by Julie Miller
“Do your job,” he mouthed to himself.
“What?” Bailey whispered beside him.
Even worse than feeling the damn emotions was someone else knowing they were there, providing a weapon they could use against him.
So he emptied his lungs on a forceful breath of air and pulled his body away from Bailey’s to face her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her nod wasn’t all that convincing. She squeezed her eyes shut for second and shook her head, as if clearing some graphic image from her mind. But when they opened again, that azure gaze tilted up and locked on to his. “I smelled that vile cologne he had on. I’m sure it’s something expensive, but...” The strength of her gaze faltered. “He had it on that night, too. I know he’s the man who raped me.”
“I have no doubt,” Spencer agreed. “That’s exactly the kind of detail that will make the D.A.’s case for us.” When the taut line of her mouth softened into a smile, he ignored that little kick of awareness that made him smile in return.
“Thank you for saying that. And thank you for being here when...” She visibly shuddered. “He was close enough he could have touched me.”
“Brian Elliott will never touch you again.” When he heard how vehemently he’d spoken those words, as if he’d just made some kind of promise to Bailey Austin, Spencer released her hand and broke contact entirely. It wasn’t his job to care about the awful turmoil she must go through each time she had to revisit the violence that had been done to her. Maybe she was okay with being touched, or maybe she’d been too scared to realize how hard she’d been holding on to him. Either way was a head game he wasn’t comfortable playing. She needed a sensitive kind of guy or her therapist to walk her through the emotional minefield of taking down the Rose Red Rapist. And he wasn’t that guy.
He needed some distance. This situation was getting inside his head—the woman was getting under his skin. Setting up a safe house and guarding a witness weren’t part of his job description anymore. He was not this woman’s protector. He was seeing his investigation through to the very end, like any good detective would. He was doing a favor for Chief Taylor.
He was not putting himself in a position to lose anyone else who mattered to him.
Ignoring the questioning look in Bailey’s eyes, Spencer inclined his head toward the bullpen—the maze of desks and cubicles in the main room where he and dozens of other detectives worked. “Come on. Let me get my coat and then I’ll walk you to your car.” He moved out without a backward glance, lengthening his stride to put some impersonal space between them. “I’ll give you my card and my partner’s, and, of course, you can call the precinct if you need anything else.”
Her heels clicked on the marble tiles behind him as she hurried to catch up.
All of Bailey’s brave talk about testifying had flown out the window when she’d come face to face with Brian Elliott...right along with Spencer’s resolve not to let things get personal with her.
He wouldn’t let either one happen again.
Chapter Three
Starch.
That was the subtle, clean scent filling the elevator. Bailey clutched the strap of her purse to her stomach, almost smiling beside the jut of Spencer Montgomery’s shoulder as he watched the third-level light come on above the doors of the parking garage elevator.
After traveling down through the bowels of the Fourth Precinct building and out a side entrance, they’d hurried through the bracing air and blowing snow to enter the parking garage a block away from the bright lights and electronic noise of the impromptu press conference on the front steps of the tall granite building across the street. The multistory parking garage might be filled with cars, but with the cold wind blowing through the open levels, chasing the patrons indoors, there’d been no one around when Spencer had bustled her onto the elevator and punched the button. This silent ride up the elevator gave Bailey a calming reprieve from the emotional battles she’d fought all morning with her family, Brian Elliott and within herself.
Not that she’d call her time spent with Spencer Montgomery relaxing, exactly.
Since his promise to walk her to her car, everything had been a rush. Papers neatly stacked on his desk. Chair pushed in. A quick introduction to his partner, Nick Fensom. She’d hurried to keep up with his long strides, been relegated to quick nods in response to his clipped requests and commands. The damp chill in the air outside had nipped at her ears and nose. But now that she had a few moments alone in the elevator with him to catch her breath and thaw out, she had the strangest urge to turn her nose into the nubby wool of his charcoal-gray coat.
Nothing more than starch and soap and cold, crisp air. Emanating from the charcoal-gray coat and crisp white shirt he wore, and maybe from the man himself, Spencer’s scent was as straightforward and masculine as every other detail she’d noticed about the steely-eyed detective.
Unlike the overpowering smell of Brian Elliott’s cologne that triggered nightmares, Spencer’s undoctored scent elicited something feminine and long forgotten inside her. Its simplicity soothed her overwrought senses, yet awakened warm frissons of awareness that she hadn’t been sure she’d ever be able to feel again for a man. It was a gentler, although no less impactful response than what she’d felt outside the look-at room when she’d anchored herself to the unwavering strength of his hand holding hers. Spencer’s unexpected touch had centered her, strengthened her, allowed her to push aside her gut reaction of panicked fear and handle Brian Elliott’s attempt to strike up a conversation and deny what he’d done to her.
Yes, they’d argued. Yes, he’d pushed her to keep up with his long strides. Yes, it irritated her that Detective Montgomery pictured her as some sort of naive girl who couldn’t think or do for herself, and had no idea what she was getting into. But it had felt invigorating for a few moments to have someone actually let her speak her mind and vent her emotions without trying to quickly apologize or change the subject. He hadn’t slowed down and lowered his expectations because he thought she was too fragile to handle any kind of stress. And she definitely wasn’t feeling anything girlish around the man.
Not when he smelled so good.
Not when he’d stood between her and her rapist.
Not when he made her feel, period.
After all this time, sheltered by her family, sheltered by the protective mental and emotional barriers she’d put up around herself since the rape, it was just as unsettling as it was intriguing to realize that the tall, no-nonsense detective could make her feel normal, womanly things again.
The elevator slowed; the signal dinged.
“Straight to your car, then straight home, right?”
Her secret grin faded at Spencer’s brusque reminder. Clearly, whatever crush was forming inside her head wasn’t mutual. She was just another piece of evidence in his case against the Rose Red Rapist he wanted to protect. She’d be wise to remember that, and keep the relationship between them as businesslike as he did. “Yes. I have plenty to do to keep me busy at my apartment tonight.”
The doors slid open and he wound his hand around her upper arm like he had before, pulling her into step beside him as soon as she pointed out her white Lexus. “You’ll check the parking lot before you get out of your car. Lock the—”
“—doors. Have my key card ready to go into the building. Check the doors and windows. Call someone to let them know I’m home.”
“I see you were listening.” For the first time in the last thirty minutes, Spencer shortened his stride to let her walk naturally beside him. Was that a grin?
Bailey wondered what would happen to that stern, angular face if he loosened up enough to smile or laugh. “After hearing the same speech upstairs at your office, on the hike across the street and in the elevator coming up here, I started to pick up on what you were trying to say.”
That s
nort might be as close to a laugh as she was going to get out of him. And his warm breath formed a cloud in the cold air, masking a glimpse of what, if any, changes might have softened the strong line of his mouth or add warmth to the granite in his eyes.
But the grip on her arm eased as they crossed the concrete platform, heading toward the thick pillar where she’d parked. “Bailey, I don’t think you’re a dumb blonde. If anything, I think you’re a courageous woman. You may have pushed a few of my buttons earlier and I said some things that didn’t come out the way I meant them. I don’t normally lose my cool like that.”
Um, when exactly had he lost his cool? Brian Elliott’s temper had flared briefly in that hallway, throwing Bailey back to that night when he’d ranted at her and punished her for daring to speak her mind or beg for mercy. If Spencer thought he’d come anywhere close to a hotheaded reaction, he was apologizing for nothing. “You were just being a cop. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Yeah, I do. Logically, I think you feel you’re doing the right thing—God knows I and half of Kansas City are glad you’re testifying. But I worry that you may not fully understand the dangers and challenges you’ll have to face when this trial starts. Elliott won’t be in handcuffs in that courtroom. And if The Cleaner shows up—”
Bailey pulled his business card from her pocket and waved it in front of his face. “Then I’ll call you or your partner or 911.”
Another deep breath obscured his reaction. But she might have glimpsed a wry smile. “I guess I need to stop warning you, hmm?”
“You mean treat me like a grown-up?”
“Message received. Got your keys out?”
Bailey swapped the card for the keys in her pocket and pressed the remote, unlocking the car and starting the ignition. “Yes, sir.”
“Bailey—” The grip on her arm suddenly tightened and Spencer pulled her to a stop. “Ah, hell.”
A dark-haired woman climbed out of the car parked across from Bailey’s. The spiky heels of her black leather boots didn’t slow her at all as she crossed to the trunk of Bailey’s car. The striking brunette pulled a microphone from the folds of her coat. “Are you the star witness Dwight Powers keeps bragging about?”
“Bragging?” Hadn’t they escaped the onslaught of reporters?
A second door opened and the reporter waved her camera man forward. “I’m Vanessa Owen, Channel Ten News. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Miss Austin?”
Was the dark-haired woman giving her a choice? Vanessa was pushing for confirmation of her suspicions. But Bailey wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. When the camera pointed her way and the light came on, nearly blinding her in the dimness of the garage, Bailey kept her expression placid despite the clench of her fist. “I’m a witness. I’m sure the D.A. is talking to as many of the Rose Red Rapist’s victims that he can.”
“Don’t you mean alleged victims?” Vanessa Owen’s dark gaze flitted over Bailey’s shoulder to include Spencer in the interrogation. “Has he really been committing these crimes undetected for as many years as the D.A. claims?”
“Your questions are done, Ms. Owen.” Spencer reached around Bailey to push the camera lens toward the ground and warn the camera man to kill the light and stop recording. In a subtle move that wasn’t lost on either woman, he went into detective mode, sliding his shoulder in front of Bailey and blocking her from any attempt to question her again. Then he went on the offensive. “From what I hear, you and Brian Elliott have been pretty chummy. If you want to talk allegations, I have it on good intel that you and Elliott are having an affair.”
“Past tense, Detective...Montgomery, is it? Leader of KCPD’s illustrious task force? Brian and I may have attended a few social events together, but we’re no longer an item. Get your facts straight.” Vanessa’s ruby-tinted lips widened into a smile that never reached her eyes. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”
But Spencer didn’t back down from the taunt. “Either way, I’d think your viewers would be alarmed to learn just how biased your reporting on this case has been.” If anything, he leaned in. “Or did you get involved with a rapist just to get the inside scoop on his crimes? If that’s the case, I’d like to talk to you about withholding evidence from the police and abetting a suspected felon.”
With an amused laugh, Vanessa waved her cameraman back to their car. “Nicely played, Detective. I get your message. I’ll back off from Miss Austin. For now.” She tilted her head to acknowledge Bailey with a nod, then took a step closer to Spencer. “But this is the biggest story to hit Kansas City in years. I have a feeling there’s more to it than what KCPD or the D.A.’s office is sharing. And when her testimony becomes public record? Trust me, I’ll get the story. And I’ll take it all the way to the national market. Neither the D.A.’s stonewalling nor your task force are going to stop me from telling the biggest story of my career.”
“Just make sure you tell the truth.” Spencer turned his face to the side and Bailey gasped when she saw a black-haired man she hadn’t noticed leaning against a concrete pillar. “That goes for you, too, Knight. Whatever gripe you’ve got against KCPD, you’re not going to use Miss Austin to malign us in your editorials again.”
The second reporter, who’d been jotting something on a notepad, straightened. “They’re not editorials. They’re facts.” Even though his blue eyes were focused squarely on the detective, Bailey couldn’t help reaching for the sleeve of Spencer’s coat as the black-haired reporter approached. “How many months did it take your task force to capture Brian Elliott?” He stuffed his notebook and pen into the pockets of his insulated jacket. “And what kind of progress are you making on capturing his accomplice, The Cleaner?”
“Gabriel Knight, Kansas City Journal. I assume you already know Miss Austin, or you wouldn’t be here.” Spencer’s arm eased back against Bailey’s hand as he made the introduction, almost inviting her to hang on to his unflappable strength if she needed to.
Bailey curled her fingers into the wool but fought for a bit of independence by stepping up beside him. “Why aren’t you two with the other reporters?” she asked.
Vanessa Owen answered. “Because the story’s here.”
Gabriel Knight agreed. “I’ve heard all of Elliott’s claims of innocence. I’m more interested in knowing who’s going to finally shut him up.”
“Eloquent as always, Gabe,” Vanessa sneered.
Tension bunched in the muscles beneath Bailey’s hand, but Spencer’s authoritative tone never changed. “If you two want to talk KCPD business, you contact me or the task force press liaison, Kate Kilpatrick. If you want specifics on how Dwight Powers is going to prosecute Elliott, talk to him. Victims have a right to privacy. Leave Bailey Austin out of it.”
Gabriel Knight shook his head. “You’re betting all your cards on the story of a poor little rich girl, Detective?”
“Excuse me?” A story? Did he think for one minute that her words would be any less true than what he wrote in his paper?
“I’m not a gambler, Mr. Knight.” Spencer cut Bailey off before she could organize her thoughts into a protest. He laid his gloved hand over hers where it clung to his arm. “I’m putting all my faith in the truth.”
Spencer’s adamant defense was just as surprising as the insult to her character and reliability had been, catching Bailey off guard. She looked up to gauge the sincerity of his words, the meaning behind his touch. But the profile of his clenched jaw revealed nothing.
The reporter lifted the camera that hung from his neck and snapped a picture. “Can I quote you on that?”
When Spencer refused to answer the taunt, Gabriel Knight nodded, lowering his camera and accepting détente, for now. “I wish you the best of luck next week, Miss Austin. The department could use it.”
Apparently, Vanessa Owen needed to have a last word, too. “We’ll be at th
e courthouse next week, Detective. You can’t keep your girlfriend away from us forever.”
Girlfriend?
Vanessa’s gaze dropped to the spot where Bailey’s hand nestled beneath Spencer’s, daring him to deny the gossipy enticement. But he didn’t say another word.
“She’s right.” Breaking the tense silence, Gabriel Knight offered Bailey a wink. “I’ll see you at the Christmas Ball this weekend. I get to escort my boss to the event to help cover a feel-good story for the holidays.”
“You’re coming...?” Bailey felt the winter chill seep through her coat.
Of course there’d be reporters at the event. Her mother counted on the publicity to generate more donations after the fact, while the big donors at the ball appreciated the positive press. But she’d foolishly expected them to focus on the needs of the children’s hospital wing or the award-winning holiday decor, evening gowns and tuxedoes. She hadn’t counted on a hard news man like Gabriel Knight to be there.
“See you then.” Knight nodded to his competition. “Vanessa.”
“Gabe.”
Both reporters walked to their cars and drove away before Spencer abruptly released her. Bailey tried to smooth the wrinkles she’d left on his sleeve, but he moved away to open the car door for her. Wondering if she should apologize for clinging to him again, yet worried he’d tell her the needy grabs were proof that she wasn’t emotionally ready to testify, Bailey chose to address the two reporters. “Gabe Knight is an antagonistic, unpleasant man. It almost sounds as if he’s got some beef against the police department.”
“I don’t know what Knight’s problem is. He’s always been critical of the department. And Vanessa Owen’s an ambitious, opportunistic—”
“She’s not a lady?”
“Something like that.” He gestured to the seat behind the wheel and Bailey dutifully climbed inside. “Don’t let him corner you at that ball, all right? You don’t have to talk to him.”
