down on the dangerous arm and pulled it behind the attacker’s back, shifting his knee to the base of his adversary’s spine.
The perp screamed, a husky, high-pitched sound of pain.
“Oh, God! Don’t hurt me,” wheezed the voice.
No.
Mitch froze above his pinned opponent.
The lights flashed on, and he caught a glimpse of a long braid the color of golden cider sprinkled with cinnamon.
The image vanished with the lights.
But the memory didn’t.
Mitch moved his knee, suspecting the truth, but needing to see it with his own eyes. He tugged on one of the arms to roll the body over and look at the face. When he reached for the opposite shoulder to anchor his attacker in place in case he was mistaken, Mitch’s hand brushed against something pillowy and soft.
A woman’s breast.
“Ma’am?”
The lights flashed on again, giving Mitch a glimpse of the woman’s pale, terror-stricken face. Wild, smoky gray eyes glared at him with flash-fire intensity.
The impression was fleeting, distracting. Vanishing when the light did. Too late, he realized he’d underestimated her. Something swift and solid with four hard knots slammed into his left temple. Bright spots swam before his eyes in counterpoint to the blinking security lights.
Mitch caught her fist when she swung at him a second time. He swallowed her hand in his grasp and stretched her arm up over her head. The action flattened his body on top of hers, reaffirming his discovery that this was no intruder, but the person he’d been sent to check on.
The girl in the photograph.
Very much a woman now.
“Dammit, lady! I said I’m a cop. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She writhed beneath him, her fear or fury so intense that Mitch didn’t dare let go. If she harnessed the adrenaline pumping through her, she could knock him out cold.
While the dizziness behind his eyes abated, he protected himself by trapping her beneath him until her energy was spent. Mitch cursed the unprofessional torture to which he’d subjected himself. The woman’s firm breasts pushed against his chest, leaving the imprint of graceful curves through the layers of clothing between them.
And her hips—full, wide, womanly—cradled the lower half of his torso. Rocking against him in her struggle. Teasing him. Taunting him with an awareness of needs he had buried long ago.
Damn, he was a sorry, lustful excuse for a man to find his body so tempted by the struggles of a frightened woman he was trying to subdue.
He pinned her for over a minute before her thrashing ceased abruptly. She lay perfectly still for a second, then groaned, deep in her throat. Her face contorted in the next flash of light, and Mitch watched her grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut. Darkness returned, hiding her expression, but he felt the muscles in her arms and body clench to the point that she started shaking.
“You’re hurting me.” Her husky voice caught and rasped into a sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Mitch scrambled off her and rocked back on his heels, berating himself for botching this “routine” visit beyond excuse. “I’m sorry.”
His apology fell on deaf ears. She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position, hauling in deep gulps of air that racked her body.
He reached for her arm. She tried to pull away from his touch, but her muscles wouldn’t respond. Mortified to know he had truly hurt her, Mitch obliged her by letting go. “I was only defending myself. I haven’t been in a brawl like this since I made detective. You don’t know your own strength.”
He thought that might elicit a laugh, break the tension, but she didn’t even look at him.
“I didn’t call the cops,” she whispered between breaths. “Why are you here?”
In the shadows of his jumbled vision, he watched her prop herself up to a sitting position, then scoot away on her bottom until she leaned up against a desk. She dug her fingers into her right thigh and kneaded her leg through her jeans.
Mitch curled his fingers into his palms, squelching the urge to help her. He had inflicted whatever pain she was suffering. He doubted she’d appreciate any attempt to touch her again, no matter how altruistic his intentions.
Instead, he called upon his years of experience. This woman was a victim. Of his own carelessness, if nothing else. She might be frightened or confused. He gave her the space she needed to feel safe again, backing away even farther. He lowered his voice to its gentlest pitch and spoke quietly. “Are you Cassandra Maynard?”
The commissioner had only supplied a name and address.
“I don’t remember your name.” Her clipped response sounded like an accusation.
He refused the bait and stayed calm. “Mitch Taylor.”
Automatically, he reached for his breast pocket. He patted the empty space where the brass shield should be and glanced around quickly. Unable to see well for any distance, he apologized. “I lost my ID in our little tumble.”
Her gaze filled with the same intensity she had trained on him earlier. “A badge doesn’t prove anything.”
Her chest rose with a huge sigh before she sagged back against the sturdy oak desk. Physical distress seemed to finally be conquering her indomitable will. “I’m Casey Maynard.”
Flattening one palm against the rug, she pushed herself upright and gingerly adjusted to a more comfortable position. Mitch wondered if the tight white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth were a trick of the illumination or a grimace of pain.
“Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked.
“No. It’ll pass.” She breathed in deeply through her nose and released the air gently across the generous curve of her bottom lip.
Hell. What was wrong with him? He was here as a cop, not a blind date, but he seemed to be going out of his way to notice her striking features, from the unusual shade of her French-braided hair to the delicate bone structure of her cheeks and pointed chin. Though delicate seemed an odd impression since she had almost bested him in their fight.
“Why did you attack me?” he asked, forcing himself away from unprofessional concerns. “Who did you think I was?”
Casey shook her head. “I get to ask questions first. How the hell did you get up to the house? What do you want?”
The whole evening took on a surreal quality. Lights flashed on and off at regular intervals. An alarm blared in the background. They sat on a patterned Persian rug. The victim questioned the cop.
Mitch needed his world back in order. He stood up and straightened his clothes, taking his time before answering her. “Police Commissioner James Reed called me this evening and asked me to check on your family and the house. He gave me his key to bypass the security gate. He said he was watching the property for a friend. He thought there might be some trouble.”
“Uncle Jimmy always was a worrywart.”
Uncle Jimmy?
Casey twisted her body, grabbed the top of the desk and hauled herself to her feet. Bracing her weight against the solid oak top, she hobbled around the desk. Her full mouth narrowed into a grim line with each step. Had she dislocated something? Twisted her knee?
In two steps, Mitch was at her side, cupping her elbow and waist and taking her weight into his hands.
She stiffened when he pulled her against his side. “Don’t.”
He’d never met such a stubborn woman. Mitch tightened his grip, but his voice was gentle. “I’m going to help you, no matter what, so shut up.”
She didn’t exactly relax, but some of the tension eased from her. She inclined her head toward the swivel chair overturned on its side behind the desk. “I just need to sit down.”
Though she continued to favor her right leg, he noticed how she carried her shoulders and chin with grace and determination. Mitch righted the chair and steadied it when she turned to sit. The crown of her hair brushed along his jaw, and the faint scent of vanilla filled his senses.
She might pretend to be one tough cookie, but her ladylike femininity was hard to hide.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
If he expected to be rewarded with a smile or thank-you, he was destined for disappointment. She twisted the chair away from him and pulled out a sliding keyboard tray. The computer monitor on her desk blinked on, and she pulled up a series of screen commands. She selected one with her mouse, then clicked.
The lights in the house flooded on, and stayed on. Just as abruptly, the alarm stopped.
“There’s no problem here, Captain.”
She raised her head and offered him a fake smile. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I don’t know where Uncle Jimmy gets his ideas. But tell him I appreciate his concern.”
Mitch knew a goodbye when he heard one. This had turned into one hell of an evening. His skull throbbed with a headache. He’d ticked off an ungrateful woman who had every right to sue him. And he had a growing list of questions that no one wanted to answer.
It would have required a better man to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It’s been real fun getting to know you, too, Ms. Maynard. I’ll be sure to pass your regards along to Uncle Jimmy.”
In the clear light, he easily spotted his badge on the carpet. He picked it up and clipped it to his pocket. He retrieved his gun from beneath a side table and snapped it into his holster. As he straightened, something else caught his attention.
A brown stick protruded from beneath the corner of a black leather sofa. Is that what she’d hit him with?
Keeping his back to her, Mitch used his foot to slide the piece of wood into view. A cane?
His preformed image of Cassandra Maynard, pampered society princess whose elite circle of friends included the commissioner of police, shifted a notch. He’d driven into this ritzy Plaza neighborhood expecting to find people living the lifestyle his late wife had struggled so ruthlessly to attain.
After the commissioner’s phone call, Mitch had fully expected to find Ms. Maynard preened and poised on her perch high above the mortals like himself who had to work for a living. She’d lie about whatever trouble had prompted the intrusion on private family business, and then politely send him on his way.
She had the lie part down pat, and she sounded eager to be rid of him. But this wounded woman in the jeans and gray sweatshirt seemed more brittle than icy. And the disdain in her voice didn’t match the terror in her eyes.
He glanced at the cane again. Richly polished walnut inlaid with a ring of brass at the handle, the item itself bespoke wealth. But a cane was a cane, a symbol of injury or handicap in one so young and apparently athletic as Ms. Maynard. Maybe she’d had surgery, or injured herself in training.
His lean years growing up in a decaying neighborhood north of downtown Kansas City had taught him to recognize some basic tricks of survival. Attacking before the enemy could identify your weakness was a classic.
Uptown or down, Mitch recognized vulnerability.
“So why would Commissioner Reed think anything was wrong here?” He nudged the cane out of sight with his toe, allowing her the security of hiding the extent of her disability from him.
He turned, catching the startled expression on her face before she quickly replaced it with that stoic mask. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he didn’t call me himself.”
“He probably figured you’d lie and say everything was all right so he wouldn’t worry.”
She shrugged. “Everything is all right. Other than you breaking down the door.”
He stepped toward her. “Something scared the hell out of you tonight.”
“You did.”
“No. Before I showed up, something wasn’t right.” He advanced farther, and enjoyed the transient satisfaction of seeing her mask slip a little.
Even at the cusp of winter, the mansions in this oldmonied neighborhood had an unlived-in perfection about them. Lawns were manicured, homes and fences were decorated for the holidays and welcoming lights blazed from crystal-clear windows and porches.
But not the Maynard estate. The imposing structure was half-hidden behind a high granite wall and black wrought-iron gate. Inside that barrier, ancient oaks lined the driveway, casting shadows across the yard that even twin porch lights couldn’t illuminate. One wing of the house was closed off. The interior had been dark. The items he’d stumbled over in the hallway and in this room were arranged in pristine, untouched perfection.
So who kept the princess locked in the tower?
Fairy tales had never topped Mitch’s reading list, but he couldn’t think of a better analogy. Where was the family the commissioner had asked him to check on? He’d bet his next paycheck that she lived alone in this overbuilt monstrosity.
“Are you married, Ms. Maynard? Live with a boyfriend or fiancé?”
He interpreted the sharp, humorless sound that passed as her laugh for a no.
“What about your parents?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Taylor. I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore.”
Touché. So he wasn’t the only one who resorted to sarcasm under pressure.
“Where are they?” He took another step.
“Now that they’ve retired, they spend their winters in a warmer climate.” Not much of an answer, so he switched tactics.
“Why did you attack me?” He reached her desk.
“I thought you were an intruder.” She squared her shoulders. “Most visitors ring the buzzer at the gatehouse before I send them on their way.”
He ignored the obvious hint. He braced his hands on the desktop and leaned toward her. “I said I was a cop.”
She tilted her chin upward. “I don’t care if—”
Garbled voices from the front of the house interrupted their standoff. By the time he spun around, two uniformed patrolmen had entered the room, positioning themselves with guns drawn and pointed straight at him.
“Hold it right there,” one of the officers commanded.
Mitch calmly raised his hands. He heard a strangled gasp behind him, a soft, barely audible sound of despair. He glanced back at Casey. If possible, her fine porcelain skin had blanched even further.
Guns? Cops? Or men in general?
Something about the blue-suits, something about him, terrified her. Not because she thought he was breaking in. Not because she valued her privacy.
Him.
The discovery hit Mitch in the gut with all the force of her cane smacking his face. She was afraid of him. And fighting like a regal hellcat to prove she wasn’t.
Ungrateful though she might be for his help, the need to protect surged through him. Despite her proud and prickly demeanor, she looked too weak to deal with more unexpected visitors. And rule number one in his self-written code of ethics was to always defend the underdog.
So Mitch took up the banner for her. He pointed to his badge and identified his rank.
“Captain?” The officer who had spoken earlier couldn’t hide his embarrassment. Once they’d both holstered their weapons, Mitch dropped his hands and moved toward them. He had no desire to chew their butts for the honest mistake. They’d simply been doing their job. Answering a call with promptness and authority.
“I’ve got everything under control here. I’m guessing it was a false alarm.” The best way to salvage a man’s pride was to give him something worthwhile to do. “It wouldn’t hurt to check the grounds, though, see if anybody’s been snooping around. And find something to patch the front door with.”
“Yes, sir.”
With curt nods, they exited the room. Mitch turned around in the doorway and studied Casey. She’d closed her eyes and was breathing deeply. She seemed small and out of place in the huge dimensions of the room. He could see now it was a library, lined on three walls with recessed bookshelves. The row of windows on the fourth wall overlooked a dead garden. Her desk stood like an island in the center of the room, covered with neat stacks of paperwork, a computer system, a fax machine and a telephone.
He wondered if she lived in this lonely sanctuary by choice, or if someone had tucked her away and forgotten her there.
“What are you staring at?” Casey’s pointed question intruded on his thoughts. The prickly princess was back in place, and Mitch couldn’t help smiling.
“Quite possibly the prettiest waste of an evening I’ve ever spent.”
She arched one eyebrow, and Mitch imagined the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I’m not sure. Do you take compliments?”
“Don’t let me keep you from any real police work, Captain.”
Oh, man, she was good. Mitch let the cutting edge of her tongue bounce off his well-worn hide. He’d been made this family’s scapegoat for the last time this evening. “Don’t worry. Your uncle has already seen to that.”
“He’s not really my uncle. Just an old family friend.”
Mitch’s retort about missing the point died on his lips.
She anchored her hands on either arm of her chair and stood, wavering for an instant until she found her balance. She breathed in deeply, turned on her exhale and limped toward the couch. She stepped gingerly on her right foot. The whole leg seemed to buckle each time she put her weight on it. Still, what impressed—and shamed—Mitch was the absolute determination on her face.
She might be every bit the condescending princess of the manor, but she was also a woman in pain, a woman in possible danger. And he’d been butting heads with her instead of remembering his duty.
He rushed to the couch to save her a few steps. He picked up the cane and held it out to her in both hands like a peace offering. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “The commissioner is expecting a report from me in the morning. What would you like me to say?”
He couldn’t tell if the resentment that flared in her eyes was because she needed the cane or because he’d gotten it for her. Her gaze locked on his chest, and he wondered if she was staring at his badge or merely glaring daggers through his heart.
“Tell him to call me himself next time.”
She curved her long, elegant fingers around the polished wood. Mitch tightened his grip. She stumbled half a step and might have fallen if their hands hadn’t been locked together around the cane. “What does it take for me to prove to you I’m one of the good guys?”
She tilted her chin to an arrogant angle and taunted him with her stormy gaze. “You can’t.”
A silent battle of wills heated the air between them, leaving Mitch with no clear answers except the discomforting realization that he wanted to blot that sensuous smirk off her bottom lip. His pulse raced at the challenge of softening those lips with his own, and loosing the tightly controlled fire that cooked inside the proper Ms. Maynard.
Appalled at the pattern of his thoughts, Mitch jerked away from her. He raked his fingers through his short hair, angry at her for making him feel those things, and remorseful at seeing her use the cane to maintain her balance.
Jackie had turned him inside out like that. She claimed to like his rough ways, his guard-dog devotion to her. But in the end, she’d chosen class and money over the love he could give her.
He was a smarter man now. It had taken him years to see through all of his wife’s games and learn to let her go. The notion that this cool, haughty princess could conjure up the same desires after only one meeting irritated the hell out of him.
“I’m assuming you can find your own way out, Captain. Since you so easily found your way in.”
He fisted his hands to squelch the urge to swat her retreating royal backside. Instead, he used her dismissal to spur him out the door to do some real police work and supervise the two uniformed officers.
What a hell of a day, he thought, thinking up and tossing aside ways to tell the commissioner to stuff this Maynard family lackey job without losing his promotion.
What a hell of a day.
Chapter Two
“Cassandra, dear, you know I have only your best interests at heart.”
Casey switched the telephone receiver to her left ear to mask her frustrated sigh, and wondered why Jimmy’s reassurance made her feel silly instead of safe. “But, Jimmy, why did you send the police here out of the blue last night? You know how I feel about—” she paused to find a word to emphasize just how frightened she’d been “—strangers.”
James Reed made an exasperated sound, and she could envision him checking his watch on the other end of the line. “Mitch isn’t just any cop. He’s one of the three finalists I’m looking at to name as my assistant next year. He’s a good man.”
He’s a force to be reckoned with, thought Casey.
She rested her forehead in her hand and massaged the tension in her scalp. She hadn’t slept well at all, and it wasn’t just because of the pain radiating through her right hip and up into her back from the exertion of wrestling with the man. His broad shoulders and stocky chest beneath that tailored wool coat, and his stubborn attitude, made her think of a gladiator in a suit and tie.
A fearsome opponent. A formidable ally. But last night she hadn’t been able to decide whose side of the ring he fought for.
“I don’t care if he’s Eliot Ness. Why did you send him here?”
A double dose of aspirin and a hot pad had dulled the physical ache to a tolerable level. But her mind had raced through to the early hours of the morning trying to pinpoint why Mitch Taylor’s unexpected visit had left her feeling so edgy.
Perhaps it was his voice. That deep, masculine sound had held too much challenge, too many taunts. His eyes, maybe. She remembered a gentle brown color like the expensive bourbon her father used to sip at night in front of the fireplace.
But there’d been little gentleness in the way he’d looked at her. As if she were guilty of something more unforgivable than assaulting a police officer.
Hearing Jimmy talk around the answers she sought didn’t help.
“Have you seen the paper this morning?” he asked.
Casey wrapped her chenille robe around the high collar of her flannel nightgown. The winter air didn’t worry her so much as the chill in Jimmy’s voice.
“No. Judith’s not in yet. I don’t feel like venturing out to the gate myself.”
“I didn’t want to panic you. It could be nothing.”
Her heart beat a quicker tempo at his particular choice of words. “Sending a detective busting through my doorway when you know I’m here by myself is your idea of not panicking me?”
“I just wanted to double-check that you were all right.”
“Stop treating me like I’m a little girl. Tell me—”
“You’re still my god daughter. I promised Jack and Margaret I’d always take care of you.”
“Mom and Dad would have given me a straight answer by now! I’ve half a mind to call them and ask them to come home.” The silence at the other end of the line made her regret her flash of temper. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I know you mean well…”
“You can’t call them,” he interrupted her apology.
Casey tried again. “I know they’re not due to return from Europe for another three months, but I can track them down.”
“No, you can’t.”
As a child, she’d been reprimanded in that very same voice. But she was no longer a child. “Dammit, Jimmy, you can’t dictate—”
“Emmett Raines.”
If he wanted to punish her for her outburst, he couldn’t have said a crueler thing.
She thought of the framed Olympic silver medal in the hallway, and how she could have had a gold one from four years later beside it. She thought of her parents, once pretending to be dead and hiding away in a place unknown even to her so they could stay alive. She thought of tomorrow’s Thanksgiving holiday and how she’d be spending it alone. Again.
Because of Emmett Raines.
“What about him?”
A door off the kitchen slammed, startling her before she slipped deeper into a mind-numbing depression.
“Casey! Casey?” a shrill voice called from the hallway.
The Maynards’ housekeeper huffed around the corner into the library. The older woman’s watery blue eyes glistened with fear.
“Just a minute, Jimmy,” said Casey into the phone. “Judith’s here. The boarded-up door must have spooked her. Give me a minute to explain what happened.”
She covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and set it down. She needed both hands to stand and try to look composed. Judith McDonald might be a hired servant by contract, but she’d been with the family long enough that Casey considered her a friend.
“Are you all right?” Judith paused long enough to ask the question, but moved before Casey could answer her.
The housekeeper crossed the room, holding out the Kansas City Star newspaper in one hand and clutching her ample bosom to steady her breathing in the other.
“He escaped from prison.”
The unadorned statement struck Casey like a gunshot. She needed no other explanation to piece together the evasive truth. Suddenly Mitch Taylor’s visit made sense. The blood in her head rushed down to her toes. She sank into her chair and cradled her head in her hands. Finally understanding the situation brought her none of the comfort she had hoped for.
Judith spread the paper across the desktop and pointed to a short article on the second page. Casey scanned the words, and like a well-mannered schoolgirl, she picked up the phone.
“Why didn’t you tell me Emmett Raines was out of prison?”
Jimmy’s deep sigh matched her own. “State troopers are out in force looking for him. He has no family here anymore. Statistics say he’ll try to get as far away from Missouri as he can. I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily.”
Statistics? Her devoted Dutch uncle had gambled her safety on statistics? And backed it up with nothing more than an overbearing, overwhelming gladiator sent to check the premises?
A touch of something fiery licked through her veins, thawing the fear that tried to take root inside her. “I testified against the man in court! The newspaper says he killed a laundry-truck driver and drove away from Jefferson City. How unalarmed do you want me to be?”
Judith reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. Casey squeezed back, tapping into her own strength by sharing it.
“Don’t do anything, Cassandra. Stay in the house and lock the doors and windows.” For the first time that morning, she appreciated the clipped authority in Jimmy’s voice. “I’ll have Iris rearrange my schedule and I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’ll take care of you, dear. I promise.”
She hung up the phone and relayed the message to Judith. While Judith left to do a visual check of the entrances to the house, Casey turned on her computer and accessed the security system to verify that it was up and running.
She was glad she rated high enough on Jimmy’s list of priorities for him to postpone a meeting. But she felt no relief. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
No one understood Emmett Raines the way she did. No one could unless they’d been his victim, too.
She’d given up trying to explain why she’d secluded herself in the home where she’d grown up. After Emmett’s trial, she let the press make up stories to explain her withdrawal from society. Fear of more criminal repercussions. Shame over losing her career. Sorrow over losing her parents.
She couldn’t tell them about her unique phobia.
And she couldn’t risk more uninvited guests busting their way into her sanctuary.
Casey logged on-line and found the site she was looking for.
No more strangers.
She’d see to that.
“HEY, OLD MAN!”
Mitch grunted his answer to the cheerful greeting and strode through the Fourth Precinct offices, shedding his coat and barking orders along the way.
“Ginny. Dig up a file for me. Cassandra Maynard. Society lady. Age twenty-eight. She may have been recently injured in an accident, so check the traffic reports.”
The petite blonde sat back in her chair. “Casey Maynard? Judge Jack’s daughter?”
Mitch stopped in his tracks. “You know her?”
“I know of her,” said Ginny. “A few years back, she was in all the papers. I was in the academy at the time. The story was required reading. Her father, Jack Maynard, sat the bench in criminal court for almost twenty years.”
“The ‘no-budge judge’?” Mitch mentally kicked himself for not connecting the names sooner.
“Yeah. ‘No-slack Jack,’ whatever nickname you want to use.” Leave it to Ginny to know her history. What his detective lacked in size and intimidation factor, she more than made up for in keen intelligence and impeccable memory. “She got hurt, and then the judge and his wife supposedly died in that horrible car accident. It wasn’t revealed until months later that their deaths had been staged so they could go into hiding. I’m pretty sure he never returned to the bench.”
Mitch propped his hip on her desk and asked, “What do you mean ‘hurt’?”
“It was several years back. But if I remember right, she was assaulted.”
“I’ve heard of her.” Mitch’s newest detective, Merle Banning, in only his third year of police work, walked up with a mug of coffee and joined the discussion. “I remember my mom goin’ on about what a tragedy it was. She was training for her second Olympics. A swimmer, I think.”
Mitch nodded, hiding a cringe of guilt as he remembered how rough he’d been with Casey, and how she’d fought against him with every weapon available to her, including her sarcastic tongue. Her defensive actions made sense if she had once been assaulted.
He put his self-recriminations on hold and searched the vaults of his own experience, looking for facts to answer his questions. He had never testified in Jack Maynard’s court, but he could recall a few old friends who had. “The judge had a reputation for no leniency, long before the three-strikes rule. I definitely want to see her file.”
He stood and clamped his hand over Merle’s shoulder, scenting the trail of a case that had yet to be opened, or maybe—if the tingle on his neck was any indication—had never been closed.
“I want to know everything we’ve got on Jack Maynard.”
“Everything?”
Mitch ignored Banning’s query. “I want to know names and dates of the cases he tried.”
“ All of them? That’s a huge project, Mitch.” Stunned would be a mild description of the bespectacled detective’s expression. It provided enough humor to sweeten the tension in Mitch’s stomach. He pressed his lips into a thin line to avoid smiling.
“Then you’d better get on it.”
“Yes, sir.” Merle set down his coffee and logged on to his computer.
Mitch had watched criminals enter their holding cells with more enthusiasm. The father figure in him relented, just a smidge. “Ginny can help you when she’s done.”
Merle and Ginny exchanged supportive glances over their paired-off desks. The rookie detective squared his shoulders and nodded. “I’ll get it on your desk ASAP.”
“Good enough.”
Mitch looped his coat through the crook of his arm and crossed to his lieutenant’s desk, confident the work he asked for would get done. “Joe. I put in a call to Commissioner Reed. Give it priority to my office when it comes through.”
“Will do.”
Joe Hendricks followed Mitch into his office and waited while he shed his jacket and loosened his tie. Mitch shuffled through the messages on his desk before sitting down. He stood up again, feeling too edgy to stay put for any length of time.
“Here’s your coffee.” Joe handed him a mug of the steaming dark brew.
A deep sigh drifted through Mitch’s barrel chest before he accepted the offer. “I’m that obvious?”
The mahogany-skinned detective grinned and made himself at home in one of the chairs across from Mitch’s. “Drink before we talk.”
“That sounds ominous.” Mitch inhaled the intoxicating aroma and took several sips before sitting again and staying put.
“So what fly is buzzin’ around your head this morning?”
Mitch cradled the mug in his hands and stared into its depths. The darkness reminded him of the previous night. It wasn’t the usual stresses of the job so much as that prickly princess locked away in the tower that made him more of a grizzly than a teddy bear that morning.
She might very well sue him for his honest mistake. But that wasn’t what bothered him. He was ninety-nine percent certain she wouldn’t sue. In fact, he’d bet she wouldn’t have another thing to do with him.
Or anyone from the outside.
Why did he think of her as a prisoner? The leg, probably. Listening to Ginny’s and Merle’s accounts, she apparently had some kind of permanent handicap. But that wasn’t the impression that had stayed with him through the night and played havoc on his normal morning routine.
It was her eyes. Smoky, dark and deep. He’d seen fear there.
Fear of him.
He downed a hasty swallow of coffee and nearly scalded his tongue. Hell, nobody should be afraid of him. Nobody except the bad guys.
What did she have against cops? He’d worked damn hard for his badge and rank. He shouldn’t be bothered by implied insults from damsels in distress who didn’t want to be rescued.
He shouldn’t be bothered by her at all.
He compromised on his response to Joe. “The commissioner’s got me playing some cat-and-mouse game I haven’t figured out yet.”
Joe thumbed over his shoulder toward the squad room behind him. “What does Judge Jack have to do with it?”
“The commish called yesterday and asked me to check Judge Maynard’s house. Personally. See if there was any trouble.”
“Was there?”
“Not that I could see. That’s why I’m trying to make some kind of connection. Reed wasn’t eager to share details.” Mitch leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and splaying his hands in a gesture of frustration. “The only person there was the judge’s daughter. And she definitely wasn’t thrilled to see me.”
Joe laughed and tapped the bridge of his nose, indicating the purplish bruise decorating Mitch’s own nose that morning. “Is she another conquest you charmed and left by the wayside?”
Mitch felt his own mouth curling up into a wry smile. Casey Maynard had certainly packed a wallop. He’d never so much as experienced a slap on the face from one of his dates. “Even on my best days, I was never charming.”
“Hey, now don’t sell yourself short. I just put five bucks on you bringing a hot date to the big awards banquet.”
Mitch shook his head, his mood momentarily lightened by his friend’s teasing. “Don’t I give you enough work to do?”
Joe smiled innocently. “Most of the guys say you’re going stag to the big event. Ginny thinks you’ll take an old friend.”
“Save your cash, Joe. Isn’t that fourth baby due pretty soon? I figured you’d have more sense than to waste your money like that.”
“Impending daddyhood just makes me all the more romantic. I know you got a pretty lady stashed away somewhere.”
He dismissed Joe with a cajoling smile. “Back to work, Lieutenant.”
The two men stood, old friends at ease with each other’s various moods. Joe feigned hurt feelings. “What about the morning report?”
Mitch shooed him toward the door. “Let me return these calls on my desk. Then you can update me on our priority cases. And Joe…?”
Hendricks turned in the open doorway and waited expectantly.
“Step up patrols in Ms. Maynard’s neighborhood. But nobody goes into that house unless I give the okay.”
Joe touched a finger to one eyebrow and saluted. “Will do.”
“You’re a good man.”
“That’s what my wife says.”
Mitch smiled and dismissed him with an answering mock salute.
Poor Joe. He could kiss his money goodbye. Mitch had no intention of spoiling that banquet by sharing the evening with a woman who didn’t understand what that service award and promotion meant to him. Who couldn’t understand.
Women wanted attention. They demanded the spotlight. They expected to be spoiled. And if good ol’ Mitch Taylor, the Fourth Precinct’s resident old man, couldn’t give a woman what she thought she deserved, then she’d look elsewhere. Jackie had.
Mitch swallowed hard, sending the bitter taste in his mouth down to his stomach. His work had saved him from hell and given him a chance to be somebody. It had given him an identity. A power and an authority that he’d earned with blood and sweat and a lot of hard work.
But his work was a mighty cold companion when he lay in bed at night. It didn’t laugh with him over his mistakes, nor rally him when his faith faltered. It wouldn’t grow old with him.
Ignoring the debilitating influence of his own thoughts, Mitch unbuttoned the cuffs on his broadcloth shirt, rolled up the sleeves and sat down to do some of that work. He noticed the full mailbox on his computer screen and brought up the messages.
He scrolled through work-related contacts, but stopped when he came across an all too familiar name.
Captain Taylor
A convict named Emmett Raines escaped from Jefferson City. If you wish to alleviate your guilt from last night, you can tell me what KCPD knows about this.
Casey Maynard
“Guilt?” Mitch berated the computer screen. “She thinks I feel guilty?”
He ignored the fact that guilt had plagued him since learning he had used force against a handicapped assault victim, no matter how deadly her right hook might be. But her smoky eyes and proud little mouth had teased his dreams last night. Today Miss High-and-Mighty’s note aggravated that awareness into a full-blown distraction. He switched screens and typed in his response. “She’s got a hell of a nerve.”
The message he left was equally concise.
Look, princess, that kind of information is confidential. The state patrol and area enforcement officers will handle the case. Questions by vicarious thrill-seekers would only interfere. BTW, the number of forms I had to fill out last night more than makes up for any guilt I might have felt.
Your ever faithful civil servant,
Mitch Taylor
There. He clicked the send button and enjoyed a buoy of satisfaction that he had reminded her arrogant highness of her place in his life.
After that, Mitch dug into the paperwork on his desk. He worked steadily, ignoring the faint tickle at his nape. It was probably just his hormones working overtime. Casey Maynard had really gotten under his skin. He hadn’t quite felt sorry for her, but he’d felt for her.
Her grace. The delicate scent of her. That memorable shade of strawberry-gold hair. He might have found all of those things attractive. But she’d been so cold, so haughty.
So scared.
Mitch paused in his work. He leaned back and pressed his fist to his mouth. Is that what this was all about? She had needed him. For a few moments, anyway. When she’d been too weak to struggle. And later, when the blue-suits had walked in.
For a brief time, he’d gotten caught up in her need. He’d deluded himself into thinking she needed him.
He slammed his fist down on the desk, stirring papers and sloshing the dregs of his coffee. You’d think he’d learn. Hell. Jackie had needed him. She’d wanted someone solid and reliable to get her through those last days after her boyfriend had dumped her. A lot of people needed him because of his job. To protect and serve the citizens of the community. He was good at that.
But it could have been any decent guy. It could be any cop.
That’s why the princess was such an irritation. Wounded pride. He almost laughed. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel that in a long time. It was because of the bad day he’d been having, he rationalized. Casey Maynard had caught him at a weak moment.
Well, it wouldn’t happen again.
Mitch pulled out a handful of tissues and blotted at the coffee spots he had splashed across a memo. A blinking light out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. An incoming message on his e-mail.
Great. Just when he’d talked himself out of messing with her.
Mitch,
What kind of forms are you talking about? Police reports? I think it would be best to draw as little attention to me as possible. Please leave my name out of anything you file.
Casey
How about that? She’d deigned to move to a first name basis. He turned to the keyboard and answered her.
Princess,
Of course police reports. I discharged my weapon and investigated what I thought was a suspicious situation. It’s standard procedure. And your name is already on the dotted line.
Mitch
He pressed the send button and waited, almost relishing the anticipation of what she’d say in response. She didn’t disappoint.
“I didn’t ask you to come last night.” Several moments passed, and then another message appeared.
“What if I talk to Jimmy for you? Maybe we can forget the whole thing.”
Just what kind of pull did she think she had? Every officer, no matter what his rank, had to file reports whenever he used his weapon, whether it be against a perp or a door lock. Why did she think he’d change the rules for her?
Rules are rules. Talk to “Uncle Jimmy.” I think he’ll support me on this.
Mitch.
There was no pause this time.
“No! Don’t use my name. He’ll find me.”
“He’ll find you?” Mitch questioned aloud. He sent a brief message. “Who?”
He waited.
“Emmett Raines.”
“Who is Emmett Raines to you?” Mitch typed. “Did you think I was him?”
“Please!!!” she answered.
Mitch ran the name through his head and drew a blank. Maybe Emmett was an old boyfriend. She said he’d escaped. Maybe she saw enemies where none existed.
But the itch along his neck had him thinking otherwise. Real or not, her obvious fear dissipated the remnants of his anger. Reminding himself that it wasn’t his help she was seeking, he typed in a response.
“I’ll have one of my men look into it.”
He could almost feel her answer leap off the screen, as if he were talking to her in person and could read the expression in her eyes again.
No! Forget it! Just forget it! Don’t send anyone else to the house. Don’t come here again. And don’t call me princess!
What? The message ended abruptly, and he knew she’d signed off. Mitch stared mutely at the screen, wishing his own frustration could be transported across the modem links. He didn’t know what irritated him more, the idea that she thought she could dictate his actions and go over his head to his superior, or the discovery that she might be a little human like the rest of the world.
She didn’t like the nickname. She had gotten personal.
Their little e-mail interlude had left him as heated as last night’s face-to-face encounter. He could picture her eyes darkening along with her emotions. He could imagine that stubborn little chin pointing upward as she vented her fury on him.
He could see the fear in her posture as she stiffened her shoulders and tried not to let it show.
“Joe!” He bellowed for his lieutenant.
“Boss.”
“Sorry.” Mitch looked up guiltily, finding Joe waiting in the open doorway with his usual forgiving smile. “Emmett Raines. Check the wires. He just walked away from Jeff City. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”
“Anything in particular I should look for?” asked Joe.
“A connection to Jack or Casey Maynard. Something isn’t right.” He glanced at his computer screen. “I need to figure it out.”
Joe jotted the name on his notepad. He pointed to Mitch’s phone. “The commissioner’s on line two. I’ll get right on this.”
Mitch nodded his dismissal, punched the blinking light and picked up the receiver. “Commissioner Reed.”
A smooth, politic voice answered. “Mitch. I’ll forgo the pleasantries. We need to talk.”
“You’re damn right we need to.”
“WHO THE HELL does he think he is?” Casey muttered to herself, still stewing over her computer conversation with Mitch Taylor earlier that morning. The words on her monitor blurred together as her eyes glazed over. She removed her gold-rimmed reading glasses and rubbed at her tired eyes.
Normally, she found the content of medical articles an interesting read. But today it was simply a jumble of technical jargon that made little sense. Knowing she was ahead of her deadline, she saved the text she was editing and turned off the screen. Her clients shouldn’t be penalized for her inability to concentrate.
She slipped into her shoes and tied them, adjusting the platformed boot on her right heel before shifting onto her feet. Needing the extra support after last night’s uncustomary stress, she tightened the Velcro closures of her leg brace and walked over to the row of windows that gave a panoramic view of the backyard.
Judith’s husband, Ben, tended the pool house with efficient regularity, just as he had in her training days. But what had once been a symbol of her family’s success and personal triumphs now stood like a glass-domed testament to all she had lost.
Her dreams. Her family. Her faith.
She’d worked hard after the attack to get her body into shape. To teach herself how to walk again. Months of physical therapy in her private gym and in that pool had put her body back together as much as the shattered remnants of it would allow.
But no amount of training could restore her trust or heal her wounded heart.
Casey breathed in deeply and exhaled, fogging up the window in front of her. She rubbed the spot clear, acknowledging that her restlessness wasn’t entirely Mitch Taylor’s fault.
She missed the color that had once been part of her life. She missed the activity. She missed the demands she used to make on herself, the anticipation and reward of setting goals and achieving them.
But it could never be any other way. Especially now. She had to keep a lower profile than ever or he’d find her. Though he’d be smarter to run in the opposite direction, she knew Emmett Raines would come looking for her. She’d made a mistake once he wouldn’t allow her to make again.
The jangle of the front-gate buzzer made every muscle in her body tense until she looked over at the clock on the mantel—it was 12:10. The McDonalds were still here. She breathed again, consciously forcing herself to relax. Shoulders first. Biceps. Elbows. Wrists and hands.
Almost as soon as Casey was breathing normally again, Judith entered the library and announced, “Mr. James Reed is here to see you.”
Casey’s dread changed into a cautious smile. “You don’t have to be so formal.”
“Some habits die hard. Should I fix him lunch?”
The drawn look that had haunted Judith’s face eased a little with the arrival of company. For that, Casey was glad, even though she knew Jimmy’s visit would include a painful discussion on the subject of Emmett Raines. “I’ll ask. Go ahead and let him in through the kitchen.”
Minutes later, Police Commissioner James Reed, looking fit and dapper with his silver hair and charcoal suit, entered the library with a broad smile. “Cassandra.”
He met her halfway and gave her a stiff hug and a pat on the back. Holding herself on her good leg, Casey kissed his cheek and tightened her arms around his neck. “I’m glad to see you.”
He pushed away from her, holding her elbows in his palms. “I can only stay a few minutes. But I didn’t want to disappoint my favorite girl.”
He made her feel all of ten years old. She tried to match his smile but failed. “I thought you’d be here…sooner.”
From across the room, another voice answered in a dark, taunting baritone.
“We shouldn’t be here at all.”
Casey looked over Jimmy’s shoulder to the man filling the doorway. Mitch Taylor was even bigger than she remembered. The room shrank as he strode in. He stood a couple of inches taller than her Dutch uncle’s six feet, and she suspected the imposing dimensions of his chest and shoulders could be attributed more to the man than to the tailoring of his suit.
She lifted her chin to ward off the impact of his raw masculinity. Jimmy stepped aside, allowing Mitch’s whiskey-brown eyes to peruse her from head to toe. The warmth she experienced under his scrutiny left her feeling much more grown up than her uncle’s reassurances had.
Unaccustomed to having any man besides her doctors study her so thoroughly, and even more unfamiliar with the responding tension tingling along the surface of her skin, she angled away from him, automatically shielding the weak side of her body. “Captain.”
“How badly did I hurt you?” He spoke in a hushed rumble that shivered along her spine. The unexpected softening of his hard-edged expression did funny things to her pulse rate. She felt her own features relax.
“I’m a little…” Stiff and sore, she would have finished. But Jimmy’s patience with polite conversation had ended.
“You didn’t. She requires her cane or leg brace to walk.” His crude explanation shattered the illusion of compassion, and reminded Casey of the real problem at hand. She threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin.
Without making direct eye contact herself, she saw Mitch look at Jimmy, then back at her. His on-the-job mask returned.
“You should be in a safe house. Or at the very least, under around-the-clock police protection.”
His back-to-business mode made it easier for her to summon her defenses. “I asked you not to come here.”
“No, you ordered me not to, princess.” He swung his gaze over to Jimmy. “But a higher authority prevailed.”
Acknowledging his cue with a nod, Jimmy took Casey by the upper arm and guided her toward the sofa. “We want to talk to you, Cassandra.”
Once she was situated, he sat beside her and clasped her left hand between both of his. Not a good sign. “I didn’t want you to know about Raines’s escape so soon, but now that you do, I want you to know that I’m taking care of everything. I put him away once, and I’ll put him away again. He won’t get any satisfaction coming after my family.” He climbed off his soapbox and gentled his tone. “I promised your father that I’d look after you. And I trust that Mitch is the man to help me do that.”
She glanced over at Mitch, who struggled to make himself fit in the brocaded wingback chair across from her. He shook his head as though he already doubted the wisdom of this so-called plan.
Definitely not a good sign. She looked back at Jimmy, only half-joking with her question. “What, you’re going to send him over to the house and have him scare me to death every night?”
Jimmy’s hands tightened around her own. “No, dear. I’m assigning him to be your bodyguard.”
Chapter Three
Casey clicked her stopwatch as the outstretched fingers touched the wall. A dark-haired nymph shot up out of the water and splashed Casey’s shoes as she turned and sat on the edge of the pool.
“How was that?” Frankie Reilly asked, her young chest heaving with the exertion of her efforts.
She tossed Ben and Judith’s twelve-year-old granddaughter a towel. “Not bad. But I was swimming an extra length in that same time when I was your age.”
This afternoon, she found it difficult to concentrate on the observations and advice a trainer should give her pupil. But then she didn’t usually have six feet two inches of disgruntled detective nosing around the pool deck and adjoining rooms, either. She glanced at Mitch running his hand along the seams where the exterior glass walls connected to the steel support beams that formed the building’s skeleton.
He prowled back and forth, his eyes on a continuous scan of both the building itself and the yard outside. Silhouetted against the waning sunlight like a dark sentinel, he created an ominous presence that should keep stalkers and murderers and madmen at bay.
But despite the heated interior of the pool house, Casey crossed her arms and hugged herself to contain a shiver of apprehension. She should feel safe having such an imposing protector on the premises. Instead, she felt more vulnerable than when she had learned of Emmett’s escape.
She’d felt safe with her bodyguard seven years ago. So safe that she never realized the perfection of Emmett Raines’s ability to disguise himself. Until it was too late.
Until she realized her bodyguard was Emmett Raines.
“Casey?” Frankie tugged on her arm, startling Casey from her silent study of Mitch. “Do you want me to swim it again?”
Fortunately, the girl had caught her staring instead of the detective. She wasn’t ready to explain her need to memorize identifying details about people, especially when the person in question seemed to delight in pointing out anything about her that seemed suspicious.
She apologized for her distraction. “Let’s pack it in for now. Building your endurance is important, but so is dinner.”
Frankie pulled on her nylon jacket, then leaned over to whisper to Casey. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”
The conspiratorial note in the budding adolescent’s observation about her interest in Mitch caught Casey in open-mouthed surprise.
“For an older guy, I mean,” the girl amended.
Casey pressed her lips together and formed an appropriate reply. “ Cute isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”
Intimidating, maybe. Compelling.
“Oh, c’mon. I’ve seen you watching him. Almost as much as he watches you.”
“What?”
Frankie shrugged, as if the explanation was simple and Casey was a dingdong for not catching on. “Besides Grandpa, he’s the only guy I’ve ever seen you hang out with.”
“I am not hanging out with him.” She tried to defend herself against a twelve-year-old’s philosophy.
“That’s right.” Mitch’s keen radar picked up that he was the topic of their conversation. His deep voice didn’t alarm Casey half so much as being captured in the cross-hairs of those ever watchful eyes. He invited himself to join them. “I’m just the hired help.”
She heard the challenge in his voice and wondered at its cause. He’d certainly made it clear he wasn’t interested in being her bodyguard, but it wasn’t her choice. Jimmy had dismissed every argument she made. She hadn’t been able to convince either man that she’d be safer on her own.
So why did he keep on pushing the point? She’d be just as happy if he did take his big, brooding presence and leave.
“Isn’t that right, princess?” he prodded.
Casey breathed in deeply, curbing her tongue in front of their rapt preteen audience. “Somehow I don’t think you’re referring to me as the heroine of a fairy tale.”
He swept his arm out in a broad circle. “If I told you this Gothic house of horrors would be a nightmare to defend, with its locked-up rooms and see-through walls and blind drives, would you come with me to a safe house?”
“No.”
Frankie chose that moment to add her own observation. “Did you know there’s a hidden stairwell from the upstairs down to the back of the kitchen?”
Mitch made a face that earned a laugh from Frankie. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
The girl was on a roll. “There used to be a tunnel, too, that ran from the main house out to the pool house. But Grandpa boarded it up since no one lives out here anymore.”
“It just keeps getting better and better.” He shifted his gaze up to Casey. “And you feel safe here?”
“I did.” Casey emphasized the past tense, letting her expression tell Mitch that he was the reason she felt threatened in her own sanctuary.
“What is it with you and cops? The commissioner said I had to be here, so I’m here.” He crossed his arms and edged forward, the bulk of his shoulders closing in like the granite walls of her estate. Casey stood as straight as she could, holding her ground against him.
“I have known cops and worked with them my whole life. I am not afraid of them.” She tipped her chin to meet the aggressive thrust of his jawline. “And despite what you’re implying, I am not some snob who looks down on them because I’m a judge’s daughter and you’re an officer who serves the court.”
“So why don’t you want me here?” he demanded, the tip of his nose nearly touching hers.
“Because I’m afraid of…”
Of what? Him? Men? What he reminded her of?
What he made her feel?
That he made her feel, period.
“What scares you, princess?” he demanded.
Casey clamped her mouth shut and tried to make sense of the emotions churning inside her.
This close, she could smell the faint spicy scent of his aftershave clinging to the shadowy stubble of his beard. With the fire of verbal battle still hot within her, that slightest of sensations sneaked past her defenses and awoke something that had lain dormant too long for her to immediately recognize it.
Casey zeroed in on the mouth that spoke such a challenge to her. Sexy. Firm and flat and as unerringly masculine as the breadth of his shoulders or the timbre of his voice.
An incredibly politically incorrect thought crossed her mind. He liked to argue. He seemed to bring out the worst in her red-haired temperament. Sparring with him made her feel strong. Opinionated.
What if he simply silenced her arguments with a kiss?
She hadn’t been kissed for so long.
“So you’re not going to answer me?”
Mitch eased back, tilting his head to the ceiling and releasing a deep breath that made her wonder if he’d been as caught up in the moment of fascination as she had.
Casey breathed again, too. The respite allowed her to clear her thoughts. But rational thinking gave way to an almost physical pain. She wanted to laugh at her absurd expectations. What could a man as vibrant and self-assured as Mitch Taylor see in a crippled recluse like herself?
The embarrassment that flooded through her scorched her cheeks and she turned away. Into Frankie’s told-you-so smile.
“Uh, excuse me.” Frankie pointed to the office. “The phone?”
Casey reprimanded her with a pointed glare and headed for the office, glad for the ringing reprieve from both Frankie’s idealistic romantic thoughts and her own self-condemning ones. But Mitch beat her to it. By the time she reached the desk, he already had his hand on the receiver.
“Mitch, it’s just—”
“No.” He jabbed his finger in the air to silence her. “Until I get surveillance equipment set up, no one answers the phone, door or intercom except me.”
In full protector mode, Mitch picked up the receiver and turned his back to her. “Taylor.”
Casey swallowed her offer to provide information with a smug smile. Frankie nudged her elbow and giggled.
“I see.” Mitch’s gruff voice maintained its crisp, professional tone, but the stiffness eased from his shoulders. “I’ll let them know.”
When he hung up, Frankie was ready with an explanation. “That’s Grandma’s private line from the house. There’s no outside connection here.”
Casey’s amusement turned into a full-blown smile. She felt Mitch’s gaze hone in on the change in her expression. The corners of his stern mouth relaxed, and some of the heat that had consumed her earlier returned. This time, though, a gentler, safer temperature warmed her.
Mitch relayed the message. “Judith says she’s got cookies hot from the oven waiting for us with a glass of milk.”
“Oatmeal Scotchies?” asked Frankie.
Casey’s own taste buds perked up at the prospect.
“Yes.”
“Cool! C’mon, let’s go.” Frankie snatched up her coat, bounded through the outside door and zoomed down the path to the main house.
Casey and Mitch followed at a slower pace, shrugging into their coats and locking the pool-house door behind them.
Mitch shortened his stride to match Casey’s measured steps. “You know, if you are in danger, it’d be nice if you people acted like it.”
Casey turned up her wool collar and shrugged at his comment, not knowing where to begin explaining her ordeal with Emmett Raines and how she’d learned to cope with it over the years. She settled for the simple advice Jimmy had given her so long ago. “I find a lot of comfort in the predictability of my lifestyle.”
He shook his head. “It makes you complacent. A variable routine makes it harder for anyone stalking you to catch you off guard.”
She couldn’t stem the sarcasm that slipped into her voice. “I’m very much on guard, Captain. I think your presence here has taken care of that.”
They had reached the garage, which opened into the kitchen and provided the rear entrance to the house. Casey grasped the knob, but Mitch stretched his arm across the doorway, blocking her path.
“You don’t have to like me, princess. Or even respect what I do. But know this. I’m good at my job. And I’m going to do it with or without your help. ‘With’ just makes it easier. For both of us.”
He snared her in the dark light of his eyes, and Casey read the clear warning etched there.
She retreated a step to put some much needed distance between them. “What kind of help do you want from me? I won’t leave here. I know every tree and corner like the back of my hand, and the people even better.”
“You could answer a few questions.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, making him appear less of a threat. But Casey’s guard went on full alert.
“Like what?”
“Tell me what makes Raines so different that you and the commissioner won’t handle his escape through standard procedure. You weren’t the only witness to testify at that trial. What makes him such a threat to you? I’d rather hear it from you instead of a police report.”
She huddled inside her coat, shaking with the aftershocks of fear as her false bravado shrank inside her.
“Try not to look like you’ve been damned, Ms. Maynard. I’m on your side. I’ll let you eat your oatmeal cookies first.”
He opened the door for her and followed her inside. He even helped her with her coat. But Casey wasn’t fooled by his gallantry for an instant. The detective wanted answers from her that she’d never fully shared with anyone besides Jimmy.
He might be nice to her now, she thought. He might charm the socks off Frankie, Ben and Judith as he joined them at the kitchen table. But Casey inhaled the sweet smells from the kitchen as though she were facing her last supper.
Because once the McDonalds left for the Thanksgiving holiday, she’d be alone in the house with Mitch Taylor.
And then—she tried to swallow a bite of delectable cookie past the lump of dread in her throat—let the inquisition begin.
“YOU’RE SURE you won’t change your mind and come to the house for the weekend?” Ben McDonald loosened his bear-hug grip on Casey and stood back. Fatherly concern creased his well-worn features.
Casey patted his arm and smiled. “I’m sure. You’ll be jam-packed with relatives and you won’t need me and my problems to put a damper on the celebration.”
“Honey, we raised you as much as your folks did. You know you’d be welcome.”
“I know.” Ben and Judith had been the ones who stayed with her at the hospital after the attack, when her parents had been whisked away for their own safety and couldn’t come.
Casey hated being the cause of any more worry for them. Back then she’d been in too much pain, she’d been too lost and confused to argue when they said they’d stay on with her at the house, even though both had earned their early retirement. But now she was as healthy as she would ever be. She was a responsible adult. And she owed them much more than a generous salary.
“I’ll be fine.” It might be a lie, but she said it with all the serenity she could muster to put their worries to rest.
Ben nodded. He clearly didn’t believe her as much as he wanted to, but he accepted her decision. He zipped his coat shut and turned to Mitch, who waited at the doorway to the library while Casey and the McDonalds traded goodbyes. “I put that new door on like you requested, and switched the entry codes so that the key alone can’t get you in here.”
“I appreciate it,” said Mitch.
“Let me show you what I worked out with the front gate.”
“I’ll walk you out and make sure everything’s locked up tight behind you.” Mitch might prefer giving orders, but as they exited down the hall, he listened to Ben’s instructions and chatted with the older man as though they were equal partners on the case.
She was grateful for the way he used his authority and mutual respect to lessen Ben’s and Judith’s concerns. Not for the first time, she wondered why she didn’t rate the same kind of attention from him. Did he resent Jimmy’s orders so much? Was she the symbol of a task he considered beneath his rank? Or was the antagonism between the two of them something more personal?
Judith’s hand on her shoulder stopped her musings. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come by tomorrow and fix you something to eat?”
“I could swim Friday instead of Monday if you want some company.” Frankie’s eager offer caught her from the other side.
Casey laughed and shook aside both propositions. “Have a happy Thanksgiving, both of you.”
She hugged each one in turn. “You prepared enough food to feed a whole clan. I think I can manage. Now go home and enjoy your family.”
“You’ll let us know if there’s anything we can do?” asked Judith.
“Of course I will.” Casey guided them toward the door.
Frankie gave another vote of confidence for her favorite detective. “Mitch is cool, you know. He’ll take care of you.”
“I’m sure he will.” Casey’s response lacked the girl’s enthusiasm. She didn’t doubt that Mitch would do his job. She only wished doing his job didn’t bear such a high emotional price for her.
Judith and Frankie left in another flurry of hugs and good wishes, leaving Casey to face the ominous silence of the house alone.
She’d been alone before. Since her attack, she’d become quite good at being alone. Weekends, holidays. With her parents gone on a well-deserved trip abroad and Jimmy occupied with the prized social functions required by his political career, she’d had little choice but to learn how to handle so much time to herself.
It was all a matter of outlook. She normally focused on the security and quiet of being on her own, the self-sufficiency it required of her.
And if she could just stay busy enough, she’d never see what might be missing from her life of solitude.
Broad-shouldered bodyguard aside, she expected this four-day holiday to be no different from all the others she’d learned to endure on her own. Now if she could just get Mitch to forgo the torturous questions he wanted to ask…
Cursing the distracting pattern of her thoughts, Casey sat at her desk, pulled out her stationery box and immersed herself in her work.
A stack of invitations lay at the bottom of her in-basket. They were mostly from old family friends, wishing her well or inviting her to join them for the holidays. She appreciated the effort and would thank them, but she would decline each one.
The only thing lonelier than spending a family holiday by herself was spending it as an outsider in someone else’s home.
Besides, by staying here she endangered no one else. Jimmy had taught her the wisdom of that. After failing so miserably at Emmett Raines’s trial, she took comfort in knowing she could do that one small thing to protect others.
She’d failed to identify him once. But no one else would pay the price for her mistake again.
Casey pulled the next envelope from her correspondence file and slit it open. She’d saved this one for last because of the impersonal printing on the envelope. She recognized the look of a bulk mailing after years of assisting her mother with charity functions, and suspected it was an invitation to some sort of seasonal fund-raiser. She’d decline attending it, as well, but she could do so with a simple check instead of writing out a “kind of you to think of me but sorry” letter.
She pulled out the gold-embossed notecard, which read The First Cattlemen’s Bank Of Kansas City, and opened it to see how much money they wanted. A folded-up piece of plain white paper fell out. “A personal note?”
It wasn’t her bank, so she wondered who would take the time to write. Curious, Casey set the card aside and unfolded the paper.
She read the single line printed there.
“The house that Jack built will come tumbling down.”
CASEY THREW THE NOTE onto the desk, snatching her fingers away as though a rattlesnake had come to life in her hands. She shoved the blotter, sending an avalanche of books, papers and the telephone across the floor on the opposite side.
Gasping for a breath that refused to come, Casey scrambled out of her chair and hobbled around the desk, ripping at the Velcroed anchor patches on her brace. She pushed the cumbersome support unit off her leg and collapsed to her knees. Righting the phone, she picked up the receiver and speed-dialed Jimmy’s number.
“Commissioner Reed’s office.”
“Iris?” Thank God it was someone she knew.
“Cassandra? Is that you? How are you?”
Casey sat back against the desk and tucked her left leg into her chest, curling her arms around it and pressing the phone to her ear. She ignored the polite greeting from Jimmy’s assistant. “Is Jimmy still there? I need to speak with him right away.”
“He’s at a dinner meeting right now. I shouldn’t interrupt him unless there’s an emergency.”
“It is. I just got a message from…” Casey stopped and swallowed, forcing the panic out of her voice. “It says, ‘The house that Jack built…”’
“Casey? I’m back.” Mitch’s call from the kitchen pierced the fog of incoherent fear that prevented Casey from thinking clearly.
“‘The house that Jack built…”’ Her words trailed off altogether as she listened to them out loud herself. She sounded so juvenile, so silly for a twenty-eight-year-old woman.
“That’s a nursery rhyme, isn’t it?” prompted Iris when the silence continued.
She heard the back door close and Mitch’s footsteps in the hallway.
Or so she thought.
A deeper wave of alarm swept through her, clouding her mind with memories. Mixing up the present with the past.
“Yes,” she answered automatically, dismissing Iris and bringing her focus back to the house. Back to the library.
Back to the footsteps closing in on her.
Casey hung up and scanned the room for something with which to defend herself. But there was nothing close at hand, and she wasn’t in a position to move quickly. So she simply leaned back and braced herself.
She’d be smarter this time.
She’d have to be smarter.
“You okay?”
The dark-haired gladiator appeared in the doorway. He halted there, taking in the scattered mess and her sitting in the middle of it. An invisible suit of armor slipped over his shoulders and he stepped inside, cutting the breathing space between them and blocking her only avenue of escape. “I told you not to answer the…”
Her strangled gasp echoed in the room. She flattened her back against the desk. The man who looked like Mitch froze midstride, towering above her.
“Casey?” Her name crackled in the air.
She looked hard into his eyes, seeking something familiar, fighting through the fog of panic that threatened to shut down her ability to think.
The tension in the room vibrated through Casey. Her breath deepened in short, punctuated gasps. A golden light flared in his eyes, a predator sensing danger.
But was she the prey? Or the protected mate?
She inched her way up the desk, carefully balancing herself so she wouldn’t crumple to the floor. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. To look away would mean giving him an advantage she wouldn’t surrender. Better that he be distracted first. “Would you hand me my cane? It’s in the stand by the door there.”
He hesitated an instant, then turned away, his movements slow and controlled, as if he expected her to bolt. He held out her cane, keeping as much distance between them as possible. When she wrapped her fingers around the handle, he held on, connecting an electric current between them.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” His voice, low and commanding, skittered along her nerve endings.
Casey looked harder. She saw warmth in his eyes and something that comforted her more than any other emotion could have. Suspicion.
Emboldened by the inexplicable reassurance, she reached up and cupped the left side of his face. He jerked at the unexpected touch, then held himself still beneath her hand. She felt the rasp of beard stubble in her palm, the forceful jut of his jaw. She dragged her fingertips over his skin, then held them to her own face, identifying the spicy scent of him and noting the absence of any makeup.
“Mitch?” Her fear seeped out in one long breath. “It’s you. It’s really you.”
Without questioning her need to do it, Casey reached out with her left arm and slipped it around Mitch’s waist beneath his open coat. She didn’t care whether he responded out of duty or real concern; she only recognized a sense of profound relief when his sheltering arms folded around her and pulled her close.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
She shook her head at the gentle question. She grabbed a fistful of his jacket in her hand and burrowed even closer. Even the omnipresent bulk of the gun and holster beneath his arm reassured her. His hand spanned her back between her shoulder blades, rubbing light, consoling circles there.
“You have to talk to me, princess.”
“Not yet,” she murmured. “Just hold me so I know that it’s you.”
“I am holding you.”
Casey shook her head.
“More,” she begged on the barest breath of a whisper.
His arms tightened imperceptibly, and she felt his chin settle against the crown of her hair. His chest filled with a sigh beneath her cheek, and she allowed herself to relax along with him. She had never doubted Mitch’s strength and determination. Now, surrounded by his warmth and gentleness, she reveled in the full experience of being held and protected by this man.
For the first time in days, in years perhaps, she felt truly safe.
And as she drew her own strength from the respite he offered, she became aware of other things. Other sensations.
The dampness of the evening air clung to his clothes, bringing out the comforting smell of fine wool and the inviting scent of the man underneath. The nubby texture of his tweed jacket brushed her cheek in a rough caress. And she could hear the steady staccato of his heartbeat beneath her ear.
Gradually, she became aware of her own body’s reaction to the embrace. Her cheek, breasts, arm and thighs tingled wherever they touched him. Her own heartbeat jumped in a quicker rhythm.
Suddenly, Mitch wasn’t comforting to her. He wasn’t her bodyguard or even a kind officer doing his duty. He was a man. And she was a woman. She was…
She wasn’t ready for this.
Casey pushed away. The abrupt motion stirred the papers at her feet and reminded her with merciless speed of the reason she had sought safety in Mitch’s arms.
“Who was on the phone? I called from the back door. Did you think I was him?”
His quick return to the questioning detective gave her an odd feeling of normalcy. It was less complicated to think of him in this role than as a man who made her want and feel things she had no right to. If he could dismiss the heat that had sizzled between them so easily, then she could, too. If he wanted to be the cop, then she would be his cool and proper princess.
She answered the easiest question first.
“I tried to call Jimmy. But all I got was his assistant.” With the tip of her cane, she pushed aside the papers on the floor and pointed to the cruelly skewed nursery rhyme. “That came in the mail this afternoon.”
He knelt down in front of her, studying the creased white paper and its computer-generated type without touching it. “From Raines?”
“I think. It was in with a card from a local bank.”
Mitch read the phrase to himself. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and placed the letter inside before standing. “That’s not how the rhyme goes, is it?”
“No. But my father’s name is Jack.” She looked at the paper herself again, and wondered if he could see the same stain of hatred on it she did. “Don’t you think that could be a threat?”
“Anything’s possible. I’ll run it through the crime lab. See if they can pick up any prints. Do you still have the envelope it came in?”
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