Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  Dean ordered the same, except he requested a beer instead of wine.

  With Dean watching her intently, June reached for the ice water provided by Ruth and took a long drink. Unexpectedly nervous by his scrutiny, she wished it were the wine instead. What is he thinking? And why is he being so nice?

  “Is our waitress the owner?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “No, her granddaughter.”

  Fortunately the wine appeared within two minutes, and June took a grateful sip. Dean took a long swallow of his beer and met her gaze again. There it was again, that compelling, electric connection. But he wasn’t smiling now.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Not a thing. I’m enjoying the surroundings and the company.”

  She nodded, but knew he was thinking about his case and deciding if he could trust her. And why should he, really? She hadn’t been exactly welcoming when he showed up on the hike.

  “This is a great place,” she said. “I’m surprised the birding community doesn’t know about it.”

  “Big Ruth wouldn’t appreciate a horde of hikers tramping all over her private property.”

  June laughed at the image. “I guess not. Do you come here a lot?”

  He shrugged. “When I can. It’s a bit far from where I live.”

  She pounced on the opening. “Do you live on Miami Beach?”

  “Can’t afford the taxes,” he said with a lazy smile.

  “Oh.” Disappointed, she glanced back to the bay. The osprey remained on the piling, still searching the choppy water for signs of food.

  “Cops don’t usually live in the area they police,” Dean said. “It can be awkward if you have to arrest your neighbor.”

  “I never thought about that,” June said. She took a quick swallow of wine. “Listen, if I was rude to you earlier—”

  “If?” He eyed her steadily.

  “If. When. Whatever. It’s just that when I—”

  “Is this an apology?” Dean interrupted.

  “Not if you don’t let me finish.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need to.”

  She sighed. “It was going to be more of an explanation than an apology.”

  He laughed, a deep belly laugh that made her narrow her eyes at him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Considering the way we met, do you think you really need to explain why you were upset that I occasionally hunt birds?”

  She nodded. “I guess not.”

  “What if I told you this birding trip with you has shown me the error of my ways?”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “I’m wounded, June,” he said.

  She caught her breath at his soft, quiet tone and searched his face for intent. He couldn’t be serious.

  He produced that killer smile again. “I promised to be honest with you.”

  “What I remember is you said you’d try.” She stared at his mouth, suddenly thrust back to the night in her condo when he had almost kissed her. And she’d wanted him to, had been sorry when he didn’t.

  “Here you go,” Ruth said. She placed steaming cups of chowder on their table, along with a basket of warm corn bread and a bottle of sherry. “Be back with your sandwiches in a jiff.”

  June exhaled on a quick rush, glad for the interruption. The spicy fragrance from the soup reminded her she was ravenous. Plus, she needed to eat. She needed energy to keep up with Dean’s quick mind.

  Damn, but the man excited all her senses, drained her and thrilled her at the same time.

  * * *

  DEAN ALWAYS BELIEVED it was a testament to the food at Ruth’s that no one spoke much the first ten minutes after a meal was delivered. This afternoon was no exception. He was pleased to note that June was no picky eater. She liberally doused her chowder with the sherry and then proceeded to thoroughly enjoy her food—with regular glances toward the bay in hopes of spotting an eagle.

  He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed watching her or eating his own food more. She was a delight in every way.

  He chomped down on a crisp french fry. Well, maybe not in every way. She loved to give him shit and could definitely hold her own in any verbal sparring match.

  She pushed her empty plate away with a contented sigh. “That was delicious.”

  He nodded agreement and took the last swallow of his beer. Damn good meal all around.

  She relaxed back in her seat and raised her binoculars for a long look at the bay. He scanned the water himself. Still no eagles. Maybe they were all too far out hunting.

  She lowered the glasses and said, “I’m assuming you brought me here because you have more questions.”

  Dean leaned forward. Time to do his own version of hunting. Hunting for the truth. For the first time in his career, he didn’t know where to start an interrogation. He didn’t want to believe June had anything to do with the shootings, but he couldn’t ignore the facts. He’d deliberately left the photographs in his vehicle, wanting to have a peaceful interlude with her before hitting her with suspicion, knowing she’d react as if he’d tossed a bucket of cold water over her head. Afterward he’d get nothing out of her.

  So he’d start with the easy questions.

  “Do you know a Donald Gillis?”

  “Agent Gillis?” She smiled uncertainly. “Sure. He’s my contact with Fish and Wildlife. I give him my proof of smuggled birds.”

  “Is that the only way you know him?”

  “No. My parents considered him and his wife their best friends. Why?”

  “I’ve been looking into the circumstances of your parents’ death, and his name is all over the files.” He watched her carefully for a reaction, but detected only puzzlement.

  “But why would you look at the circumstances of the fire?”

  “Because, darling, I’m looking for a reason someone would want to kill you, and you’ve come up squeaky clean.”

  Her lips quirked, and he knew she fought a smile. “I’m not sure if I like being thought of as squeaky clean.”

  “Well, I can tell you it sure makes my job difficult,” he drawled.

  She produced a huge grin, which made her even more lovely. “Well, I am so very sorry.”

  I’ll bet you are. “So you’ve stayed in touch with Gillis?”

  “Yeah, he’s been a friend. He tried desperately to prove my parents were innocent, but the evidence against them was so overwhelming even he became convinced of their guilt.”

  She all but spat out the last word, and Dean again noted June’s bitterness over her parents’ criminal activity. He resisted pulling a napkin toward him to make notes, not wanting to make the interview appear too formal. Maybe his notebook had turned into a crutch.

  “You know, I’ve always thought that’s what killed Janice, Agent Gillis’s wife,” June said in a softer voice.

  “Explain.”

  “She and my mom were like sisters. I even called her Aunt Janice, and she was devastated by the thought that her ‘sister’—” June raised her hands to create faux quotation marks around the word “—had been smuggling. A year later Aunt Janice had a heart attack. I think it was the stress.”

  “Yeah, stress is a killer,” Dean agreed. “So, why don’t you call Agent Gillis Uncle Don?”

  June lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t know. Just never did.”

  “Maybe because you already had an uncle,” Dean suggested.

  “Agent Gillis isn’t the friendly uncle type.”

  “But Michael Latham is?” He’d been wondering about the uncle, even though the background check from New York came back spotless. June had been a beautiful, vulnerable child when her parents died. He hated the direction
of his thoughts, but what if the uncle was a perverted predator? He’d be in a perfect position to take advantage of a lonely, frightened niece.

  She shrugged. “He’s my father’s brother.”

  “And that’s it?” Dean asked the question casually, running a finger down the cool, moist water glass on the table. He lifted his gaze and scanned her face for any tells, any sign that her relationship with her uncle wasn’t a normal family one.

  She leaned toward him. “Exactly what are you asking me, Detective Hammer?”

  She was close enough that Dean felt her soft breath against his arm. “I’m inquiring into the nature of your relationship with your uncle,” he said.

  “I think you’re asking if there’s something improper going on between us.” She lifted her hand and stroked his arm with a light touch. “Something...sexual,” she said in an intimate tone.

  Fascinated by her unexpected response, sensing she was toying with him, he suddenly had to know the answer. His flesh burned where she touched him. She was deliberately driving him nuts. “Is there?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUNE STARED AT where her hand remained in contact with Dean’s muscled forearm, his flesh warm and alive beneath her fingers. Ever since they’d escaped the bugs on the hike and he’d rolled up his sleeves, she’d wanted to touch him right here.

  This was so unlike her. She could hardly believe she was stroking Dean, teasing him, deliberately making him wonder about just how “close” she and Uncle Mike really were. She met his gaze, pleased to note his confused reaction, the first time she’d been able to plainly read him. Served him right. First he thought she was a hooker, and now he thought she was a mistress being kept in style by a rich uncle.

  Of course he wasn’t the first person to harbor such suspicions about her and Uncle Mike. The innuendo usually insulted her, but not today. She sensed Dean’s interest stemmed from true concern, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wasn’t used to anyone actually caring about her. She was used to taking care of herself.

  He placed his hand over hers. “June?”

  She considered dragging this out. She could look away with a sad expression and ask if he would hate her if it was true, but decided to put him out of his misery.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “But Uncle Mike is gay.”

  After a pause, he choked out, “Gay?”

  She nodded. “And, regardless, he’s not that kind of man.”

  June watched Dean’s thoughts zoom off on a new path. She had no clue what he was thinking, but she knew he’d left her and traveled somewhere else, sifting the new information against what he already knew about his case.

  His case. Always his case. But of course that’s the only reason we’re here.

  “Is the fact that my uncle doesn’t date women important?” she asked, unable to imagine how it would be.

  Dean refocused on her. “No. I’m just glad that in addition to everything else you went through after your parents’ deaths, you weren’t a victim of child abuse.”

  She swallowed and looked out to the glittering bay. Dean was the first person to acknowledge that she’d gone through pure hell because of her greedy father and mother. Ten years ago, all the adults told her to be strong, be brave, she was a big girl, that nothing was her fault. Her friends didn’t know what to say or do.

  How could a man she barely knew understand how she’d felt?

  “So, what’s your relationship with that Jared character?” Dean asked.

  She swung her gaze back to him. “Jared? He’s a colleague.”

  “If he thought he could get away with it, he’d have pushed me into a gator hole this morning. Should I be jealous?”

  “Why would you be jealous?” she challenged.

  He took her hand in both of his and squeezed. “Because you have the most curious effect on me, June.”

  She blinked. “And what effect is that?” Now he was serious again? Hard to keep up with his quick changes.

  Holding her gaze, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.

  His warm breath felt delicious, his lips impossibly sensual. She closed her eyes as a reckless, languorous sensation took hold of her. Oh, that effect. Does he know he has the same effect on me? Of course he does.

  “Are you two all done here?” Ruth asked in a booming voice.

  June opened her eyes and found Dean watching her with a knowing expression.

  He released her hand and sat back. “Yes, ma’am. Delicious as ever.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” the waitress responded. “You all want any key-lime pie?”

  “Would you like something sweet, June?” Dean asked, holding her gaze again, smiling his dangerous bad-boy smile.

  Yes, sir, I believe I would. She shivered.

  But she said, “I couldn’t eat another thing right now.”

  “Just the check,” Dean said to Ruth.

  On their walk to the Cobra, June noted threatening clouds in the western sky, the typical weather pattern for South Florida in mid-September.

  As they put on the Cobra’s custom-made hardtop, Dean said, “I have some photographs I’d like you to look at.”

  “Photographs?” Oh, right. Back to his case. “Of what?”

  “I’d rather you see them without knowing the subject ahead of time. But they’re back in my vehicle. I got so excited about driving with a beautiful woman in an honest-to-God real 1965 Shelby Cobra that I forgot to bring them.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, suspecting he never forgot a thing. “You are so full of it, Detective Hammer.”

  * * *

  A HALF MILE from Matheson Hammock, the dark skies released their burden and wind-driven sheets of rain made it hard for Dean to see the road. He downshifted to slow the Cobra, noting with approval the quick response of the fifty-year-old car.

  The rain was a godsend, he decided. He’d been second-guessing his decision not to show June the photos at lunch, now thinking the process would be awkward in his vehicle. He’d rather she be relaxed and comfortable.

  So this nasty weather provided the perfect excuse for his new plan.

  Would she agree? He smiled, liking the fact that he wasn’t certain how much urging she would need. June was definitely a challenge. He liked a challenge.

  He stopped next to the Crown Vic. Rain beat loud enough against the Cobra that he had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “Hell of a storm,” he said.

  A flash of lightning was followed almost immediately by a booming clap of thunder. June jumped, then laughed at her reaction.

  “Wow. Look how dark it’s gotten,” she said peering outside.

  Dean watched water sluice down the windshield, enjoying the intimacy of this moment, how close they were, dry and warm inside her uncle’s car.

  Her gay uncle. When June had dropped that bombshell of info, his mind snapped to his partner’s initial theory that Rocky and John Smith had enjoyed a romantic evening before the homeless man’s murder. Had he missed something? Could there be a homosexual component here? But after exploring any possibility of a connection, he decided that was a dead end.

  Yeah, and this case was full of dead ends. Unfortunately, every time he crashed into one, he had to turn around and head back to June.

  He glanced at her. Much as he liked being with her, they couldn’t sit here the rest of the day.

  “Listen,” he said. “Would you mind following me somewhere dry? We definitely need more light, and I don’t want you or my evidence to get wet.”

  She shrugged. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then hauled his butt out of the Cobra before she could change her mind. Cold rain plastered his shirt to his skin by the time he slid
behind the wheel of his car, but he didn’t give a damn.

  His home was thirty minutes away and he was taking her there.

  Dean hoped the storm would clear before they arrived at his duplex, but no such luck. The rain had slowed to a drizzle when they pulled into his driveway, but they both ran for the front porch to escape a drenching.

  “Sorry,” he said as he inserted his key into the lock. “I guess you got wet anyway.”

  “Not as wet as you,” June said, eyeing his chest. “You must be freezing.”

  She pushed damp hair away from her forehead and laughed as if she didn’t care in the least. She was a good sport. He liked that about her.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked with bright, curious eyes.

  “Guilty as charged,” he responded, pushing open the front door.

  “Then I’ll bet you have a dry towel somewhere.”

  Dean quickly surveyed his living room, but knew it would be presentable. His furniture was fairly new, purchased from a retailer that sold entire rooms to make decorating easy. He rented out the other side of the duplex and spent more time working than here. This was more of an investment than a home. It’d do for now.

  He grabbed a towel from the linen closet and tossed it to June.

  “Thanks,” she said, swiping the terry cloth across her face. Eyes wide, she openly checked out the room, seemingly pleased to be inside his home.

  Why was that? He’d violated one of his cardinal rules by bringing her here. Had he made a mistake?

  Pushing away his suspicions, he said, “Have a seat. I’m going to put on some dry clothes.”

  * * *

  TOWEL DRYING HER HAIR, June stepped over to a bookcase full of books, plaques and photographs. A group of photos featuring parents and young children surrounded some sort of memorial to a man in police uniform who’d been killed in the line of duty. The man looked very much like Dean. Another photo contained two men in uniform. One was Dean. Who was the other?

  Once again it struck her that Dean knew her complete life history, yet she knew next to nothing about him.

  Her attention shifted to the numerous framed awards, which were mostly police commendations, containing the phrase “Above and beyond the call of duty” over and over. Oh, and here were sharpshooting medals. She narrowed her eyes, thankful he didn’t proudly display proof of his dead prey. The books all focused on police procedure, forensics or something to do with various weapons.