Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  June stared blindly into the foliage, vaguely aware of a chill and that she’d wrapped her arms around her chest, seeking warmth.

  She sensed that Dean rose and moved toward her. “I apologize for upsetting you,” he said. “But I’m trying to solve your friend’s murder.”

  She didn’t look at him. “If what you’re saying is true, I’m somehow responsible for Sandy’s death.” She swallowed. “And the death of a man I don’t even know.”

  “No,” Dean said in a kind voice. “I didn’t say you were responsible. I said you could provide a link to help me figure out who is.”

  “Responsibility,” she murmured. “That’s such a loaded word, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He sounded confused, but of course to cops everything was clear-cut, probably had to be for them to do their job. If someone broke a law, no matter why they did it, they were guilty. And then they were punished.

  But did it matter who was responsible? Was she responsible even if she didn’t know how?

  June shivered. Dean stood so close she could feel the heat from his body, and she suddenly longed to turn into that warmth.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. He reached out and touched her arm.

  She shook her head, embarrassed to behave like a wimp in front of him. He probably thought she was about to cry. She never cried and didn’t get it why this news so overwhelmed her.

  “Hey, you’re trembling,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed. “This isn’t like me.”

  Next thing she knew, he’d wrapped his strong arms around her and she was enveloped in a blanket of warmth. She stiffened, then relaxed against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath a solid, muscular chest. He smelled even better up close. What a surprise that this macho cop would actually try to comfort her.

  “You’re chilled,” he said. “Probably because of your damp hair.”

  “And you’re warm,” she whispered, feeling inexplicably safe in the shelter of his embrace. Something else that made no sense.

  After a moment he said, “June, listen to me.”

  She closed her eyes. She liked hearing him speak her name and wondered why.

  “You are not to blame for your friend’s death.”

  She opened her eyes. But am I responsible?

  “So you really don’t consider me a suspect?” she managed, stepping away from him. She shot him a look and found him watching her, eyebrows drawn together. This guy obviously wasn’t used to consoling anyone.

  “Maybe that’s enough questions for tonight,” he said.

  “No, I’m fine.” She grabbed a sweatshirt off a dining room chair where she kept it handy for after swims. Dean’s arms worked better, but he couldn’t hold her all night, much as she might want him to.

  She sat on the sofa again. “Let’s finish.”

  He joined her. “Why do I get the feeling you’re reading more into the ballistics report than you should?”

  Refusing to think about responsibility, she looked down at her tightly clasped hands and tried to remember his last question. Oh, right. Why she hadn’t graduated from Pinecrest with the rest of her class.

  “My uncle wanted me to move to the city with him, but I begged him to let me stay in Miami.” She shook her head, remembering their arguments. “There’d been so much change in my life I didn’t want to leave my friends. He could easily afford the tuition of the prep school, but at the time he was running for a borough commission seat or something in New York on a platform supporting public education. So we compromised. I transferred to the public school and he let me stay.”

  “Where did you live?”

  She shrugged and settled back into the sofa. “Here.”

  For the first time, the detective appeared surprised. “By yourself?”

  “Hardly. This building is full of hundreds of people and a huge staff.”

  “Who aren’t responsible for a child’s well-being.”

  She eyed him. “You sound like my uncle. I was seventeen, not seven.”

  He stared back at her thoughtfully. “So, how many wild parties did you have, Miss June?”

  “Only one when I turned eighteen. The thing is I had to swear my friends to secrecy. If their parents knew, they might have made trouble about my living arrangements.”

  “Sounds like your plan backfired,” he said.

  “It was good training. I learned how to take care of myself.” But she had been lonely. Even frightened some nights. Worse, after a few months, she’d stopped hanging out with her old friends so much. She couldn’t go to parties or someone’s parents might see her. Life went on at Pinecrest without her. She’d been depressed over everything, so she was considered a freak at the new school, but eventually made new friends. She’d even joined the swim team so she could feel like a part of something again.

  “Your uncle should have been shot,” Dean said, as if he could read her thoughts.

  She shook her head, willing the old sadness away. She’d needed the time alone. She’d been grieving her parents and her old life.

  And now the hot cop was feeling sorry for her. She didn’t want that. She’d rather he go back to flirting.

  “Shooting him is harsh, don’t you think?” she said, hoping to lighten the mood. She looked down, noticed her clasped hands and relaxed them. “At first Uncle Mike came every weekend, but gradually he realized I was doing just fine.”

  Dean raised his hand and cupped her cheek, his touch soft and gentle. She raised her gaze and met his probing blue eyes. “Were you doing just fine, June?”

  She caught her breath, feeling suspended in time. This was crazy. She didn’t know this man, not really, but the strange intimacy of the moment compelled her to be honest. Maybe it was the way he said her name. Maybe it was because he sat so close to her. She should put up her usual barriers, push him away.

  But she didn’t want to. Besides, she’d asked for honesty from him. Didn’t she owe it back?

  “Some nights were hard,” she admitted.

  He smiled as he stroked her cheek.

  “You’re some kind of special woman,” he said.

  She closed her eyes, certain he was going to kiss her, not wanting to think about why that wasn’t a good idea.

  * * *

  DEAN STARED INTO June’s lovely face and wondered what the hell he was doing. He had to get out of here before he did something he’d regret.

  She had the most kissable mouth he’d ever been this near without tasting. And she was all but begging him to taste her.

  But she was also hurting because of her friend and vulnerable because of painful memories he’d dragged out of her. He wouldn’t take advantage of that.

  Maybe another time, another woman, but not tonight. Not this woman.

  June was still a person of interest in this case.

  He dropped his hand from her smooth flesh. She opened her eyes, and he read disappointment there. He was behaving like a fool. Maybe he should stay.

  “I should go,” he said, unable to tear his gaze from hers.

  “No more questions?” she asked, her voice breathy.

  “Not tonight.” Not wanting to, he came to his feet. She was like a powerful magnet, pulling him back to her. He had a lot more questions. For one thing, he wanted to probe into the relationship with her uncle. And she needed a warning.

  She also rose, her arms wrapped around her chest.

  “I do have a request, though,” he said.

  “Something else to think about?” she asked.

  He hated to break what felt like a weird form of magic between them, but had no choice. “I want you to be careful.”

  She frowned, and just like that the mood evaporated. “What do you mea
n?”

  “I want you to stay aware of your surroundings at all times. Watch to see if you’re being followed, if you see the same car frequently.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “My God. You think someone might try to kill me?”

  Dean sighed. He hated doing this to her. Her behavior tonight had been persuasive, and his gut told him she hadn’t had any advance knowledge of the murders. But doubts remained because he lacked proof. He was a cop. He relied on evidence. No way around the fact that his evidence so far revealed she was somehow connected to John Smith. When he figured out that connection, he’d find his perp.

  And the perp could be gunning for her with a sniper rifle.

  “I don’t want to scare you—”

  “I think that’s exactly what you want to do.”

  “Sorry. All I’m asking you is to use common sense. Stay out of dark alleys, remain in public areas.” Although a skilled sniper could find a hide almost anywhere.

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that. I’m conducting a bird walk on Saturday out into Matheson Hammock.”

  “Cancel.”

  “I can’t. I won’t. It’s my turn, and they’re depending on me.”

  “You’re going bird hunting?”

  “Not hunting. Watching. This is the beginning of the migration season and my bird society leads birders to look for warblers and such flying to the tropics for the winter.”

  “Warblers?”

  “Small migratory birds. They’re quick and hard to spot for most people. Plus, a La Sagra’s flycatcher has been spotted in the area.”

  “A flycatcher?”

  “Yes. La Sagra’s is rarely seen here, and I’m hoping to add it to my list.”

  Dean thought about Matheson Hammock, a wilderness area south of Miami he remembered as full of rough, wet terrain.

  “Hiking out into a forest is not a good idea,” he said.

  “You can’t expect me to hide inside my apartment.”

  “Just until we catch the shooter.”

  He saw unease flicker through her eyes, replaced by resolve. “That’s ridiculous. But I’ll be careful. And there will be plenty of other people around on Saturday, if it makes you feel better.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Dean stared at her and she stared back. He might not have known her long, but understood she wouldn’t back down from leading this great bird hunt. She’d had some tough breaks, and the circumstances of her life had left her with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. She’d committed to the birding trip, so she’d do it no matter what he said.

  Part of him admired her for that. Another part of him wanted to shake some sense into her.

  He sighed. “I’m thinking all that time living alone made you too damn independent.”

  “Oh, really?” June placed her hands on her hips, looking so defiant he was tempted to grin. If only this were funny.

  “Well, I’m thinking that badge makes you too damn bossy,” she said.

  Now he did grin. “Bossy?”

  “You apparently think you can tell your persons of interest how to live.”

  “Yeah? Well, apparently this one isn’t listening.”

  She lowered her arms and smiled back at him with that gorgeous mouth so ripe for kissing. He wanted to pull her into his arms again and kiss her into—what? Submission? No, definitely not submission. He liked a woman with a little fire in her. This one had plenty. Although she tried to remain aloof, he suspected strong emotion raged beneath that cool veneer. Wouldn’t he just love to peel away her layers, along with her clothing? Yeah, he’d definitely like to kindle passion for something other than birds out of June.

  “I think it’s unlikely that this shooter person will follow me on a birding trip to Matheson,” she said, dragging him back to reality. “If you knew the area, you’d realize there’s nowhere for him to hide with a rifle.”

  “I do know the area.” He took a step backward, then turned toward the door, reminding himself to get his sorry ass away from June Latham and her very kissable mouth before he complicated matters and torpedoed her cooperation. It would be a huge mistake to start anything with her no matter how much he wanted to. He needed to keep a clear head where she was concerned or risk her life and the success of this investigation.

  He had two dead bodies in the morgue. She could wind up the third.

  And he still had those doubts.

  “I’ve made you angry,” she said.

  “Angry isn’t the right word,” he said, with no intention of telling her what he was thinking. He chanced another glance at her and found her smiling. Looking pleased even, as if she’d thought of something good.

  “Just be careful on this birding expedition,” he said.

  “You could come along,” she suggested. “Keep me safe.”

  That invitation held him at the door, although he needed to make his escape before he weakened and asked her to accompany him to Mary Brickell Village for a drink. Or dinner. And then what naturally came after.

  “You mean go with you on your bird hunt?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not? You’d enjoy it.”

  “What? You tramp through the mangroves peering through binoculars looking for tiny birds that eat flies?”

  She shrugged. “And some big ones. Predators, like osprey. Hawks even.”

  Her grin widened, and she put an emphasis on hawk that made him wonder if she knew that was his nickname.

  “Sounds buggy,” he said.

  “Probably will be.”

  He shook his head. “Not my kind of hunting. I’ll pass, but will be in touch about a time to look at the video.”

  She nodded, and he stepped out into the hallway. Dean waited until he heard her locks engage, then continued to the elevator.

  His Crown Vic waited where he’d left it, and he tipped the valet attendant for his irritation.

  As Dean accelerated out of the Enclave entrance, he noted the twenty-and thirty-story condos that lined Brickell Avenue. He slowed and looked up. He was worried about June’s safety in the hammock? Shit. He pounded his steering wheel.

  She walked to work five days a week along this street. A sniper could lie in wait on any of these roofs, fix her in his sights, take the shot, then vanish before anyone figured out where the bullet in the beautiful dead woman on the sidewalk had come from.

  The golf course had been easy, but the shooter had made a mistake. Here the trick would be access to those roofs. There’d be security of course. Still, with enough time, no question it could be done. If John Smith or anyone else wanted to eliminate June badly enough, her lifestyle provided an easy target.

  Or she could be involved with the murders and no one was after her at all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  STILL SMILING, JUNE leaned against her front door after Dean left, feeling exhilarated, more alive than she had in years—all because of a sexy Miami Beach cop who radiated deadly charm. Strange. She’d never gone for dangerous bad-boy types before. Her last boyfriend—good old “what’s his name”—had been more the preppy type.

  She couldn’t figure Dean out. He flirted outrageously with her, and she was pretty sure cops weren’t supposed to use that particular interview technique. But when she freaked over his ballistics report, he treated her with kindness, even tried to reassure her. And just now he’d tried to scare her with a warning someone might be trying to shoot her. Of course, he did that in hopes she wouldn’t get shot, which was a nice thing, right?

  His visit left too many jumbled, crazed thoughts streaming through her head. She didn’t know what to obsess about first.

  Far-fetched as it seemed, she had to consider Dean’s theory that Sandy had been killed by mistake, th
at the sniper had been after her.

  Oh, Sandy. I’m so sorry. June closed her eyes. But that thinking only led her back to the why. She couldn’t imagine why anyone wanted her dead. Her pet-shop activities hadn’t been all that successful. Yeah, maybe a few owners held a grudge over losing birds but hadn’t been mad enough to commit murder.

  She swallowed. Or at least she didn’t think so.

  Should she be looking over her shoulder every second? Was she supposed to cower in the dark until the cops caught the killer? What if they never did? Sometimes cases remained unsolved, and this one seemed complicated.

  She needed more information.

  June pushed away from the door, walked to the desk in her bedroom and turned on her laptop. Over the past week, she’d been tempted to enter Dean’s name in a search engine and see what popped. So far she’d resisted, telling herself she wasn’t a cyberstalker, that she had no business thinking about Dean Hammer’s hot bod.

  “Resistance is futile,” she murmured as she leaned over and typed his name.

  She sat as a few hits materialized on the monitor. Not many. She clicked on the first three or four links, but got nothing on her particular Dean. Nothing? How could that be? She narrowed the search, but still a big fat zero. Frowning at the lack of any personal information regarding a Dean Hammer in Miami or Miami Beach, she tried the Miami Beach Police Department website.

  There she learned that private information about police officers wasn’t likely to be available on the web.

  She probably should have realized that. Of course cops needed to protect their privacy from bad guys. But the search engine produced a few obscure hits she hadn’t checked out yet, and something about him could still show up. Seemed unlikely he’d managed to keep any mention of himself off the internet. As a cop, he could unearth her high school grade-point average if he wanted to know, and she couldn’t even find out if he was married.

  Oh, face, it Junie. That’s what you really want to learn. You don’t want to spend one more second lusting after a married man.

  She’d assumed he was available that first day, but how many times had women been wrong about a man’s marital status? He knew everything about her, and she knew squat about him. Which meant, although he suspected she was hiding something, there was no mystery left where she was concerned.