Protecting the Pregnant Witness

by Julie Miller

  Lurching into her soft grip, he tore his mouth from hers and sucked in a deep breath. “Easy, honey. I’m trying to go slow.”

  Her eyes were wicked with their lack of sympathy for his plight, her pupils dilated with passion. “I don’t need slow. I need you.”

  The wound on his side was beginning to ache with his effort to rein in everything he was feeling, to hold himself back until she was ready, until he was certain. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He lifted a handful of her sable-dark hair where it fanned against the pillow and buried his nose in its delectable softness. “I don’t want it to be like the last time.”

  Josie released him to frame his face with that sure, gentle touch of hers. “Remember how I said that, sometimes, one partner needs more than the other?”

  He nodded. “I needed you that night.”

  Her answering smile made the message clear. “I need you now.”

  And then there were no more words.

  Rafe slipped his fingers inside her, tested her readiness, had her twisting and slick and begging for completion. He bent her legs and slipped her feet onto his shoulders, taking great care not to put any pressure on her belly as he slid inside her. He stroked her with his thumb as he filled her up and she flew apart, curling her fists into the sheets and crying out her pleasure. Her body convulsed around him and he was no longer able to deny his own release. With one final push into her welcoming heat, the fuse inside him detonated.

  The aftershocks soon abated, taking the last bit of tension with them and leaving Rafe feeling as weary and sated as the sweet smile he kissed on Josie’s lips.

  Aaron Nichols could have his hide. Tomorrow. This afternoon Rafe was lying down beside Josie, pulling the blanket over their cooling bodies. She turned onto her side and he curled up behind her, skin to skin, his hand possessively cupping the swell of her abdomen where her baby slept—where their baby slept. For a few more minutes of peaceful slumber, this was his woman. This was his family.

  And Rafael Delgado let himself love and be loved in return.

  PERFECT.

  He put the plastic cap on the end of the tiny vial and slid it between the prongs of his ring. He practiced the delivery system one time—a simple handshake, a friendly grasp on the shoulder, an accidental touch while helping someone who’d tripped over her own feet. Press firmly and voilá, poison delivered. Toxin rushes through bloodstream, throat swells, target dead.

  Not even a fast-thinking nurse with trauma training could save the victim’s life in time.

  He could deliver the drug and be on the other side of the park, well beyond suspicion before anyone in Josie Nichols’s well-armed entourage even guessed what had happened.

  No one was in his head calling him stupid now. This time, he’d planned for every contingency. There were backups to his backup plan. This time he would not let the woman beat him.

  He put away the chemicals and returned to the mirror over his dresser where he adjusted his tie. The jacket was a necessary cover if he wanted to blend in at the KCPD carnival.

  Then he opened the top drawer of his dresser—once, twice, three times before pulling out the Beretta pistol. He checked the magazine to see that it was still clean and loaded, and then tucked it beneath his jacket into the holster strapped to his belt. The small brick of C-4 with its hodgepodge of timers and wires would serve its purpose, too.

  He knew any number of ways to kill, and had used most of them. He’d have whatever method he needed on hand when he left for work this morning.

  Josie Nichols would be dead by the end of the day.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Okay, people, are we ready to go to work?” After clapping his hands to get their attention, Jeffrey Beecher adjusted his glasses on his nose and waited for everyone inside the blue-and-white-striped carnival tent to stop fussing with their uniforms and find a seat for their final instructions.

  Josie pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her black apron and dabbed at the perspiration dotting her forehead. Although the weather was unseasonably warm for the Memorial Day weekend, there was no sign of rain in the forecast. Clarice Darnell and Mr. Beecher had decided to go ahead and make the KCPD Carnival fundraiser an outdoor event. Although why her temporary boss would wear a suit and tie to an event that was one part picnic, one part circus sideshow and one part street fair was beyond her.

  Not even the cops who were in attendance were wearing their uniforms—with five notable exceptions.

  Rafe paced a line in the grass beside her chair. The rolled-up sleeves of his black SWAT uniform were the only concession to the heat. “This is the most irresponsible idea I’ve ever heard,” he muttered as she took her seat in one of the folding chairs set up between the ice machines, soda-filled coolers and catering supplies set up inside the tent.

  Josie tugged at the collar of her white blouse. “Smile, and pretend you’re having fun.”

  Rafe glared down at her.

  “Okay, then, at least try not to scare anybody.”

  He didn’t laugh. There hadn’t been much laughter between them lately, not since last Sunday afternoon when they’d made love, when she’d nearly wept at the tenderness Rafe showed with the baby. As desperately as he wanted to be a part of a family, he was equally wary of doing just that. It was a frightening thing, giving one’s love and trust over to another person. What if that person died? Went to prison? Didn’t love you back? She understood Rafe’s need to belong to someone far better than he gave her credit for. Over the past few months she’d learned that a man could be closer to her making eye contact across a crowded bar than he was holding her as she slept each night. Perhaps they’d gone too far. They’d revealed too much of what was deepest in their hearts, and Rafe had retreated back inside his solitary armor.

  There hadn’t been any laughter at all since she’d met with Spencer Montgomery for an update on her case, and she’d agreed with his request to maintain as normal a life as possible, under the continued watch of SWAT Team One, of course. His suggestion had made sense—that locking herself away in a safe house would only drive the RGK underground. But if she continued her nurse’s training, continued to work, then Donny Kemp might drop his guard and make a mistake. If there was some chance that he could get to her, then he’d be more likely to show himself. And though the thought of coming face-to-face with him again terrified her, the sooner she could spot him—the sooner KCPD could arrest him—then the sooner she’d have the chance to prepare for her baby’s arrival, and to, quite possibly, prepare herself for a life without Rafe.

  So, instead of laughing, he eyed the rear flap of the tent where Trip Jones was standing guard, the front entrance manned by Michael Cutler and Alex Taylor, and then pressed a button on the radio clipped to the epaulet at his shoulder. “Murdock. This is Sarge. What’s the status out there?”

  An answering buzz of static garnered the attention of the other servers and event staff sitting around her. But Rafe’s sharp gaze turned them away just as quickly.

  Josie knew that Miranda Murdock was stationed somewhere outside, on high ground, as Rafe had put it. With a pair of high-powered binoculars and a clear view of most of the park and the crowds gathering there, Randy was there to alert them to any trouble before it could reach Josie. “It’s all normal out here,” Randy reported. “The crowd’s picking up, as expected, but most of them probably won’t head to the food tents until closer to lunchtime. I don’t see anyone matching the description Detective Montgomery issued. I don’t see anyone behaving in a suspicious manner, either.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do. Murdock out.”

  Josie looked up at him before the pacing resumed. “Satisfied?”

  “Hardly. Do you think I want to lose you two to this guy?”

  You two?

  Maybe he hadn’t resurrected that armor as securely as she’d thought.

  She reached for his hand to stop him as he walked past. “Rafe.”

  He squeezed her hand, but
pulled away. “Not now, Jose. I need to be thinking like a cop.”

  Jeffrey Beecher clapped his hands and silenced them again. “Most of you will be responsible for clearing the picnic tables and keeping the chafing dishes on the serving tables full.” Josie and a handful of others had been charged with carrying pitchers of water, iced tea and lemonade, and providing refills for the patrons to keep traffic flow amongst the tables to a minimum. “Ms. Darnell will handle ticket sales and donations, and I’ll be overseeing the service at lunch and dinner. Remember, we want our guests and patrons to enjoy their fried chicken and funnel cakes. But we also want to feed them and move them along so we can make room for new customers.” His businesslike manner became effusive as he rallied the staff. “We’re here to raise money for a good cause today.” His gaze seemed to touch every employee, including Josie. “So when your feet get tired, or the trays get too heavy, just remember the children and families we’re doing this for.”

  There were a few cheers and a mild round of applause.

  Apparently, that wasn’t the reaction he’d wanted. He put up his hand to motion the few who’d begun to move back to their seats. “Think of the single moms and the orphans—and let’s make some money.”

  The audience’s more robust reaction seemed to satisfy him. After checking in with Clarice Darnell over the earbud he wore, he clapped his hands for the third time and dismissed them. “The food tents are officially open for business. Let’s get to work.”

  Captain Cutler radioed that he’d spotted Spencer Montgomery and was going over to meet with him. Alex and Trip kept a close eye on the other food workers going in and out of the tent. With her lanky, moody shadow following at a distance behind her, Josie went to work loading plastic pitchers with ice and setting them on a tray to fill with drinks.

  “Miss Nichols?”

  She was up to her wrists in ice when Jeffrey Beecher summoned her. Leaving the scoop in the machine, she dried her hands on her apron and turned to face him. “Yes?”

  She jerked back when his hands reached for her throat.

  “Easy.” He held up his manicured hands, one of which sported a bandage, in apology before reaching toward her again. Backed against the ice machine with no place to run, she followed his fingers in all the way to her collar. He grinned at her sigh of relief and straightened the crisp fold of oxford cloth. “I want you to look your best since you’re representing my company.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before she could look beyond the hands that had invaded her personal space and return his smile, he’d moved on to the next fine-tuning of a uniform and to tell another server to put six pitchers on her tray instead of five.

  “I thought this was Ms. Darnell’s company.”

  She’d identified the slightly lispy sneer of her coworker even before he walked up beside her. “Hi, Bud.”

  “He’s got airs, don’t he?”

  The lisp came from the toothpick he kept toying at with his tongue. The shiver running down her spine came from the hint of recognition hiding in the corners of her mind. Was it a smell? The faintest trace of cigarette smoke on someone’s clothes? Had she seen something familiar without realizing it? Would a few moments alone give her a chance to clear her head and make sense of an impression that might only be wishful thinking?

  She bent her knees and lifted the tray of pitchers.

  Bud stopped her from swinging the tray up onto her shoulder and tried to pull it from her grasp. “Can I give you a hand with that?”

  “No, thanks.” She pulled away and lifted again.

  “It’s got to be heavy.”

  In an instant Rafe was there, his hand firmly planted beneath Bud Preston’s name on his uniform jacket, pushing him back a step. “She said no. Now get to work, Preston. Somewhere else.”

  The radio on Rafe’s uniform buzzed and Michael Cutler’s voice commanded his attention. “Sarge—you got a minute? Detective Montgomery’s here. Let’s go over our coverage assignments for the day, and get him and his partner up to speed on our protection detail so they can fill in, in case we get a call. Can you meet me out front?”

  Rafe pressed a button. “Roger that.” He glanced over to make sure that Trip was still standing watch at the back of the tent. Then he reached for the collar that Jeffrey Beecher had just straightened and brushed aside a strand of hair that had worked loose from the thick bun at her nape. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You don’t leave this tent until I get back unless Trip or Alex is with you. Understand?”

  “Roger that.”

  That almost earned her a smile. But the glimpse of the Rafe who loved and laughed never fully materialized. With a sad, heated look, he strode out of the tent, leaving Josie to shoulder the tray and decode her troublesome thoughts all by herself.

  “WE HAVE A BOMB.” Alex Taylor’s voice came over the radio in sharp, concise tones. An alert like this usually chilled Rafe down to the bone and cleared his head, allowing him to concentrate on the details he needed to hear and let his training kick in. “I repeat, one of the detection dogs has located explosives pinned underneath a car in the parking lot.”

  There were enough off-duty cops with their families sitting at the tables near where Rafe was standing to overhear the warning and start a general buzz of concern through the crowd. A second call from Captain Cutler silenced them. “SWAT One meet on my twenty. Initiate a general evac. Recruit anyone you know to get this crowd moving in an orderly fashion away from the parking lot.”

  Trip piped in. “Captain, there are a half dozen picnic shelters on the far side of Willow Lake. Easy walking distance, but secure enough. I suggest we have the crowd reconvene there.”

  “Agreed.”

  Several of the people around Rafe nodded, understanding the order and the need for prompt cooperation. But Rafe’s gaze centered on Josie, stopped in the middle of all the picnic tables, holding a pitcher of water in each hand. There were so many people here, leaving their lunches, gathering their spouses and children and grandchildren, moving halfway across the park—leaving Josie standing alone in the middle of a sea of gingham-checked tablecloths.

  Rafe was already moving toward her. “This is wrong.”

  Those big blue eyes were frightened. Her knuckles were white around the pitcher handles. She’d nearly lost her uncle to a bomb. She could have lost the baby. She could have been lost herself.

  So, of course, her concern was for everyone else. “I put them all in danger.”

  “No.” He pried the pitchers from her hands and set them on the nearest table, then wrapped his arm behind her waist to walk her toward the departing crowd. “This feels wrong. This many people? The middle of the day? That’s not how our guy works.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Join the club.” Rafe lengthened his stride and moved her steps into double time to keep up with him. He turned his mouth to his radio, scanning the crowd, checking the trees beyond. “Captain. He’s here. The bomb’s a diversion. I’m getting Josie out of here.”

  “Negative. Hand her over to Montgomery.”

  Rafe had never disobeyed an order from his commanding officer. But he’d be damned if he’d trust Josie and the baby to anyone who didn’t eat and breathe SWAT. “Captain,” he pleaded. “Michael. The protection of the crowd of cops is booking it out of here. I need to ensure she’s safe.”

  But Michael Cutler was in charge for a reason. “Sergeant, you’re my bomb man. I need your expertise here.”

  Rafe stopped in his tracks, pulling Josie into the shelter of his body and turning to search out the light tower that rose above the stage at the center of the park. There. He saw the two glints of light reflecting off the lenses of Randy’s binoculars. “Murdock. You got eyes on Josie?”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  He dipped his head to kiss Josie, hard and fast, before pulling away and jogging in the opposite direction from the crowd. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  RAFE PEELED OFF his helmet and walke
d away from the distant flashes and shouted questions from the press corps who had gathered as close to the parking lot as the cordon tape allowed.

  “It’s a dud.” He slipped his arm out of his bomb shield and leaned it up against the back of the SWAT van to report to Captain Cutler. He handed over the brick of plastique explosive to Alex, who boxed it up and stowed it inside the van. “The C-4’s real enough. But the wires weren’t attached to anything. There’s no firing device.”

  The cadre of reporters shifted to follow him to the van. They’d come to the park this morning to cover a human-interest event, to give the police department and its charity some free PR.

  Now they wanted his name. They wanted to know where someone could get C-4 and what a firing device was. They wanted to know if this bomb was a terrorist threat aimed at the Kansas City Police Department—or the city itself.

  Rafe wanted one thing. “Sir?”

  “Go.” Cutler dismissed him and turned to tackle public relations with a curious and frightened press.

  Rafe spared one moment to scan the mob of reporters to see if Steve Lassen would dare to show his face. Montgomery hadn’t been able to do more than fine him for getting too close to Josie. But he didn’t see the arrow-like points of his receding hairline. He didn’t hear his obnoxious voice, blaming KCPD and SWAT Team One for ruining his career. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t here lurking somewhere, maybe even heading to the picnic area to steal another unwanted photo of Josie.

  Breaking into a jog, Rafe headed toward the blue-and-white-striped food tent. He buzzed his radio. “Murdock.” He gave her a couple of seconds and buzzed again. “Murdock. This is Sarge. Pick up. Murdock!” Dead air.