by Julie Miller
“Baby, I told you to your face how I feel.”
“You can’t have me back. Ever. I don’t know how many different ways I can say it—you’re not good for me. Now go home.”
“Why? So you can bang this old fart?”
“Michael isn’t—”
“Michael can handle himself just fine.” Proving he was as good as his word, Michael hauled Blake to his feet and escorted him back to his car. “The lady said goodbye. You’re leaving.” He stopped long enough to open the car door and look him straight in the eye. “You sober enough to drive, pal?”
Blake sputtered for a moment, blinked his vision clear and then climbed into his Jaguar and started the engine. Michael was already calling in the name, plate and location to alert traffic patrol as the car pulled out and sped away.
Hopefully, he’d get home without incident. Hopefully, Michael had done enough to keep him away from Jillian.
But if he’d been expecting gratitude, or even a friendly hello, from her, he’d been mistaken.
As he rejoined her at her SUV, he didn’t bother asking if she’d been rattled by the encounter with her ex. Jillian stood tall and strong. And she was spitting mad.
“Did you follow me uptown to Troy’s apartment, too?”
He pointed to his pickup across the street. “No, I’ve been waiting over there.”
Anger twisted into confusion. “That wasn’t you watching me?”
“No, that jackass in the Jaguar…” She wasn’t talking about now. His gaze narrowed in on the tight lines of strain bracketing her mouth and every muscle in him tensed, instantly on guard. It wasn’t anger that had her so tense. “Watching? Explain.”
“Never mind, Captain.” She turned away.
They were back to Captain?
“Jillian, did something else happen?” He reached for her arm, touched the soft fleece of her sleeve.
She whirled around and smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
As instantly apologetic as she’d been quick to attack, Jillian reached out and patted his chest. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles in his sweater and blood surged to the point of contact. “I’m sorry. Long day. I…” Her gaze following her shaky fingers, she brushed her fingertips over the brass and blue enamel badge clipped to his belt. If she was worried about assaulting a police officer, or muttered one word about not respecting her elders…But she curled her fingers into her palm and the explanation died in her upturned eyes. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Sorry I hit you.”
He was a man. He was a cop. He was here. He could handle whatever she had to say. Michael softened his voice, taking the authoritative clip from his tone. “Don’t apologize. Just talk to me.”
“I can’t.” Shaking her head, she wrapped both hands around the crumpled takeout sack. “You’re not here to solve my problems.” A tiny frown dimpled the smooth, tanned skin of her forehead. “Why are you here, anyway? Is Mike okay?”
“Mike’s fine. He’s holed up in his room and won’t have a civil conversation with me, but I know he’s safe. You? I’m not so sure.”
“Just don’t give up on Mike—keep trying to connect, no matter how rude or sullen he gets. You never know when the message is going to kick in. If he keeps hearing the words and seeing the actions, he’ll understand that you love him, and that he’s not in his fight all alone. Well, if you don’t need anything else…” She held up the fast food sack. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
“Sage advice, Obi-Wan. But like I said, you’re the one I’m worried about right now.”
“I’m okay.” With a smile he didn’t buy, Jillian bade him good-night and headed down the walk toward the front door again. She was on the first step when she turned to face him. A deep, ragged breath lifted her shoulders. “Who am I kidding? Would you do me a favor? If you’re not on duty—of course you’re not on duty, you’re not in uniform—but if you don’t have to be anywhere—”
“What is it?” He was already closing the distance between them. Michael stopped on the step below her, tilting his chin ever so slightly to look up into her eyes.
“Would you…” Her fingertips danced just above his chest again, as if he needed to be soothed before she could ask him the favor. His pulse seemed to pick up the same jumpy rhythm. “Would you walk me up to my apartment, Captain? Just make sure it’s clear to go inside. I’ve had some weird things happen lately, and I’m getting a little paranoid.”
More weird than that letter? “What did Blake Rivers say to you?”
“You know I used to be like him. I suppose now I’m just sober enough to know that something isn’t right.”
He knew she didn’t talk about her past life much, but she’d shared enough. He’d have done his homework on the woman responsible for his son’s recovery, anyway. And besides, Mike’s response to her was so strong, it didn’t make a difference. “You don’t deserve this harassment. You beat your addiction, Jillian. You made something of your life.”
“Not enough, it seems.” Or else she wouldn’t have some creep making her startle at a man’s unexpected touch? “You sure you still want to help me?”
Michael simply nodded, stepping up behind her to shield her from unseen eyes she thought were watching as she unlocked the door and led him inside. When she hesitated at the open elevator doors, Michael touched the small of her back and guided her inside. When the doors closed behind them and she didn’t move away, he let his fingers slide beneath her jacket to rest just above her belt in an even more protective gesture. The sinuous curve of her hip beneath her knit top told him she was as firm and fit as she looked.
But the pulsing heat that warmed his fingers even at that innocent contact warned him that his interest in helping Jillian might not be as paternal and altruistic as he might have thought. He quickly drew his hand away as if he’d crossed a forbidden line of friendship and tucked his errant fingers into the front pockets of his jeans.
She’d asked the KCPD captain to escort her upstairs, not the red-blooded forty-four-year-old who couldn’t seem to keep his hormones in check tonight.
He peered down the third-floor hallway before he let her exit the elevator. Clear. The muffled sounds of television shows and lively conversations filtered through his ears as they passed by her neighbors. Nothing unusual there. Once they reached Jillian’s door, Michael put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back so he could enter her apartment first.
“No sign of forced entry,” he stated as she pulled out her key. Still…Michael pressed Jillian back against the wall beside the door frame and looked her straight in the eye. “Stay put. I don’t want to mistake your movement for something or someone else.”
Jillian looked straight back and nodded.
Unhooking the cover on the holster at his waist, Michael rested his hand on the butt of his Glock and crossed the tiny dining area to see what was on the other side of the counter that divided the open kitchen area. A few dirty dishes in the sink, a wireless phone on the wall with a blinking red light indicating four messages. But nothing seemed out of place. He checked the window that opened onto the fire escape off the kitchen. New lock. State-of-the-art. “Have you had a recent break-in?” he questioned.
“No. I asked Eli to replace the old lock for me. The metal had rusted.”
Beefing up the locks—evidence of a woman who lived alone in the city showing common sense? Or did Jillian have a more specific reason for not feeling secure in her own home? How many love letters did a woman have to receive before she felt compelled to change the locks and have a cop walk through her place?
Scanning quickly and thoroughly from left to right, he moved through each of the remaining rooms. Living room clear. Bathroom clear. Her bedroom was a little messy—the smell of fresh paint tinged the air, and the bed was still rumpled from where she’d lain among the sheets and quilt. The window, inaccessible from outside without a fire engine ladder or rappelling rope, was cracked open to help disperse the paint fumes, but the room and closets were clea
r.
“I don’t see anything out of place.” Michael secured his gun and came back into the living room.
“Thank you.” Jillian’s shoulders sagged with genuine relief before a bolt of internal energy fired through her. She opened the door and flashed him a smile that surely meant goodbye. “You won’t tell Eli or my sister that I’m losing it, will you? They worry enough about me living on my own. Now I can tell them that the finest of Kansas City’s finest said there was nothing to worry about.”
That wasn’t what he’d said, and Michael wasn’t ready to be dismissed just yet. He braced his hands on his hips and stood his ground. “Does this paranoia of yours have anything to do with that love letter you threw away this afternoon?”
Boom. Smile gone. The door drifted shut as she stormed across the apartment to meet him in the kitchen. “You went through my trash?”
Michael shrugged off the accusation. “Didn’t need a warrant to do it. Something was…is clearly bugging you. And don’t tell me it’s my imagination. I know what brave people who are trying to hide how scared they are look like. Is it an abusive boyfriend? That Rivers guy who won’t take no for an answer?”
She tossed the sack onto the counter and planted herself in front of him, matching his stance and nearly matching his height. “One, I don’t have a boyfriend, and two, what business is it of yours who follows me or sends me things I don’t want?”
Whoa. “You were followed tonight? I told you to drive straight to a police station—”
“You’re twisting my words around—”
“You’re the one who asked me to check out your apartment.” One beat of silence passed. Then another. Michael’s burst of temper squeezed into something much more controlled, much more concise. “You’re being stalked, aren’t you?”
The flush of defensive anger drained from her face, leaving Jillian’s smooth skin an alarming shade of pale. Swift negotiating tactic, Cutler.
When her gaze dropped to the middle of his chest and her head bobbed with a reluctant nod, it wasn’t victory at finally getting a straight answer he was feeling. The nagging burn in his gut that had told him something was wrong wasn’t eased one bit by the truth.
“Jillian…” Michael reached out to brush aside the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. He gently tucked it behind her ear, then cupped his hand against her jaw. The cool velvet of her skin, the warm beat of her pulse throbbing beneath his fingertips—they eased the guilt and worry in his gut. He tipped her face back up to his and drifted half a step closer. “You jump every time I enter the room, and you go on the attack every time I even suggest that you might be in danger. Sure signs you’re hiding something. This isn’t something you can fight on your own. You shouldn’t have to.”
Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. Her eyes locked on to his. Her hands curled into tight fists and rested against him. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
Michael stroked the side of her neck, dipping his fingertips into the coffee silk of her hair. Her pulse was quick but steady. “Have you reported him to the police?”
She tapped at his chest. “And tell them what? He hasn’t threatened me in any way. He just…loves me.”
“Does it feel like love?”
Her answer was to walk straight into his chest. She clutched a fistful of the sweater she’d smoothed so meticulously earlier, and buried her face at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She was shaking.
Michael was much more than a cop standing there in Jillian’s kitchen as he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight against his body, trading solace for the tactile reassurance of her warmth and trust. He turned his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear. “Now tell me who this bastard is—and why he’s got you so spooked.”
Chapter Four
Jillian burrowed into Michael’s unyielding strength, drawing in deep breaths of the clean, musky scent that clung to his skin and the white T-shirt that peeked out above the neckline of his sweater. The overwhelming onslaught of frustration and helplessness, loosed by Michael’s unexpected tenderness, calmed as the strong, steady rhythm of his heart drummed beneath her hand.
His fingers tunneled beneath her ponytail, gently massaging the tension at her nape. He slipped his arm beneath her jacket to catch her more closely around the waist, creating an intimate rustle of denim against khaki as his sturdy thighs rubbed against hers. The hardness of his gun and badge poked into her belly, but she had no desire to adjust her stance for fear the slightest movement would end the embrace.
“Have you reported this?” he whispered against her hair.
“No.” She didn’t want to talk. She simply wanted to breathe easy for a few moments while his strong arms and soft, deep voice shut out the chaotic events and irrational fears of the past few weeks. She just wanted to feel…safe.
And for the first time in weeks, she did.
But Michael Cutler had KCPD running through his blood, and the respite couldn’t last. He wanted answers and demanded action. Tucking a finger beneath her chin, he nudged her face up to meet his probing gaze. “Your brother is married to the commissioner. Your sister is married to a homicide detective. Have you told any of them what’s going on?”
Reluctantly, Jillian pushed away and hugged her arms in front of her, trying to hold on to some of his warmth. “You want me to embarrass all of them by sounding like a whack job?”
“Besides the fact that they’re family and I know they care about your well-being—what if this creep has something to do with their position in the department, or a case one of them has worked on? It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal has targeted a family member out of retribution. You know you should report a stalker. They’d want to know that.”
Jillian shrugged, knowing just how foolish she’d sound if her story made it onto a police blotter. Former juvenile delinquent who nearly ruined her family eleven years ago is at it again. Can’t the commissioner’s husband and KCPD’s assistant medical examiner keep their little sister out of trouble? “There haven’t been any threats. Certainly nothing specific against my family. All I have are a handful of letters and a dead rose—”
“And the feeling that someone’s following you.”
“And what do I say? Hey, Eli and Holly—this guy says he loves me.” Jillian picked up her cold sack of dinner and tossed it into the trash beneath the sink. What little appetite she’d had was long gone. “He might need to have his head examined, but you can’t arrest a man for that.”
She was beginning to wonder if the connection she’d felt with Michael—the shared heat, the need, the attraction that was growing more difficult to ignore by the minute—had all been the ruse of a skilled SWAT negotiator, to get her to drop her guard and lure her into talking. Because he was keeping his distance and the questions kept coming. “You don’t know who sent that letter today?”
“I don’t know who sent any of them.”
“Plural?”
Why not? Whatever his reasons might be, Michael Cutler wanted to hear her story. And she’d reached the point where she needed to tell it.
“Here.” Jillian crossed into the living room and pulled out a manila envelope from the desk behind the sofa. As he’d followed her, she only had to turn around to hand him the package. “There are eight of them. They started coming about a month ago. Kansas City postmark, no return address, no name. I don’t know what they’ll prove, but when you’ve grown up around cops—”
“You hold on to potential evidence.” He unhooked the flap and used the hem of his sweater sleeve to pull the first one out. “Self-gummed envelopes and stamps, so no DNA. No handwriting to trace. Probably no fingerprints, either, if he’s being that careful, but I’ll pull in a favor at the lab and ask them to run these for trace, anyway.” His stern expression never wavered as he skimmed through the contents of each message. “Anything about the wording sound like someone you know?”
“Not really. He keeps everythin
g pretty generic.” Just personal enough to send a chill down her spine. Jillian stuck her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt jacket and wondered if she was ever going to feel warm on her own again. “Compliments. Poetry. Promises. I call him Loverboy, but trust me, it’s not an endearing nickname. I needed something tangible where I could focus my…” Fear? Loathing? Terror? Jillian shrugged. “If I knew the guy, I might think the messages were dorky, but flattering.”
“Like a kid with a crush?”
“Like a sicko with a grand, idealized notion of what I’m looking for in a relationship.”
“He’s put you on a pedestal.” Michael tucked the letters carefully back into the envelope. “I’m guessing it’s someone you know, even peripherally, someone from your present or past. You’ve smiled at him or spoken to him or done something for him that he interprets as you having feelings for him.”
“Believe me, I don’t.” Jillian paced back into the kitchen and filled the kettle on the stove to fix some hot tea. There had to be a way to shake the chill that filled every pore.
Michael followed. “I’ve answered more calls than I’d care to count because a man doesn’t have a good grasp on what the reality of loving a woman is.”
She froze with the box of tea bags in her hands. “Calls? As in SWAT team calls? You think it could escalate into something that serious?”
“I’m not willing to treat this as a joke. And even if you think this could be a harmless prank that would end up embarrassing your family, my years of experience tell me to consider this guy a serious threat until he proves otherwise.”
Jillian turned off the stove and sank into one of the chairs at her kitchen table. Hot tea wasn’t going to help. “Now you’re really scaring me. What if he tries something when I’m with a patient? Or he hurts someone here in my apartment building?”
“Look, I hope I’m wrong, but in my job you’re better prepared if you understand the worst that could happen. I just want you to see this in a sensible way, and take the precautions necessary to keep yourself safe. Telling me is the first step.” He laid the envelope on the table and pulled out the chair beside her. When he rested his calloused fingers over hers, Jillian turned her hand and latched on to the comfort he provided. “Things could be escalating already. First, he’s merely sending you notes. Now he’s watching you—getting closer to actually interacting with you? What made you think he followed you tonight?”
