Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  “Find anything interesting?” Dean asked. He stepped beside her, smelling great, wearing a fresh cotton shirt and shorts. She’d never seen him in anything but slacks and was pleased to finally get a look at some bare skin other than his arm. Nice legs. He’d combed his damp hair away from his face, which accentuated his cheekbones.

  She indicated the memorial. “Was your father killed on the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. I was just a kid.”

  She picked up the photo of two men in uniform. “Your brother?”

  “Yeah,” Dean said with obvious affection. “My younger bro.”

  “Different uniforms, so a different department?”

  “Don works for Miami-Dade County. So did my dad.”

  “So, why do you work for the city of Miami Beach?”

  He placed the photo back on the shelf. “Do you want the truth?”

  She met his gaze. “Of course.”

  He grinned. “I like South Beach.”

  “And here I thought you were going to tell me something like you wanted to be your own man.”

  “That’s what I tell most people. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m assuming these aren’t the photographs you want me to look at.”

  “You’re right.” He gestured to the sofa. “Let’s sit.”

  June sat on a comfy-looking cloth sofa while Dean retrieved a folder from the briefcase he’d left by the front door.

  “Is this something to do with a crime scene?” she asked, worried about the determined set to his jaw. Is this going to be gory? Like the photos of the turkeys?

  “No, nothing like that.” He sat beside her, so close that their thighs touched, and handed her an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven color photograph. “Do you recognize anyone?”

  June accepted the picture. When she glanced down, she tensed. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “My parents.”

  “Your parents are among the group?” He didn’t sound surprised.

  June ran a finger over the image of her mom and then her dad. She’d forgotten her mom used to wear her hair in that poufy style. And look how long Dad’s hair was. “I remember this,” she said.

  “You would have been very young.”

  “But it was an exciting day. There was cake and balloons.” Suddenly she was transported back almost twenty years to the grand opening of Latham Import. Yeah, she remembered all the worry and the preparation leading up to that day, but mostly she remembered the party. She didn’t understand everything, but had sensed how thrilled her parents had been that their dream had finally come true. She stared at all the beaming faces in the photograph.

  “How could they have let all that joy just slip away?” she wondered aloud.

  “Latham Import?” Dean asked.

  “That’s what I never understood,” she said. “I reviewed the financials later. The business was doing fine. They didn’t need to—”

  “It probably started small,” Dean said. “Someone, probably a customer, likely made a suggestion, said they’d handle everything. It worked the first time, they made a lot of money and it escalated from there.”

  “But they didn’t need the money. They were greedy.”

  “Criminals usually are.”

  She raised her face to his. “You obviously loved your father.”

  “Yes,” Dean said quietly.

  “You haven’t mentioned your mother.”

  “But I love her, too. June—”

  “Well, I hate my parents,” she said bitterly, looking away from the kindness, the sympathy in Dean’s eyes.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s true. Everyone, including shrinks, told me to forgive them, but I can’t.”

  He placed a warm hand on her thigh. “They didn’t mean to die.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they didn’t,” she said with a harsh laugh. “They had way too much fun partying at the Turf Club.”

  She stopped speaking and sucked in a breath, refusing to give in to useless emotion. Dean remained quiet, and she felt the weight of his hand on her leg.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “You don’t need to apologize.”

  “I believed them,” she said, staring at the photo. “We had a big family conference when they were out on bail. God, I remember how relieved I was that they were home. They sat me down in our beautiful house—a house later confiscated by the government—and swore to me that it was all a mistake, that they could prove it, that I wasn’t to worry.” She met Dean’s gaze again. “And I believed them.”

  “Of course you believed them,” Dean said. “They were your parents.”

  “They made me think everything was going to be all right, that our lives would return to normal, and it was all a big fat lie.”

  She heaved a sigh, knowing she needed to get a grip. What was she doing, telling Dean she hated her mom and dad? She’d never even told Sandy how she felt. Certainly not Uncle Mike, who still mourned his older brother all these years later. In fact, she’d never talked to anyone about her parents, even those damn head doctors. All they’d wanted to do was make her cry.

  She lifted her chin. She hadn’t cried then, and she damn well wouldn’t cry now.

  And what did a murder investigation have to do with her long-dead parents anyway?

  “Why did you want me to see this?” she asked.

  * * *

  CURSING HIMSELF AS the biggest fool in the county, Dean wanted to pull June into his arms even though he knew she’d resist any attempt to comfort her. She’d somehow shut down about her parents after their deaths, talked herself into believing she hated them. Likely a form of self-preservation.

  He’d assumed at least one of her parents was in the photo, but never dreamed she’d react this way. He thought he knew her, but there were layers to June Latham he didn’t get.

  Or maybe this was a well-rehearsed act.

  Reluctantly he removed his hand from her leg. He needed to keep his mind on business and ask his questions. No matter what horrible memories surfaced, he needed to know if she recognized anyone else in the picture. He had two murders to solve.

  She smoothed hair away from her forehead with her palm, as if trying to clear her thoughts. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know my own parents?”

  “My interest isn’t in your mom and dad,” he said. “Does anyone else look familiar?”

  “Oh. Of course.” Shaking her head, she studied the image again. “This was so long ago.”

  “Just do your best.”

  “Hey.” She used her index finger and tapped at the first row, right in the center of John Smith’s grinning face.

  Dean wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or sorry she made the ID. It didn’t mean she’d been lying before. She’d been six or seven years old at the time of this party. She might not remember her parents’ employees.

  “Is this the man who released the birds?” she asked. “John Smith?”

  Dean nodded. “We think so.”

  “So he was an employee of Latham Import?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “So, then, he did know me,” she said wonderingly. Dean watched her carefully. If she was lying, she was the best he’d ever come up against. Or do I just want to believe a beautiful woman?

  “But you don’t remember him from before the bird release?” he asked.

  “I probably met him.” She shrugged. “I didn’t visit the warehouse too often, although I loved it there. My mom thought it was too dangerous with forklifts roaring around and being right on the Miami River.” She looked up. “That’s why I learned to swim so young.”

  Dean nodded. May
be her mom and dad were greedy, but they sounded like responsible parents.

  “But why would—” June narrowed her eyes, as if recalling something. “Wait a minute.”

  Dean continued to study her, convinced she was genuinely reaching for an elusive memory.

  “I vaguely recall my uncle telling me there were a couple of employees who were steadfast in their defense of my parents even after Agent Gillis discovered the proof. Maybe this John Smith was one of them.”

  “What proof was that?” Dean asked.

  June gave a wobbly laugh. “You’re really making me work hard here, Detective. Believe me, I’ve tried not to think about these details for a long time.”

  “This is important.”

  “The drugs were with a shipment of blue-and-gold macaws,” June said. “Imagine that. Signatures on something proved my mom was in on it. Agent Gillis found a witness in Peru who completed an affidavit. He later told me the case was solid and there was nothing he could do.” She smiled faintly. “Poor Aunt Janice. She begged her husband to bury the evidence to protect my parents. It nearly killed him, but he couldn’t do it.”

  “Because he’d have been arrested, too,” Dean said, making a mental note to contact Agent Donald Gillis at Fish and Wildlife for more details. “Do you know where the records of Latham Import are kept?”

  “There aren’t any. Everything burned. That was the point of the fire.”

  “Did your parents have an accountant who prepared their taxes, payroll?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. Why?”

  “That CPA might still have copies.”

  “Not after ten years. What about IRS?”

  Dean ran a hand through his still-damp hair, wondering how the hell long it would take to get ten-year-old tax returns from Internal Revenue, if they were even available. And would there be supporting schedules with names of employees?

  “I can try,” he said. “Damn, but I need to know John Smith’s real name. Any chance your uncle would remember the names of these loyal employees?”

  She made a face. “I guess I can ask.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He doesn’t like thinking about the fire any more than I do. That fire—well, it was bad. Uncle Mike worshipped his older brother. He still misses him.” She glanced down to the photo again and touched her father’s face; then her finger slid over to her mother.

  Dean considered himself a hardened police officer. He’d dealt with plenty of unbelievable, heartbreaking tragedies during his career. But the mournful expression on June’s face right now made his gut clench. He felt the heat of her thigh pressing into his.

  She’s convinced herself she hates her mom because that’s easier than remembering her love.

  He was torturing June with all these damn questions. He was forcing her to remember events best forgotten.

  By now he’d read the case files so many times he’d memorized most of the info. Her parents’ charred bodies had been discovered by a locked exit, clutching each other, knowing they were finished. Does June know the grisly details? Is she thinking about them now?

  Hating himself for putting her through this, he placed his arm around her shoulders. “June?”

  She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  He wrapped his other arm around her and pulled them both back against the sofa. “It’s okay,” he said.

  He half expected her to start sobbing, something she probably needed to do, but she surprised him again by placing her cheek against his chest and pressing deeper into his embrace.

  He gave her a gentle squeeze and said, “I think that’s all the questions for today.”

  She placed her arm around his waist and hugged him back.

  He continued to hold her, breathing in her sweet fragrance, lightly stroking her back. He closed his eyes. This felt nice. He could stay here all day.

  They remained that way for a moment or two, until she lifted her face to his and tried to smile. He wondered how much the effort cost her.

  He cupped her cheek and smiled back. “Hey.”

  “Thanks for being so nice,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I’m a real prince,” he murmured and lowered his mouth to hers.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JUNE MET HIS kiss eagerly, thankful Dean had known exactly what she needed.

  She was tired of thinking about a painful past, done with answering questions. She wanted to lose herself in the inviting warmth of this man and forget about everything that had happened before this moment.

  She parted her lips, and he made a rumbling sound deep in his throat. When he slid his velvet tongue inside her mouth, she raised her hands to his neck, moved her fingers into his wet hair and pulled him closer.

  There would be time for regrets later. She knew all about regrets, knew there’d be plenty of opportunities for wishing things had been different. It was what she did best.

  Right now she only wanted to get closer to Dean. It seemed as if she’d spent her entire life aching to feel his mouth somewhere on her body. She arched her pelvis against his, felt him harden and realized she was stretched out on his sofa. Dean was on top of her, making love to her with his mouth.

  She wasn’t sure how that had happened and didn’t care. Oblivious of anything but their connection, she rotated her hips again to let him know she was okay with this, but instead he pulled away.

  “Mmm,” she managed in protest, the best she could do with her senses spinning out of control. She didn’t want him to stop. Isn’t this why he brought me here? Why I willingly followed him home?

  She opened her eyes reluctantly. Unsmiling, his gorgeous mouth hovered just above her face. His intense blue eyes stared down at her. He didn’t speak.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Everything.”

  She searched his eyes. She knew he wanted her. The evidence was clear, pressing into her belly. He held himself above her with forearms resting on either side of her head, his impressive arms easily handling the weight, his fingers absently combing through her hair. But he wasn’t kissing her anymore.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he murmured.

  She didn’t, but slid her hands through his dark hair to bring him down to her again.

  He resisted. “We can’t do this,” he said in a voice so hoarse it didn’t sound like him.

  “Yes, we can.”

  He grinned, that cocky bad-boy smile that shouldn’t melt her defenses but always did. “Yes, we definitely could, and it would be great.”

  She nodded in agreement and smiled back to encourage him.

  “But we shouldn’t,” he continued, and she knew the moment had passed. Painful memories had already begun flooding into her brain—Sandy’s murder, the fire. The regrets would soon follow.

  “Because I’m a suspect?” she asked.

  He pushed himself away from her. “You’re not a suspect.”

  June remained with her back on his sofa, watching as he placed his forearms on his knees and glared at his carpet.

  “But you don’t trust me,” she said.

  He rose and walked across the room. That was all the answer she needed.

  She sat up, trying to organize her tumbling thoughts, wishing she didn’t care what he thought. Why should she? Because he had a killer smile and an amazing body?

  No, because he’s a police detective investigating two murders he thinks I know more about than I’m saying. I need to convince him I don’t so he can find the real killers.

  Hands on his hips, Dean stared out his front window. She couldn’t see his face. What is he thinking?

  “Do you really think I should have remembered John Smith worked for my parents?�
��

  “No.”

  “But you think I’ve been lying to you?”

  He turned to face her. “I believe you, June. That’s not why I...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You know, there are some people in this county who would laugh themselves silly to think I developed a conscience.”

  “Old girlfriends, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Maybe a few husbands, too.”

  “Why would you develop a conscience about me?” She raised her chin. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. Give me some credit for knowing what I’m doing.”

  He walked back toward her. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing. I have a rule about getting involved with...” He paused, searching for a word.

  “Persons of interest?” she finished for him.

  He sat beside her again. This time their thighs didn’t touch. “You’re connected to two murders. I believe it’s unknowingly, but if we get involved, it complicates things. I’m crossing a line I shouldn’t.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said, unsure why she didn’t let it go. Maybe because she was miffed he’d been able to put on the brakes when she wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off.

  “You say that now, but if it ends badly it could get messy.”

  “Do your love affairs always end badly?”

  “Not always badly, but they always end. Being a cop is tough on romance.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I’m looking for romance?”

  His lips compressed into a thin line, but otherwise he carefully controlled his features so she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  She looked away. Yeah, whatever.

  “June, please understand I need to maintain some distance. Solving this case will get me out of my lieutenant’s shit can, and you—” he shook his head “—you seriously interfere with my focus. Two people are dead, and you could be next.”