Detective Daddy

by Mallory Kane

  Looking at his choices—wait for her to get home or panic and put out a BOLO on her car—he decided, at least for the next two hours, to assume she’d gone shopping.

  So he changed into jeans and a T-shirt and dug in the back of his closet for a file box that he’d stored there. He carried the box into the living room and set it on the coffee table. Then he opened the refrigerator’s freezer compartment and stared inside at the contents. There was the frozen entrée he’d thought about making the other night, a half bag of French fries that looked like they were from the ’90s and a gallon of ice cream. Slim pickings for dinner. He was just about to pull the frozen entrée out and read the back again when his phone rang.

  It was his aunt. “Hi, Aunt Angie,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

  “Oh, Ash, I need help with your uncle,” Angie said, her voice shrill with anxiety.

  “What’s wrong? Is he okay?” Ash asked, closing the freezer.

  “He’s ranting and raving like a crazy man. He wants to dig out his old shotgun and shoot Campbell himself.”

  Ash suppressed a sigh. So Uncle Craig hadn’t calmed down. “Have you called Devin?” he asked. Devin would have a better chance at talking their uncle down. He’d never been as close to Uncle Craig as Devin had.

  “No,” Angela said. “I thought you could come over here and tell him that you’re going to arrest him if he doesn’t stop threatening people.”

  “I can’t arrest him for ranting and raving. Call Devin. He can talk some sense into him. I’m sort of tied up on an undercover assignment right now and I can’t leave.”

  “How can the police do this?” Angela wailed. “How can they just one day say, ‘Oh, well. We got the wrong guy. Sorry for the inconvenience.’”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well, please hurry. I’m not sure what’s going to happen if someone doesn’t stop Craig. And I don’t think Natalie is sleeping.”

  “I’ve talked to Natalie. I think she’s doing pretty well. Call Devin if you need someone tonight. I’ll get over there to talk to Uncle Craig soon.”

  “All right,” Angela said, but Ash could tell from her voice that she felt like he was giving her the brush-off. “Goodbye, dear.”

  As Ash hung up, feeling guilty, the front door opened and Rachel came in, carrying a leather satchel. When she set it down on the kitchen table, Ash heard a distinctive thump, the muffled sound of a heavy piece of metal against wood.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Rachel took off her jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “That’s my weapon and ammunition.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly that Ash was taken aback. If Hammond hadn’t given him a heads-up, his jaw would have probably hit the floor.

  “Your weapon?” he echoed.

  “Yes. It’s been several months since I’ve gone to the range, so I went after work.”

  “Where do you keep it? Was it in the apartment when you were attacked?”

  “No. I keep it in my car. I have a carry permit, but I keep the gun and ammo in the trunk.”

  “SLMPD doesn’t require criminalists to carry a weapon,” he said. “Why do you have a carry permit?”

  She shrugged. “Dad thought it was a good idea.”

  “Let me see the gun.”

  She pulled a paddle holster from the satchel, slid the gun out and handed it to Ash, handle first.

  Initially he checked to see if it was loaded. It wasn’t. He inspected it, broke it down and reassembled it, then handed it back to her. He was impressed with its condition.

  “Nice. When did you get it?” he asked, thinking he probably already knew the answer.

  “It was my dad’s. When he was killed on the job, the chief gave me his service revolver.”

  “This is the gun you learned to shoot with?”

  She nodded, smiling wistfully.

  “What else did your dad teach you?”

  “I know how to flip a man who’s rushing me. I can tail you without you knowing. And I can shoot a rifle, too, although I don’t own one.”

  “You can’t tail me.”

  “Bet I can.”

  Ash narrowed his gaze. “How come you didn’t tell me any of this when we were dating?”

  She shrugged. “I guess it never came up,” she said, taking the gun back, checking the barrel. She reached into the satchel and pulled out a chamois cloth and wiped it down, then inserted it into the paddle holster and slid it back into the satchel.

  “I’ve got to say, you look awfully sexy handling that gun.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “Thanks, I think.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’m going to clean it this evening and put it back in my car.”

  “It won’t do you much good in the trunk,” he said.

  “That’s what I was thinking. I’ll probably keep it in the console, along with my carry permit,” she said, stifling a yawn. She took the satchel into the guest bedroom, calling out, “I’m going to shower and then take a nap. Wake me if I sleep too long.”

  Ash stared across the hallway at the bedroom door for a second. She had always fascinated him with her contradictions. She was really sweet, but she could be stubborn as a mule when she made up her mind about something. She wore that geeky lab coat and almost always put her hair in a ponytail or a little knot at work, but when she let it down, literally and figuratively—she was irresistibly sexy.

  And now, although her petite five-foot-three-inch frame appeared vulnerable and delicate, she owned and carried a Glock 9 mm semiautomatic pistol, a formidable handgun that served men twice her weight well.

  And he’d told the truth when he’d said that watching her handle the gun was a turn-on. But somehow, it bothered him to see her with it and hear her talking about flipping or tailing men who could be dangerous. He remembered the image of her cradling the baby and smiling. Now, that was sexy. The idea that she was pregnant with a baby that the two of them had made was at once sexy, sweet, terrifying and humbling.

  This was new territory for him. He’d had lots of fun with quite a few willing women, always taking precautions to keep them safe and stay safe himself. But up until Rachel, he’d never wished for a second chance with any of them. Nor had he ever once considered the idea of being a father.

  He probably should have thought twice about letting Rachel stay here, but she could still be in danger and there was no one he trusted to keep her safe. No one but himself.

  Ash looked at the box on his coffee table and reminded himself that he had plenty to do. Even if he couldn’t be part of the official task force to find the real Christmas Eve murderer, he could form his own—a task force of one—to track down the man who had killed his parents.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel woke with the delicious smell of cheese and garlic filling her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled as she slid her feet into pink house slippers. She was about to make a beeline for the kitchen when her phone rang. She glanced at the display. It was her mother.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, sitting down on the bed.

  “Don’t Hi, Mom me. Why didn’t you tell me that you were going to be on television? I had to find out from my neighbor. That was embarrassing.”

  Rachel rubbed her temple. “I didn’t know until about ten minutes before. The commissioner called me just in time to get to his office before we had to be at the microphones.”

  “And that’s not all. When were you going to tell me you were attacked?”

  “Attacked? You mean when my apartment was broken into? I was going to call you on the weekend. How did you—?”

  “I was talking to Charles Hammond’s daughter.”

  Uncle Charlie’s daughter. Of course. “It was nothing, Mom.”

  “Not from what I heard. I heard you got stitches.”

  “No. The EMTs just put strip bandages on the cut. It’s tiny.” Rachel’s fingers explor
ed the skin around the cut absently as she talked.

  “Is there anything else I should know about?” her mom asked archly.

  The words sent a jolt of apprehension through Rachel’s chest. “No—” she said tentatively, then more strongly. “No. Why?” She couldn’t possibly have heard that Rachel was pregnant. Nobody knew—except Ash.

  “It just seems like I’m the last to know about everything lately. When are you coming over?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m in the middle of this investigation right now. I was going to come maybe next weekend. How’s that?”

  “That would be great,” Mom said. “We can start making plans for the holidays.”

  “I’ll see you then, okay?”

  “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll make you some brownies.”

  By the time Rachel hung up, her stomach was demanding food. She headed for the kitchen, where Ash was stirring a pot on the stove—the source of the luscious cheese and garlic smell, and drinking a beer. He glanced her way, then did a double take.

  She almost faltered. She looked down, wondering what he’d seen. Her top was sleeveless, but it had a fairly modest neck, and the bottoms were capri length.

  “Want some sparkling grape juice?” he asked. “The bottle’s open in the refrigerator.”

  “Great. That sounds good. What is that you’re cooking?”

  He shrugged. “Some packaged dinner. There’s the package.”

  Rachel poured herself a glass of white grape juice and as she sipped, she read the ingredients. “Mushroom and spinach ravioli in a parmesan cream sauce. Yum. Have you got any more parmesan cheese?”

  “Look in the cabinet,” Ash said. “Doesn’t the package say twenty minutes? Because I think it’s done.”

  He took the pot off the stove and dished up two servings. He set the plates on the kitchen table. “I don’t have any bread or stuff for a salad,” he said apologetically.

  “That’s okay,” Rachel replied. She saw the parmesan cheese on a high shelf, but she couldn’t reach it. “Ash? Bring your long, lanky body over here and get the cheese for me. This is the most inconvenient thing about living with a six-foot-three-inch-tall man—” She stopped. Partly because of what she’d said, but mostly because he was behind her, reaching up. He was much taller than she, and his reach was ridiculously high. He grabbed the cheese and set it on the counter, but he didn’t move away.

  And Rachel needed him to, desperately, because having him pressed up against her back and butt was causing silly, fluttery feelings inside her. Feelings that had gotten her in trouble, in more ways than one. She’d spent many nights crying, knowing that to Ash, she was just another good time. Fun while it lasted, but definitely not forever.

  She tried to move away, but he took her by the shoulders and turned her around, then put a finger under her chin. He was so close to her that she had to strain her neck to meet his gaze.

  “Ash—?” she started, but he stopped her.

  “Shh,” he said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. But he had anyway. And now he was standing too close. She could feel his rock-hard abs, shoulders and arms pressed into her. But there was something else rock-hard against her, too. He was aroused, and getting harder by the second. He slid his thumb across her lower lip and bent his head.

  A deep, sharp arrow of desire shot through her, along with a pointed dart of fear. If he tried to make love to her, right here and now, she wasn’t sure she could refuse.

  She sighed raggedly and pushed against his chest. But instead of stepping away, he brushed his lips across hers. “Don’t cringe away from me, Rach. I can’t stand that.” He took a deep breath. “I want to be there for our baby,” he said, his lips moving against hers.

  What was he doing? Trying to co-opt her by taking advantage of her attraction to him? But for what? She felt her desire dissolve in a pool of fear that he would say anything to get what he wanted at the moment, which was her in his bed. Her hands against his chest doubled into fists. “Be there for our baby. What does that mean exactly, Ash? Because it’s hard to picture Ashanova play Daddy. Are we talking about every other Saturday, if you haven’t been up all night—” She stopped herself before she said screwing.

  He straightened and gazed down at her, an odd expression in his eyes. “We’d better eat.” He stepped away and took the jar of parmesan cheese to the table.

  Rachel sat, too. For a couple of minutes they ate in silence. “This is really good,” she said finally.

  “A gourmet meal in a bag,” he responded drily.

  She stared down at her plate, pushing the ravioli around. “What’s happening with my apartment? Nobody’s told me anything.”

  “Last I heard, CSI wasn’t finished with it. Once they’re done, the door will have to be repaired,” he said.

  “So when can I go back home?” she asked, exasperated.

  Ash raised his gaze to hers. “You’re in that big a hurry? Because I don’t think you should return until we catch the guy.”

  “So you expect me to stay here?” she snapped.

  “That was my plan. Look, Rach, I’m sorry about—” he gestured toward the counter “—that. I was out of line. I can guarantee you it won’t happen again. I promise, you can feel perfectly safe here.”

  Rachel knew she’d reacted badly. She’d been sarcastic—maybe even mean. But she couldn’t handle being this close to him. Not now.

  Before, when it was all in good fun, she’d given as good as she’d gotten, until she’d fallen in love. Now she was carrying his baby. She didn’t want to be reminded how charming and carefree he was, or how much she longed for his strong arms around her and his firm lips on hers.

  She picked up her plate. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed early, as soon as I wash the dishes.”

  “Leave them,” he said. “I’ll get them. You can do them next time.”

  “Okay, you talked me into it.” She got up and went to the refrigerator to pour herself another glass of juice. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  She closed the bedroom door and set the glass down on the bedside table. There were a few magazines on the lower shelf and she rifled through them. Sports Illustrated. TV Guide. Then underneath several copies of Field & Stream and some more of TV Guide, she found a couple of Better Homes and Gardens. “Thank you, Aunt Angela,” she whispered and chose one.

  But after a few minutes, she had to admit that the magazine couldn’t distract her. Her thoughts were racing. She turned out the light and tried to concentrate on thinking about nothing. But Ash’s handsome face, his warm, sexy body, the hard length of his erection pressing against her, swirled through her mind.

  “Damn you, Ash,” she whispered. “Why won’t you leave me alone so I can get over you—again?”

  ASH WAS SITTING ON HIS couch with manila folders spread out around him. His gaze traveled from one handwritten label to the next—Medical Examiner’s Report, Crime Scene Photos, Fingerprints, Detective Reports, Witness Transcripts.

  His hand hovered over the folder that held the crime scene photographs, but he couldn’t make himself open it. He’d only seen them once, and once was more than enough. Besides, he didn’t need photographs to remind him of the carnage in his parents’ bedroom that Christmas morning twenty years ago. It was burned into his mind as if with a laser.

  His dad, eyes wide and milky and a pool of blood congealing on his pajama shirt and the sheets. And his mother, with garish red splotches on her neck, her face swollen and blue and her left ring finger bloody and torn.

  Ash closed his eyes against the memory, but it didn’t help, so he rubbed them with his fingertips. It didn’t erase the awful vision but it did stop the stinging and wipe away the dampness.

  “Ash? Are you all right?”

  He looked up, startled. Rachel was standing in the doorway. He had to blink to clear his vision. She was dressed in the blue pajamas with the teddy bears on the pants. Her hair fell in lazy waves around h
er face.

  “Yeah,” he said, sitting up straight. “Yeah. What are you doing up?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sitting on the other end of the couch with her feet under her. “I went to sleep, but something woke me. I think I was dreaming. My sleeping habits are all mixed up. It seems as if I can sleep anywhere and anytime except at bedtime in bed.”

  Ash half turned toward her, hoping in vain that she wouldn’t notice the box and the folders. “Was it a nightmare?” he asked, pushing back a strand of hair off her shoulder.

  “No. I can’t remember. What are you doing? What are all those folders?”

  “Nothing,” he said, grimacing inwardly. “You ought to go back to bed. There’s some aspirin in my medicine cabinet if you need some.”

  But Rachel picked up the folder nearest her on the coffee table. “This is a Medical Examiner’s report.”

  He reached out to take it from her but she avoided his grasp and stood. She opened the folder. “It’s your parents’ case.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “Now you can recognize the case.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” she retorted. “It’s written right here at the top of the form. What are you doing with this? I know you aren’t authorized.”

  He shrugged. “I made copies.”

  “When? Not in the past two days.”

  “No.” He stood. “I need some water. Want some?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He filled two glasses with cold water and took one to her.

  “How did you get these copies, Ash?”

  “I’ve been a detective for four years,” he said pointedly.

  Rachel stared at him. “You’ve been copying documents from the case file all that time? Is that legal?”

  He flopped down on the couch and took a long swallow of water. The chill spread through him, soothing the burning in his gut and head. “They’re my parents.”

  She nodded and her eyes dropped to the open folder. For several seconds, she read in silence. She turned a page and read some more, then turned another page.