Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  “So you keep saying. I still don’t understand why.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, why I need to keep a clear head. Why I showed you the photo when I know how difficult it is for you.”

  “So now you think the murders lead back to my parents?”

  “I do. Sandy and Paul Taylor have no skeletons in their closet. The dead homeless guy is a down-on-his-luck construction worker from Maine with no priors. I need to find out what John Smith’s real name is and why he was trying to contact you.”

  “Then I guess I’d better go and let you get to work.”

  * * *

  DEAN DIDN’T WANT to let her go. Not like this, not with her thinking that he didn’t want her when nothing could be further from the truth.

  When had he become such an effing hero? He couldn’t ever remember wanting a woman as badly as he wanted June Latham and not acting on the desire. But once again she’d been vulnerable, scraped raw because he’d forced her to think about her parents. Maybe she pretended not to care, but he knew better.

  She walked toward the door, where she’d dropped her purse beside his briefcase.

  “June.”

  She turned back. “What?”

  What should he say? I’ll call you after the case is over and make love to you until we’re both slick with sweat and unable to move?

  He swallowed away that image. “I want you to do me a favor,” he said.

  She picked up her bag, refusing to meet his gaze. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t walk home from work until I solve this case.”

  That got her attention. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think someone is going to take a shot at me along Brickell Avenue? Seriously?”

  “Take the bus. I saw a stop right outside the animal hospital.”

  “I could be shot while I’m standing there waiting.”

  “Hang back under a tree until the bus comes. Or even better,” he said, moving closer, wanting to pull her into his arms again, knowing if he did he wouldn’t be able to stop himself this time. “Don’t go to work. Why take chances?”

  “Oh, please. You cannot expect me to hide inside my apartment.”

  But that was exactly what he wanted her to do, which was ridiculous. So maybe it was too late. Maybe his head was already muddled when it came to June. He’d allowed himself to get too close, to care too much about what happened to her, and it was affecting his judgment.

  “You could spend some quality time with Lazarus,” he said softly, hoping to make her smile.

  She didn’t. “I have to work, but I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  She glanced back to the sofa. “If you let me have the photograph of Latham Import, I promise to be careful.”

  “You want that old grainy photo?” Once again she’d surprised him, but of course she didn’t truly hate her parents.

  She nodded. “It looks like a copy. Can’t you make another?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the image from the sofa and handed it to her. “So you’ll take the bus?”

  “You got it, Detective.”

  And with that she disappeared out his front door clutching the photograph to her chest. Feeling a strange emptiness inside him, Dean watched her drive away in the Cobra, already plotting another excuse to see her. She still hadn’t seen the video, although he no longer believed that would lead anywhere.

  What he believed was that she wouldn’t be careful, no matter what she said. He’d like to put her in a safe house, but there was no concrete evidence to support that kind of budgetary drain. Only his gut feeling that she was a killer’s target. His lieutenant would bust him back to patrol just for the suggestion.

  Not that she’d go into protective custody anyway. He smiled. Although she might agree to move in here. Maybe she wasn’t looking for romance, but she’d wanted him as much as he’d wanted her.

  Yeah, and living in the same house, they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off each other. And if they made love, he wouldn’t be able to keep a clear head where she was concerned, which could be deadly for them both.

  Shaking his head, cursing himself for his weakness when it came to June, he grabbed his briefcase and spread files out on his dining room table. He’d work the case, see what new links he could find.

  The case against June’s parents had ended with their deaths. There was no one to prosecute, so why bother to tie up loose ends? But there had to be something here, some detail that had caused John Smith to come looking for June ten years later. What if the Lathams had been framed?

  Just who the hell was John Smith? Dean added contacting IRS to his growing list.

  But first thing Monday he’d contact this Agent Don Gillis from Fish and Wildlife to get more details about the evidence he’d developed. Would he even remember a case this old? June said her parents and Gillis were friendly, so the details were probably etched in his brain.

  Dean nodded to himself. The sooner he solved the case, the sooner he could rip June’s clothes off and bang her silly. She wasn’t looking for romance? Fine. He wasn’t, either.

  * * *

  JUNE WAS STILL fuming when she pulled into the parking garage at the Enclave. Although she realized fuming might not be the best word to describe her feelings. Yeah, she could picture steam coming out her ears, but still...

  Smarting was a better word. Her feelings were hurt. She’d obsessed about Dean’s rejection all the way home, wondering what was wrong with her.

  Why didn’t he want her?

  And why did she care?

  She was pathetic. That was all there was to it.

  And now, driving through the tombs, she had to slow down and pay attention on the sharp curves down to the bottom level or risk dinging this damn car all men seemed to love. Dean had certainly enjoyed driving it. Apparently more than he enjoyed her.

  The heavy, weighted feeling she always got in the parking levels pressed her into the seat. She turned on the headlights so she could better see the concrete walls on the turns.

  Dean thought being a cop was tough on romance? Ha! Try being screwed up about your parents and life in general. She couldn’t even get a man to make love to her.

  The photograph on the seat next to her loomed like another person in the vehicle. She’d studied the image at every stoplight, getting more than one impatient honk from the driver behind her, another reason why she seldom drove. Everyone was always in such a hurry.

  Like the hurry she was in right now. She wanted out of this mausoleum.

  She carefully rounded the last turn and pulled onto the bottom level as a sense of urgency to get the hell back into daylight settled over her. She’d ask Uncle Mike again about letting the valets park his precious car. He was due for a visit anyway.

  As she maneuvered the Cobra toward its assigned slot, her memory flashed to how skillfully Dean had driven, urging amazing performance out of this powerful engine. Just as his kisses had urged more passion than she’d ever imagined possible out of her. Just kisses.

  What the hell?

  She slammed on the brakes so hard the rear end fishtailed. She stared in horror at three small gray lumps evenly spaced in Mike’s designated spot, creating a triangle.

  She shut down the engine, the sudden quiet a balm to her ears and nerves. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the car and walked toward the lumps, her steps echoing off the walls.

  Three dead doves, their vacant eyes staring at her in mute reproach, lay where the Cobra needed to go.

  * * *

  DEAN ARRIVED IN far less time than it had taken June to make the same drive. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  He’d assessed the situation with a quick glance, comforted her with a hug and just like that swit
ched into police mode. He called the crime-scene people and walked her up to her apartment.

  They’d barely spoken on the elevator ride. He’d eyed the only other resident they’d encountered as if he were a serial killer. Poor old Mr. Jacobson had actually fidgeted under Dean’s intense scrutiny. Otherwise he’d been lost in his detective-work musings.

  Before he went back down to the garage, he made sure she locked her doors, including the door to the aviary. But really, unless an intruder were Spider-Man, he’d have to drop from a plane with a parachute to gain access through the balcony.

  Dean’s last words had been Stay away from the windows. Not exactly comforting.

  So she’d curled up on her couch to wait, nursing a glass of red wine, wishing he’d come talk to her, tell her what he thought. It’d been two hours and light was fading as the sun sank lower toward the horizon. She didn’t get up to turn on any lights.

  She tried not to think about those poor dead doves, obviously killed as some sort of— What? Warning? How ironic that doves were symbols of peace.

  Whoever had done it had known using birds would rattle her. The act had been deliberate and personal. And cruel. Really cruel.

  So of course this hateful person knew where she lived. Even where she parked her car. Well, Uncle Mike’s car, which she drove on such rare occasions it made this whole terrifying situation even scarier. Did they follow her every move?

  What was going on?

  Was it John Smith? If so, why did he hate her? How could he know her so well when she didn’t know him? June thought hard, but had no memory of anyone from the company except a nice Spanish-speaking secretary who always kept a jar of Hershey’s Kisses on her desk.

  And what had her parents done that would make an ex-employee want to kill her ten years later? The more she thought about it, the less it made sense.

  She stared at Uncle Mike’s phone and knew she should call to ask if he remembered any of Mom and Dad’s workers. Would he know if any of Latham Import’s personnel records still existed? How else could Dean figure out who this John Smith person really was?

  But maybe John Smith wasn’t responsible for today’s nightmare. If not, who else?

  She jumped when the concierge desk rang, almost spilling her wine. When she picked up the security phone, Magda informed her Detective Hammer was on his way up. June waited by the front door. She told herself to calm down, that he couldn’t possibly know anything yet.

  He knocked, and she threw open the door to find Dean frowning at her.

  “Did you check to confirm it was me?”

  “Magda called. I knew it was you because she released the elevator for you.”

  He stalked into her apartment as if pissed off. “You should have checked. What if someone had been holding a gun to her head?”

  She hugged herself, wishing Dean would hug her instead. “Wow. You’re really scaring me here.”

  He slammed her car keys on the dining room table. When he turned back to her, his expression softened. “You promised to be careful, remember?”

  June swallowed and looked away from him. She’d waited for him to return to her as if he were the oracle from above, and he was treating her like a stupid child. When would she ever learn?

  “Hey,” he said in a quieter voice.

  She refused to look at him. She didn’t want him to read her feelings.

  He stepped back and gathered her into his arms. She went willingly, pressed herself closer to his strong, steady warmth. Feeling safe, she placed her cheek against his chest.

  “You’ve had one hell of a day, haven’t you?” he said.

  “Parts of it were nice,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Parts of it were very nice.”

  They stayed like that another breath or two, and then she pulled away. He cupped her cheek and smiled down at her.

  “Sorry I barked at you,” he said. “Not a good excuse, but it’s because I’m worried.”

  Loving the warmth of his hand against her face, she whispered, “I know.” Whatever the complicated nature of their relationship, she believed he cared about what happened to her. What bothered her was he thought that meant he could tell her what to do.

  Considering what was going on, how fast this crazy situation was escalating, maybe his instinct to keep her at a distance was a good one. She appreciated his help, but didn’t like being ordered around.

  She retrieved her wine and took a swallow. Aware that he watched her, she said, “Would you like some wine? Or are you on duty?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.”

  She moved to the bar and poured a glass. “It’s one of Uncle Mike’s nicest cabs,” she told Dean as she handed it to him. “I decided I deserved it tonight.”

  Dean accepted the wine, eyeing her steadily. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Poor little mourning doves. At least they’re common.” She sat on the sofa, but Dean remained standing, still watching her. He hadn’t tasted the wine yet. She placed her glass on a side table.

  “It was some sort of a warning, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “A warning about what, though? I still don’t know what I’ve done or I’m not supposed to do.”

  He took a swallow of the wine. “This is nice,” he said.

  “Uncle Mike has good taste. I was planning on calling him tonight to ask him if he remembers anything,” she said, hoping to prime the pump of information.

  “Good,” Dean said.

  June heaved a sigh. This was like trying to get a sick dog to tell her what his symptoms were. Dean should be able to verbalize a little better. “Are you going to tell me what you’ve learned?”

  He shook his head. “Police work isn’t like on TV. There isn’t always a magic breakthrough in the first hour.”

  “So no clues as to who was responsible?”

  “A few.”

  But he wasn’t going to tell her, obviously. “Do you think it was John Smith?”

  Lost in thought, Dean took a sip of wine.

  “Could it be related to my attempts to stop pet stores from selling captured birds?”

  He finally sat beside her. “I’ve investigated the illegal bird trade in South Florida looking for a link to the murders, especially the pet stores you’ve raided. You’re right, there’s some pretty nasty stuff going on and something should be done.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said.

  “But I don’t think what happened today is related to your commando raids at all.”

  His tone told her he’d developed some sort of theory. “Did the same weapon that killed Sandy kill the birds?”

  “No. The birds died because someone broke their necks.”

  June shook her head. “What’s this about, then?”

  He remained silent, staring into the deep red liquid.

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  He looked up. “Because I don’t know yet. This is just another piece of a very complicated puzzle.”

  “Please be honest with me.”

  “I will when I have something to tell you.”

  Was he lying to her? She looked down at her slacks, realized she’d had on the same clothes since early this morning and needed a shower. Using her index finger, she traced the pattern of a grass stain from the hammock. “Does this have something to do with my parents?”

  He placed his wine on the table beside hers, and she knew he was going to leave before he told her anything important. She was pushing him away with incessant questions, but didn’t she have a right to know what was going on? Apparently Dean didn’t think so and, as usual, wanted to control the flow of information. She really hated that.

  “I need more time before I can give you solid ans
wers, but I’ll tell you this much.”

  She looked up when he paused. “What?”

  He gave her a half smile, and she realized he was relenting a little, telling her something he didn’t want to. “I can almost guarantee that those dead birds in the garage had nothing to do with your parents.”

  “But—”

  Before she could finish, his mouth was on hers, cutting off her words. She wanted to lose herself in the sensation of his soft warm lips, but it was a quick kiss. A goodbye kiss. Damn him.

  “That’s all I can tell you tonight,” he murmured, his breath gentle and warm against her cheek, whispering the faint fragrance of wine.

  She knew he was leaving. She wanted to ask him to stay, but her pride wouldn’t let her. He’d already turned her down once today.

  “I need to go,” he said.

  She sat back with a sigh. The reluctance in his voice made her feel a little better, but not much.

  “Will I be safe here?” she asked.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEAN TOOK A deep breath. She’d asked the question he’d been struggling with since he’d arrived at the Enclave. But his instincts told him if the shooter had wanted June dead, had known she’d left in the Cobra this morning, she’d be dead.

  And she wasn’t. She was very much alive, and every enticing breath she took tested his control. Tempted him to cross a line he’d established at the beginning of his career.

  He never got intimate with women associated with his cases.

  June wasn’t just associated; she was the case.

  He didn’t have many rules when it came to women, but this was one he’d never broken. But damn. Just looking at her created an ache. He longed to touch her, kiss her, taste her. He wanted to take her into the bedroom for hours of hot, sweet, satisfying sex.

  But if he wanted her to keep heaving those gorgeous breaths, he needed to remain objective.

  Hell, who was he kidding? Way too late for that. He’d lost all objectivity where June was concerned. What was it about her? Couldn’t be her beauty. He’d known plenty of women more beautiful. Her vulnerability?