Cavanaugh Judgment

by Marie Ferrarella

  “The maintenance man will be grateful,” he commented drolly.

  “And second,” she continued, pretending he hadn’t said anything, “most people don’t have an escaped felon threatening to kill them. Drastic times require drastic measures.” Her look pinned him where he stood. “You shouldn’t have wandered off like that.”

  “I’m a grown man and in possession of all my faculties,” he told her tersely. “I didn’t ‘wander off,’ I went to my chambers. For a reason,” he added.

  “To hang up your robe?” Greer guessed in credulously.

  “Yes.” He said the single word as if it was a challenge.

  She was not about to back off. If this was going to work between them, he had to be aware of the rules. “You could have waited.”

  “I could have,” he agreed. “But I didn’t. Detective, I’ve been crossing the street by myself since I was six years old. Nothing’s happened yet.” He blew out a breath, as if he was trying to calm himself. “And in case you’re interested, this isn’t the first threat I’ve gotten,” he assured her.

  “It’s the first on my watch,” she informed him. And then she asked the question that was nagging at her. “Since you were six? Seriously?” Who let their six-year-old cross the street by themselves?

  “My father insisted. He wouldn’t let my mother coddle me. Said it was important for me to become a man.”

  “At six?” she cried. “How many six-year-old men did he know?”

  He’d never questioned his father’s reasons or methods. That was just the way things were. “He was a marine, a gunnery sergeant in the corps.”

  The light began to seep in, shining on the situation. “That explains a lot.”

  He disregarded her comment. “What are you doing here, Detective? I assumed you weren’t going to be ‘watching over’ me anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted to tell the chief? That you’d rather pass on the assignment?”

  They were back to awkward again, she thought. She didn’t like him just “assuming” things about her—even if they were true. “The chief would rather that I didn’t ‘pass.’”

  He looked at her, vindicated. Up until this moment, he’d just been guessing, but her admission had just proven him right. “Then you did protest.”

  She raised her chin. If she was going to have to do this, it was best if there were no hard feelings between them. “Protest is rather a strong word, Judge.”

  He laughed shortly. “Don’t split hairs, Detective O’Brien. It’s not your style.”

  Now he was assuming things about her? She didn’t care for being pigeonholed. “And how would you know what my ‘style’ was?”

  The answer to that was far less complex than she might assume, Blake thought. “I’m the man you jumped on, remember?” He saw what he took to be a slight blush accent her cheeks and found himself momentarily intrigued. He hadn’t thought that they made women who blushed anymore. “You’re given to broad strokes,” he continued with his analysis, “not tiny lines.”

  She had always been a big picture kind of person. It made taking care of details particularly difficult for her. There was always something that she missed, that she forgot. Right now, the fact that Kincannon had nailed her so accurately made her very uncomfortable. Made her feel as if he was poking around in her head, invading her space.

  She resented it. This wasn’t going to work. And while she wasn’t about to go back to the chief with that—Kincannon could.

  “If you’d rather have someone else assigned to you, Your Honor, please feel free to ask the chief,” she told him. “I’m sure he’d listen to you.”

  “I’d rather that no one was assigned to me,” he told her curtly, “but you saw where that went.”

  Tired of dancing around in circles, she shrugged off the whole situation. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and the chief’s men’ll find Munro quickly.”

  Blake sincerely doubted that luck was on his side. Munro had probably gone underground. “Lots of places a man can disappear in this county.” He looked at her pointedly. “Or out of it. If Munro had any brains at all, he’s take this opportunity to flee the country—at least until things cool off for him.”

  “Oh, he has brains all right,” Greer assured him. She’d dealt with people like Munro before, too often for her liking. In her opinion, they were the vermin of the earth. But Munro seemed to be a cut above the rest. Smarter. Sharper. And that worried her as far as the judge’s safety went. “But he’s also the type who relishes taking revenge.”

  Taking his jacket out of the small closet, Blake slipped it on over his light blue tapered shirt. “In that case, shouldn’t you be the one with a bodyguard?” he asked. “After all, you were the one who pulled off that sting and brought Munro in.”

  “But you were the judge who sent away his buddies,” she reminded him. And there was one more salient point. “And you were the one who got the e-mail.”

  To her surprise, just the barest hint of a smile curved the corners of a mouth that could have been called sensual under different circumstances. He shrugged at her words. “It was worth a shot.”

  Swiftly, she pieced things together. “You were trying to talk me out of guarding you?”

  It was obvious that the man she was going to be protecting saw no reason to offer a denial. “I was.”

  Well, he’d wasted his time, she thought. “It’s not up to me.”

  “And if it was up to you?” he wanted to know. “Would you guard me?”

  She could smell the lather he’d used shaving. Or maybe that was the scent of his soap. In any case, he was standing too close, she thought. His space was commingling with hers and that was definitely interfering with her thought process.

  Greer subtly moved over to where his robe was hanging and pretended to be interested in the texture of the weave. It was called survival.

  The automatic response to his question would have been no. But this didn’t require an automatic answer, it required one that had some thought behind it. The chief never said things just to hear himself talk. If he felt the judge needed a bodyguard, then he damn well needed a bodyguard. She’d already silently agreed with that judgment.

  She worded her response carefully. “If there was no one else to do it, yes, I would.”

  His eyes held hers for a moment. She felt as if he was looking into her soul. “A truthful answer.”

  There was a reason for that. The judge wasn’t the kind of man you lied to. Not without a great many consequences. “I’ve got a feeling you could see right through it if it wasn’t.”

  Her answer amused him. Was she applying the catch-more-flies-with-honey-than-with-vinegar theory? “Flattery, Detective?”

  Her answer was immediate. “Observation, Judge.” She glanced at what he was doing. Briefcase packed, he was apparently ready to go. Striding, he got ahead of her by the time they reached the door.

  “My car’s parked downstairs,” he told her, leading the way out. Devoid of people, the courtroom was as quiet as a tomb. Alert, she scanned the area as she took the lead, not letting him walk until she walked there first.

  “We’ll take mine,” she informed him. There was no room for argument.

  He did anyway. “I’m partial to my car.” Reaching the elevators, he pressed the down button.

  “And I’m partial to you breathing,” she replied mildly.

  The wording surprised him. “Really?”

  “Okay,” she admitted, “the chief is. And what the chief wants, the chief gets.”

  She was overreacting, he thought. He refused to be intimated by a cheap hood.

  “And you really think that if I use my car, I won’t be ‘breathing’ for much longer?” He didn’t bother removing the note of mockery in his voice. “Just how much credit are you giving this two-bit criminal?”

  The elevator arrived. She held her hand up, stopping the judge until she checked out the interior. There were two other people in the car, both wearing ID badges that connected them to Human R
esources.

  She motioned him forward with the barrel of her weapon. “The kind of credit that goes along with having a bogus paramedic team arrive on the scene well ahead of the real one. The kind of credit someone who could pull this all off should be awarded. Anything else?” she wanted to know.

  “Yes. Are you always this annoying?”

  The question caught her off guard, although she didn’t show it.

  “No,” Greer finally replied. “If you believe my brothers, sometimes I’m worse.” The doors opened on the first floor. She waited for the two people to disembark, then motioned for the judge to follow her. “Let’s go, Your Honor.”

  Rather than follow, he fell into step beside her even as he resigned himself to the inevitable. “I have no choice, I guess.”

  “Nope.”

  They made their way to the front doors. There were several police officers, all of whom she was familiar with, processing people out one by one. Recognizing them, one of the officers waved her and the judge by.

  Greer stopped just before the doors and her eyes met Kincannon’s. “Neither one of us do.”

  And, she had a strong feeling as they exited, neither one of them was very happy about this state of affairs, either.

  Chapter 5

  “So how is this going to work?” the judge asked her once they were in her car and she was pulling out of the parking structure. “Do I check with you before I take a breath?”

  Greer kept her eyes on the road as she exited onto the street. She supposed she could understand his sarcasm. In Kincannon’s place, she’d probably feel the same way.

  No, she corrected herself, not probably, she would definitely feel the same way. She’d never liked restrictions and living with a bodyguard was the very definition of being restricted. But then, he’d chosen this career. No one had forced it on him.

  “No,” she replied mildly, acting as if he’d just asked her a legitimate question, “how many breaths you take or don’t take is entirely up to you.”

  She heard him sigh. A glance in his direction told her he was staring out the windshield and frowning.

  “You know this is completely unnecessary, don’t you?” he said.

  Anyone who could orchestrate a successful escape from a courtroom was a man to be reckoned with—and not underestimated. If Munro wanted to enact his revenge against the judge, then the judge needed serious protection.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” she answered, “but I don’t know anything of the kind.”

  “I know how to defend myself, Detective O’Brien,” he informed her, his impatience barely contained.

  She pretended she didn’t hear the annoyance in his voice. “Good, then this shouldn’t be a difficult assignment for me.”

  He tried again. He knew she was only doing her job, but there was no point in doing it with him. “My father was a marine.”

  At least you knew your father. Sparing him another glance, she forced a smile to her lips. “So you said. And I’m sure he was an excellent one.”

  It didn’t end there. “The point of my reference,” he told her caustically, “is that he insisted on teaching me self-defense.”

  She eased her vehicle into a right turn. She had a tendency to turn sharply and she didn’t want him complaining that her driving was making him ill on top of everything else.

  “Did he also teach you how to catch bullets with your bare hands?” she asked mildly.

  “No.”

  She nodded at his reply. “Then I’m afraid you need me.”

  “Why?” he wanted to know. “Do you catch bullets with your bare hands?”

  “No, but I have a gun—” Greer began. She no longer thought of him as the man whose wife she couldn’t save. She was now beginning to regard him as a judge who was a pain in her anatomy.

  “So do I,” he cut in.

  Greer was tempted to pull over, but the sooner she got him home, the sooner they would be out of this confining space.

  She sighed. “Judge, this is going to go a whole lot easier for both of us if you stop fighting the inevitable.” Stepping on the gas, she just made it through a yellow light. “I’ve been assigned to you and I’m not leaving until either Eddie Munro is caught or the chief decides to replace me, so you might as well make the best of it.” She deliberately kept her eyes forward. “I promise I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible. You’ll hardly notice I’m there.”

  There was silence for a moment. Had she won? Greer slanted a look in Kincannon’s direction and instantly became aware of Kincannon’s eyes moving over her slowly, as if to take measure of every inch of her. More criticism was coming, she could feel it.

  “Oh,” the judge replied, “I sincerely doubt that.”

  The comment took her completely by surprise. As did the unexpected and sudden feeling of warmth that was spreading throughout her torso and limbs. The same kind of warmth that had zapped through her when she’d thrown herself on top of the judge to shield him earlier.

  At the time she’d attributed the reaction to adrenaline and the sudden, gut-seizing fear that she might not get Kincannon out of the line of fire in time. This time there was no one pointing a gun, no visible threat at all.

  There was just the judge, appraising her. And obviously seeing her as a woman.

  Greer cleared her throat, searching for something to fill the uncomfortable silence. “I heard you mention that your father’s living with you.”

  His living arrangements were no secret. After the accident that had claimed his wife, his father had come from Maryland to lend him moral support. Initially, he’d been in an emotional tailspin, one that, at the time, it didn’t seem possible he would ever get out of. But eventually he did. His father stayed on. A month turned into two years. Enamored with the weather, his father showed no signs of wanting to leave. And although the man was rather difficult and cantankerous at times, Blake had to admit that he enjoyed having someone to come home to.

  “He is,” the judge replied, wondering where this was going.

  From what she’d picked up, the senior Kincannon was not that keen on women in the services. She imagined that extended to having women on the police force. “Do you think he’ll be upset?”

  “What, that he didn’t get his own bodyguard?” the judge guessed at her meaning and recalled his phone call to his father. “My father would be insulted if it was even suggested.”

  She shook her head as she took another slow right turn. “No, I mean with my having to remain on the premises for a while. If he’s old school—”

  That was the polite way to describe it. Chauvinistic could be another. “He is.”

  There was only one conclusion to be drawn from that. “Then this might not sit too well with him.”

  For the first time, Blake smiled and Greer caught herself noticing how his features instantly softened. He even looked somewhat boyish. That definitely wasn’t the impression she had when Kincannon wasn’t smiling. Then he looked strict and stern, like a man who was not to be crossed.

  “No,” he agreed. “You’re right. It might not. I’d brace myself if I were you, Detective.” But even as he said it, his smile widened. “It just might turn out to be one hell of a bumpy ride.”

  He probably thought that would make her ask to be taken off the assignment. You don’t know me, Judge. “I’ve had bumpy rides before.”

  Kincannon didn’t offer an argument, just a smile, a different kind this time. One that said he had some sort of inside knowledge that she wasn’t privy to—yet. But she would. It was just a matter of time.

  “We’ll see, Detective,” he said, an ominous promise in his voice. “We’ll see.”

  “What are you doing home so early?” were Alexander Kincannon’s first words to his son when Blake walked into his two-story house fifteen minutes later.

  Before Blake could say anything in response, Greer walked in behind him. The senior Kincannon, who was nearly as tall as his son and seemed to have a good twenty, thirty pounds on him
, grinned knowingly.

  “Oh, I see. Looks like I got my answer.” The words were directed at his son, but the ex-marine made absolutely no secret of the fact that he was staring at the woman beside Blake. The older man circled her as if to get the full effect. “Good to see you dating again, Blake. About time, too.” And then his grin became positively wicked. “Did you bring one for me?”

  Blake glanced at his watch. It had taken his father all of thirty seconds to embarrass him.

  “I’m not ‘dating again,’ Dad,” he answered, doing his best to remain patient with the man. He had no desire to lose his temper with his father in front of a stranger. For the most part, he was a private person. Far more private, apparently, than his father.

  “Then who’s this?” Alexander wanted to know.

  “‘This,’” Blake answered, using his father’s exact phrasing, “is Detective Greer O’Brien.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Our bodyguard.”

  Sky-blue eyes beneath bushy gray eyebrows that resembled miniature tumbleweeds widened incredulously. “Bodyguard?” the ex-marine hooted. His message was clear. The practical joke that his son was obviously attempting to play had just fallen flat. “Yeah, right.” He turned toward the woman. His expression told her that he liked what he saw. “Who are you, really, honey?”

  Honey. Greer knew she should have been offended to be addressed that way, but she had a feeling that the older man didn’t mean anything by it. In his generation, it was perfectly acceptable to address a young female that way. In a way, his manner was almost oddly endearing.

  Maybe, she thought, because in a way, Kincannon’s father reminded her of her grandfather. Her mother’s father had been one of those grumpy old men with a heart of gold who existed in sitcoms and other people’s family trees. He had been in hers and she’d loved him dearly—they all had—from the moment she’d known him until the day he died. She was ten at the time and completely devastated over the loss.

  “Exactly who your son says I am,” she told him. “Detective Greer O’Brien.” Greer put her hand out to the senior Kincannon. “I’ve been assigned to keep you and your son safe and out of harm’s way.”