by Julie Miller
With a silent scream pinging inside her ears, she grabbed his hand, twisted his wrist and pinched his nerve in a move her former cop brother, Eli, had taught her. Isaac yelped as his grip popped open and his knees buckled at the awkward position she’d put him in. Mr. Lynch’s car door swung open, but Isaac put up his free hand to tell him to stay put.
“We were never friends.” Jillian seethed between clenched teeth as she released her defensive grip and shoved him away. She pulled the SUV door open and climbed in.
“I like this new you. You’ve got spirit. It’s hot.”
With a groan at the unappreciated compliment, Jillian slammed the door shut. And locked it.
He was laughing as she started the engine. “You know where to find me if you change your mind. About anything.”
Not bloody likely.
She leaned on the horn to get Lynch to move. The big black man might have saved her from some serious hurt once, had maybe even saved her life—and for that intervention she would always be grateful—but he seemed in no mood to go against his boss tonight. The time it took him to pull a cigar from his trench coat pocket and light it was the time Jillian needed to realize just how helpless she was at this moment. And just how annoyingly right Michael Cutler had been about the dangers of trespassing through No-Man’s Land after dark.
Her breath caught in her throat and stuttered out on a mix of fear and adrenaline.
Locked doors couldn’t keep Isaac and Lynch out if they wanted in. A bullet could pierce her windshield. They could march Troy and Dexter out here right now and threaten them, and she’d do whatever Isaac said to keep the boys safe. When she’d been high on coke or desperate for a fix, Jillian hadn’t fully understood just how inescapably at the mercy of these two men she’d been.
She understood the threat now as clearly as the gun peeking from the holster inside Lynch’s coat. Get out of here! She honked again. Now!
Isaac rapped on her window and grinned as she startled halfway out of her seat. “You come see me again sometime soon, babe. I’ll have something real good for you, I promise. The first line will be on the house.”
Then he raised his hand and signaled Lynch to move his car. The instant the Cadillac had pulled back enough for Jillian to squeeze her SUV out, she stomped on the accelerator, peeling away in a blind rush to freedom and safety, leaving Rush and Lynch and the tarnished memories from a past she couldn’t quite escape behind her.
Her heart wasn’t pounding so hard against her ribs that she couldn’t feel the still watchful eyes glued to her every movement as she sped away.
Chapter Three
“You didn’t have to call me. I’m in my room. Homework’s done. I’m fine.”
Despite the reassurance of the actual words, Michael Cutler heard nothing but Go away and leave me alone in his son’s voice. He tipped his cell phone up to his temple, shifted to a more comfortable position in the cab of his heavy-duty pickup truck and breathed out a steely sigh before pulling it back to his mouth and trying again. “You want me to get some food while I’m out? I can drive through and get you a couple of burgers on the way home.”
“We ate dinner.”
Technically, Mike, Jr., had pushed the stew around in his bowl, eaten half his grilled cheese sandwich and rolled away from the table as fast as his wheelchair would take him as soon as Michael had granted his request to be excused. “I don’t mind running to—”
“Brett’s waiting, Dad.”
“I see.” Brett was Mike’s online gaming partner. They’d once been a trio of friends—before their classmate Steve had died in the crash that had shattered Mike’s legs. Now the three caballeros were down to two and Michael didn’t want to see his son isolate himself from any more of his former friends. “Well, tell Brett hi. You’ve got postapocalyptic worlds to save, I’m sure.”
“I guess. Can I go now?”
“I’ll be home in time to say good-night.”
“Okay.”
Click.
Michael downed the last dregs of his tepid coffee and crushed the paper cup in his hand. “That went well.”
About as well as a standoff with a hostage-taker who refused to negotiate.
He shoved the empty cup back into the holder between the two front seats of his black pickup. Conversations like that one were a big reason he’d been sitting outside this particular brownstone for more than an hour already. This was one problem he thought he could fix. As soon as he’d clipped his phone onto his belt, Michael pushed up the sleeve of his pullover sweater and checked the time on his military-grade watch: 8:10 p.m.
“Where the hell are you?” he whispered, turning his attention from his taciturn son to the darkened windows of Jillian Masterson’s apartment building. His watch had ticked away with the same ominous slowness the night Mike hadn’t shown up by curfew and he’d finally gotten a call at 2:00 a.m. from a traffic cop to tell him his son was being airlifted from the scene of an accident. He wasn’t jumping to any morbid conclusions yet, but he wasn’t ready to dismiss his suspicions about Jillian being in some kind of trouble, either.
A quick perusal of the building’s layout told him her apartment was on the front side, facing the street where he’d parked. And though several other residents of the south Kansas City neighborhood had pulled into the adjacent parking lot, unlocked the lobby’s security door and lit their windows with the warm glow of activity inside, Jillian’s third-floor windows remained dark, cold and empty.
Not that it was his job to watch over the leggy physical therapist’s comings and goings. But with Mike shut up inside his bedroom with his headphones on and his attention glued to the epic zombie battle he and Brett were waging online, Michael had chosen to act on a concern he could do something about—finding out exactly what had put the fear into Jillian’s green eyes when he’d found her reading that letter in her office.
Despite the promise she made that she’d do whatever was sensible to keep herself safe, Michael’s gut and the excuses Jillian had come up with to dismiss her panicked reaction were giving him the same message. Something was very, very wrong in that woman’s life. He’d worked too many domestic dispute calls with his team not to be suspicious about so-called loving relationships that invoked more terror than tenderness.
What she was doing for Troy Anthony was commendable and courageous, but not reporting in after a visit to a neighborhood where gangs and drugs and prostitutes often called the shots was worrisome enough. It was downright foolish if there was some kind of unwanted admirer in her life who could use the inherent dangers of Jillian’s crusade against her—or who might even be a part of that world she was trying to help Troy leave behind.
She said she’d be safe at home before dark, damn it, and the sun had set an hour ago.
He needed her to help Mike unplug himself from his isolation and anger, and move on with his life. Selfish as it might be, Michael wouldn’t let her efforts to help one young man jeopardize the recovery of his own son.
Squeezing the steering wheel in his fists, Michael eased out his frustration while keeping his senses focused and sharp. He’d felt these same pangs when Pam had been consumed with cancer and was dying. He’d wanted to protect her, too—wanted to do whatever it took to drive the uncertainty from her eyes and make her smile.
Maybe he couldn’t fix Mike’s problems, after all.
Maybe he couldn’t help Jillian.
Maybe there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help any of the people who were most important in his life.
But he’d fought for Pam until the very end—until that last evening in the hospital when she’d finally told him to let her go. He’d promised his late wife that he’d fight just as hard for their son to live a long, happy life. Thus far it seemed Michael had had more failures than success. Mike had turned to the party life to cope with his grief. In his efforts to forget the pain of losing his mother, he’d lost even more—a good friend, football, the future he’d had planned.
It would
take one hell of a fight to mend his son and reclaim the close-knit family they’d once had. And if Jillian Masterson was the key…
Giving up wasn’t an option.
Michael scrubbed his palm over his jaw and tried to think this situation through. He liked Jillian well enough—better than a man his age probably should. No doubt there were plenty of young bucks in K.C. who’d noticed that long, sable-colored hair and those green Irish eyes, too. He was older, not dead. Jillian’s endless legs, that beautiful mouth and the sharp remarks that came out of it awakened his masculine spirit in ways he thought had died two years ago with Pam. It was hard to look into her frightened expression and not want to touch her or hold her and drive away that fear.
Ultimately, however, his feelings were irrelevant. He just had to keep Jillian safe so that she, in turn, could continue to make the miracle of Mike, Jr.’s, recovery happen.
That meant thinking like a cop—like a veteran SWAT team commander. Fortunately, that was one thing Michael could do without any doubts.
Did he risk a call to her brother Eli—a former KCPD internal affairs officer who now ran investigations for the D.A.’s office? Did he call one of his own men, sharpshooter Holden Kincaid, whose oldest brother, Edward, was married to Jillian’s sister? In a roundabout way, he could ask if anyone had heard from her—if anyone knew of her particular plans for the evening. Did she have a meeting? A date?
“Why don’t you panic the whole family and create some real chaos?” he muttered out loud. There’d be no more phone calls tonight. He knew better than that. One of the traits that made him the leader he was at KCPD was his ability to remain calm—his ability to rein in whatever he was feeling to keep his men focused and get the job done.
Michael’s job tonight was simply to make sure that Jillian got home safely. Her personal life wasn’t his responsibility. He just needed her in one piece and on the job Monday when he took Mike in for his therapy session. He needed Jillian to make his son smile. And laugh. And truly want to live again.
He’d ignore the stirrings in his blood teasing him that spending time with Jillian Masterson made him feel like living again, too.
JILLIAN STUFFED A FRENCH FRY into her mouth and reached across the seat for another as she slowed her SUV and pulled into the parking lot of her building. She circled around once, looking for an empty spot, preferably one close to the door since the rest of her day had totally sucked and the idea of braving the long, lonely parking lot by herself was about as appealing as the sensation of having unseen eyes on her 24/7.
“Great,” she muttered, reaching the end of the lot and circling around again. “Just great.”
When she reached the entrance again, she pulled into the only empty spot she’d seen. It wasn’t terribly close to the door, but at least it was close to a streetlamp and she’d have some light along most of the walk to help keep real and imagined shadows at bay. She doused the headlights, killed the engine and tried to psych herself up by telling herself that her long day—from Loverboy’s letter to running into Isaac Rush after getting bawled out by Troy’s grandmother, from lusting after Michael Cutler to the need for an N.A. meeting—was almost over.
The handful of fries she’d eaten since leaving the drive-through window at a fast food restaurant sat like rocks in her stomach. Still, all her training as an athlete, physical therapist and recovering addict demanded she get some kind of nourishment into her system, no matter how tired she was. So she grabbed the bag and climbed out. Greasy dinner, sleeping in a blue and pink bedroom and finally getting to a new day wasn’t much, but it was something to look forward to.
The beep of her remote locking the car couldn’t mask the slamming of a car door nearby. The instantaneous thump of her heart couldn’t drown out the crunch of approaching footsteps, either.
Jillian spun around. Where was her company? Would she recognize a neighbor? Or was it him?
“Hey, Jilly,” the male voice drawled, stopping her at the rear of her SUV. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”
Seeing the familiar handsome face and spiked blond hair transformed her fear into irritation. “Blake. You scared the daylights out of me. What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?”
“Didn’t you get mine?” He loosened his tie and unhooked the collar of his striped shirt. “You stood me up tonight. I thought we were having drinks.”
“I never said yes to a date. I never will.”
“I love a woman who plays hard to get.” He leaned in close, as if he intended to kiss her, and Jillian jerked away. He clamped his hand down on her wrist and she stomped on his instep. With a howl and a curse, he instantly released her. “Maybe not that hard, baby.”
Another car door slammed. Could this night get any worse?
It could.
She saw the drop of dried blood at the corner of Blake’s aquiline nose and realized there was a slur to his southern drawl. She shoved him away when he leaned in again. “Oh, my God, Blake—are you using?”
“Just a little. I don’t know how many times I can let you break my heart without putting a stop to it. It dulls the pain.”
“It dulls the brain. You’re throwing your fortune away, maybe even your career. Don’t blame me for your addiction. Good night.”
He shifted his stance, blocking her path when she tried to move around him. He laid his hand over his heart. “You hurt me, Jilly. Nobody’s ever been able to take your place. I can get clean. I’ve done it before. Just give me a chance. Don’t hurt me like this.”
Fine. He wanted to talk pain?
“Did you send me a rose this week, Blake? Are you trying to rekindle something with me?”
“Hell, I’ll buy you two whole dozen if it’ll get you to come back to me.”
“Did you send the flower?” She was beginning to think the answer was no, that the more expensive, dramatic gesture he’d just offered would be more his style. Still, she needed to be clear. “We are never getting together again. I told you that two Christmases ago when we tried to recapture the magic we once had.”
Turned out it wasn’t magic at all, but a curse. She had to have been high herself to think she’d ever been in love with a man like him.
“You need to go home, Blake, and sleep this off. In the morning, call Dr. Randolph at the Boatman Clinic. I’ve given you his number before. Get help. Please.”
“Say you love me and I will.”
MICHAEL STRETCHED HIS LONG LEGS out beneath the dashboard to control the restlessness inside him. Chances were, Jillian would show up safe and sound any minute now, and he was doing all this worrying for nothing.
Or not.
Hidden in the darkness of the truck’s interior, he recognized her dark blue SUV as it zipped into the parking lot and circled around twice before she pulled into a space right next to the entrance and abruptly cut the engine and lights. In the circle of light cast by the streetlamp across from him, he could easily make out her jerky movements as she checked in every direction before grabbing a sack of takeout food from the passenger seat and locking the door behind her. Her long strides took her to the back of her SUV and she disappeared from sight.
And then he saw the blond man in the suit climb out of his Jaguar the next row over and stumble toward Jillian.
Michael’s gaze narrowed. His pulse raced. “What the hell?”
He was out of his truck and dashing across the street when he heard the man shout out a curse. Michael slowed his steps, assessed the scene. Was Jillian in danger?
“Oh, my God, Blake—are you using?” Whatever was happening, Jillian seemed to be fighting the battle just fine on her own. Still, he’d seen such fear in her eyes that morning. If this was the guy responsible for putting it there…
Stepping into the grass to approach in stealth mode, Michael reached the hood of her SUV and identified each of their positions at the rear of the vehicle.
“Get help. Please.”
“Say you love me and I will.”
Michae
l circled around in time to see the blond man reach for Jillian. He snuck up behind the fool and had him in a headlock and on the ground before his fingers ever touched her.
“Michael!”
“What the hell?”
“KCPD, pal. Put your hands on your head and stay on the ground if you know what’s good for you.” He straightened to find Jillian staring at him, her soft mouth agape, her green eyes wide and confused. “You okay?”
“Where did you…? How did you…?” She blinked, and he read suspicion instead of gratitude there. “Are you following me?”
“This guy apparently is.” The guy squirmed, tried to get up. Michael put a boot squarely in his back and pushed him back down to the asphalt. He still needed an answer. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. He’s an old boyfriend. He wouldn’t…” She hugged the sack she carried up to her chest and glanced down at the man on the ground. “His name’s Blake Rivers. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”
Blake Rivers tried to turn his face up to Michael. “Who are you, old man? You can’t be her daddy, ’cause he’s dead.”
Jillian gasped. Michael knew enough of her history to know that that had been a cruel, tactless thing to say. “I’m a friend. One who’s going to do whatever the lady tells me to do. Get the hint?”
He didn’t. “Jilly and I have history.”
“History’s in the past. I’m talking about right now.” Michael pressed a little harder with his boot. “Jillian, do you want this man around?”
The sack took a beating from her wringing fingers. “Blake, I told you I can’t see you anymore. I just wanted to know if you had sent me a rose last week.”
