One Good Man

Of what? Him? Men? What he reminded her of?

What he made her feel?

That he made her feel, period.

“What scares you, princess?” he demanded.

Casey clamped her mouth shut and tried to make sense of the emotions churning inside her.

This close, she could smell the faint spicy scent of his aftershave clinging to the shadowy stubble of his beard. With the fire of verbal battle still hot within her, that slightest of sensations sneaked past her defenses and awoke something that had lain dormant too long for her to immediately recognize it.

Casey zeroed in on the mouth that spoke such a challenge to her. Sexy. Firm and flat and as unerringly masculine as the breadth of his shoulders or the timbre of his voice.

An incredibly politically incorrect thought crossed her mind. He liked to argue. He seemed to bring out the worst in her red-haired temperament. Sparring with him made her feel strong. Opinionated.

What if he simply silenced her arguments with a kiss?

She hadn’t been kissed for so long.

“So you’re not going to answer me?”

Mitch eased back, tilting his head to the ceiling and releasing a deep breath that made her wonder if he’d been as caught up in the moment of fascination as she had.

Casey breathed again, too. The respite allowed her to clear her thoughts. But rational thinking gave way to an almost physical pain. She wanted to laugh at her absurd expectations. What could a man as vibrant and self-assured as Mitch Taylor see in a crippled recluse like herself?

The embarrassment that flooded through her scorched her cheeks and she turned away. Into Frankie’s told-you-so smile.

“Uh, excuse me.” Frankie pointed to the office. “The phone?”

Casey reprimanded her with a pointed glare and headed for the office, glad for the ringing reprieve from both Frankie’s idealistic romantic thoughts and her own self-condemning ones. But Mitch beat her to it. By the time she reached the desk, he already had his hand on the receiver.

“Mitch, it’s just—”

“No.” He jabbed his finger in the air to silence her. “Until I get surveillance equipment set up, no one answers the phone, door or intercom except me.”

In full protector mode, Mitch picked up the receiver and turned his back to her. “Taylor.”

Casey swallowed her offer to provide information with a smug smile. Frankie nudged her elbow and giggled.

“I see.” Mitch’s gruff voice maintained its crisp, professional tone, but the stiffness eased from his shoulders. “I’ll let them know.”

When he hung up, Frankie was ready with an explanation. “That’s Grandma’s private line from the house. There’s no outside connection here.”

Casey’s amusement turned into a full-blown smile. She felt Mitch’s gaze hone in on the change in her expression. The corners of his stern mouth relaxed, and some of the heat that had consumed her earlier returned. This time, though, a gentler, safer temperature warmed her.

Mitch relayed the message. “Judith says she’s got cookies hot from the oven waiting for us with a glass of milk.”

“Oatmeal Scotchies?” asked Frankie.

Casey’s own taste buds perked up at the prospect.

“Yes.”

“Cool! C’mon, let’s go.” Frankie snatched up her coat, bounded through the outside door and zoomed down the path to the main house.

Casey and Mitch followed at a slower pace, shrugging into their coats and locking the pool-house door behind them.

Mitch shortened his stride to match Casey’s measured steps. “You know, if you are in danger, it’d be nice if you people acted like it.”

Casey turned up her wool collar and shrugged at his comment, not knowing where to begin explaining her ordeal with Emmett Raines and how she’d learned to cope with it over the years. She settled for the simple advice Jimmy had given her so long ago. “I find a lot of comfort in the predictability of my lifestyle.”

He shook his head. “It makes you complacent. A variable routine makes it harder for anyone stalking you to catch you off guard.”

She couldn’t stem the sarcasm that slipped into her voice. “I’m very much on guard, Captain. I think your presence here has taken care of that.”

They had reached the garage, which opened into the kitchen and provided the rear entrance to the house. Casey grasped the knob, but Mitch stretched his arm across the doorway, blocking her path.

“You don’t have to like me, princess. Or even respect what I do. But know this. I’m good at my job. And I’m going to do it with or without your help. ‘With’ just makes it easier. For both of us.”

He snared her in the dark light of his eyes, and Casey read the clear warning etched there.

She retreated a step to put some much needed distance between them. “What kind of help do you want from me? I won’t leave here. I know every tree and corner like the back of my hand, and the people even better.”

“You could answer a few questions.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, making him appear less of a threat. But Casey’s guard went on full alert.

“Like what?”

“Tell me what makes Raines so different that you and the commissioner won’t handle his escape through standard procedure. You weren’t the only witness to testify at that trial. What makes him such a threat to you? I’d rather hear it from you instead of a police report.”

She huddled inside her coat, shaking with the aftershocks of fear as her false bravado shrank inside her.

“Try not to look like you’ve been damned, Ms. Maynard. I’m on your side. I’ll let you eat your oatmeal cookies first.”

He opened the door for her and followed her inside. He even helped her with her coat. But Casey wasn’t fooled by his gallantry for an instant. The detective wanted answers from her that she’d never fully shared with anyone besides Jimmy.

He might be nice to her now, she thought. He might charm the socks off Frankie, Ben and Judith as he joined them at the kitchen table. But Casey inhaled the sweet smells from the kitchen as though she were facing her last supper.

Because once the McDonalds left for the Thanksgiving holiday, she’d be alone in the house with Mitch Taylor.

And then—she tried to swallow a bite of delectable cookie past the lump of dread in her throat—let the inquisition begin.

“YOU’RE SURE you won’t change your mind and come to the house for the weekend?” Ben McDonald loosened his bear-hug grip on Casey and stood back. Fatherly concern creased his well-worn features.

Casey patted his arm and smiled. “I’m sure. You’ll be jam-packed with relatives and you won’t need me and my problems to put a damper on the celebration.”

“Honey, we raised you as much as your folks did. You know you’d be welcome.”