One Good Man

“You okay?”

The dark-haired gladiator appeared in the doorway. He halted there, taking in the scattered mess and her sitting in the middle of it. An invisible suit of armor slipped over his shoulders and he stepped inside, cutting the breathing space between them and blocking her only avenue of escape. “I told you not to answer the…”

Her strangled gasp echoed in the room. She flattened her back against the desk. The man who looked like Mitch froze midstride, towering above her.

“Casey?” Her name crackled in the air.

She looked hard into his eyes, seeking something familiar, fighting through the fog of panic that threatened to shut down her ability to think.

The tension in the room vibrated through Casey. Her breath deepened in short, punctuated gasps. A golden light flared in his eyes, a predator sensing danger.

But was she the prey? Or the protected mate?

She inched her way up the desk, carefully balancing herself so she wouldn’t crumple to the floor. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. To look away would mean giving him an advantage she wouldn’t surrender. Better that he be distracted first. “Would you hand me my cane? It’s in the stand by the door there.”

He hesitated an instant, then turned away, his movements slow and controlled, as if he expected her to bolt. He held out her cane, keeping as much distance between them as possible. When she wrapped her fingers around the handle, he held on, connecting an electric current between them.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” His voice, low and commanding, skittered along her nerve endings.

Casey looked harder. She saw warmth in his eyes and something that comforted her more than any other emotion could have. Suspicion.

Emboldened by the inexplicable reassurance, she reached up and cupped the left side of his face. He jerked at the unexpected touch, then held himself still beneath her hand. She felt the rasp of beard stubble in her palm, the forceful jut of his jaw. She dragged her fingertips over his skin, then held them to her own face, identifying the spicy scent of him and noting the absence of any makeup.

“Mitch?” Her fear seeped out in one long breath. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

Without questioning her need to do it, Casey reached out with her left arm and slipped it around Mitch’s waist beneath his open coat. She didn’t care whether he responded out of duty or real concern; she only recognized a sense of profound relief when his sheltering arms folded around her and pulled her close.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She shook her head at the gentle question. She grabbed a fistful of his jacket in her hand and burrowed even closer. Even the omnipresent bulk of the gun and holster beneath his arm reassured her. His hand spanned her back between her shoulder blades, rubbing light, consoling circles there.

“You have to talk to me, princess.”

“Not yet,” she murmured. “Just hold me so I know that it’s you.”

“I am holding you.”

Casey shook her head.

“More,” she begged on the barest breath of a whisper.

His arms tightened imperceptibly, and she felt his chin settle against the crown of her hair. His chest filled with a sigh beneath her cheek, and she allowed herself to relax along with him. She had never doubted Mitch’s strength and determination. Now, surrounded by his warmth and gentleness, she reveled in the full experience of being held and protected by this man.

For the first time in days, in years perhaps, she felt truly safe.

And as she drew her own strength from the respite he offered, she became aware of other things. Other sensations.

The dampness of the evening air clung to his clothes, bringing out the comforting smell of fine wool and the inviting scent of the man underneath. The nubby texture of his tweed jacket brushed her cheek in a rough caress. And she could hear the steady staccato of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

Gradually, she became aware of her own body’s reaction to the embrace. Her cheek, breasts, arm and thighs tingled wherever they touched him. Her own heartbeat jumped in a quicker rhythm.

Suddenly, Mitch wasn’t comforting to her. He wasn’t her bodyguard or even a kind officer doing his duty. He was a man. And she was a woman. She was…

She wasn’t ready for this.

Casey pushed away. The abrupt motion stirred the papers at her feet and reminded her with merciless speed of the reason she had sought safety in Mitch’s arms.

“Who was on the phone? I called from the back door. Did you think I was him?”

His quick return to the questioning detective gave her an odd feeling of normalcy. It was less complicated to think of him in this role than as a man who made her want and feel things she had no right to. If he could dismiss the heat that had sizzled between them so easily, then she could, too. If he wanted to be the cop, then she would be his cool and proper princess.

She answered the easiest question first.

“I tried to call Jimmy. But all I got was his assistant.” With the tip of her cane, she pushed aside the papers on the floor and pointed to the cruelly skewed nursery rhyme. “That came in the mail this afternoon.”

He knelt down in front of her, studying the creased white paper and its computer-generated type without touching it. “From Raines?”

“I think. It was in with a card from a local bank.”

Mitch read the phrase to himself. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and placed the letter inside before standing. “That’s not how the rhyme goes, is it?”

“No. But my father’s name is Jack.” She looked at the paper herself again, and wondered if he could see the same stain of hatred on it she did. “Don’t you think that could be a threat?”

“Anything’s possible. I’ll run it through the crime lab. See if they can pick up any prints. Do you still have the envelope it came in?”