Her Cop Protector

by Sharon Hartley

  His mom and sister exchanged knowing looks and left them alone in the kitchen, following Don back to the living room.

  “How you doing?” he asked softly. Could be his mom hadn’t learned much about June’s background after all. She knew how to keep secrets.

  “I’m good,” she said. She folded a dish towel and placed it on the counter. “Sorry your team lost.”

  The afternoon sun streamed through the window over the sink, highlighting her blond hair, making her look like some sort of lovely earthbound angel surrounded by a halo. He moved closer, needing to touch her. All afternoon as he’d observed her easily interacting with his family, he’d wanted to touch her.

  He’d been worried how she’d react to his crazy family. Constant teasing was practically a Hammer tradition. To those who didn’t know them, the sparring might appear like insults. She might not understand that the brother who mocked his temporary demotion would actually take a bullet for him. And vice versa.

  June seemed so solitary, independent, always doing everything on her own. Strange. How could a woman appear vulnerable yet self-sufficient at the same time?

  He reached out to feel her sleeve, a damp spot where water had splashed onto the cotton. He closed his hand around her shoulder and longed to pull her into his arms and thoroughly kiss her.

  “Do you like football, June?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t really know that much about it.”

  His gaze moved to her face. She moistened her lips with a quick tongue. “I could teach you.”

  “I have a feeling you could probably teach me a lot,” she said, her gaze locked on his, her voice breathy.

  His own breath hitched as she stepped closer to him. He slid his hand down her arm, loving the warm feel of her, and intertwined their fingers.

  Damn. He’d known this would happen. Since arriving at his sister’s, he’d been careful not to allow himself to be alone with her. And now here they were—June making him ache, making him forget any stupid rule he’d ever made. He’d thought the commotion while hanging out with his family would distract him from the need she created inside him. Instead, watching her play with the kids had created a new desire, one that he’d never experienced before and didn’t know what to do with.

  He grinned at his thoughts. Well, technically that wasn’t true. He knew precisely what would cure that particular itch. But kids of his own? God, what the hell had come over him?

  June Latham had obviously made him lose his mind.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  He squeezed her hand. Who needed any damn rules?

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  She remained quiet on the ride home. Dean allowed her time to think, to absorb the afternoon. She’d been through a lot the last couple of weeks.

  She broke the silence with “We’re going back a different way.”

  “Old habit,” he said. “Just a precaution.”

  “You think someone might have followed us to your sister’s?”

  “No one did.”

  She lapsed back into her thoughts, which now might not be pleasant, so he said, “Did you have a good time today?”

  “Yeah, I did,” she said. “Your family is nice. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “We can be a little much.”

  “But you love each other. I definitely get that.”

  He shot her a glance, pleased that she understood. “Might not always seem that way.”

  “You’re lucky,” she said softly as he braked to a stop under the portico of the Enclave. The valet glared at him but didn’t approach. By now they all knew the drill.

  Dean turned to her. “June, I—”

  She placed her fingers on his mouth, and he forgot whatever he’d been about to say.

  “Shouldn’t you make sure I get upstairs safely?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JUNE INTERTWINED HER fingers with Dean’s again as they entered the lobby and smiled at Julio behind the concierge desk. Magda was off duty. She noted Dean’s hawk-eyed vigilance as they approached the elevators. He observed everything around them, peered into every corner, every shadow in the spacious lobby.

  As they ascended in the elevator, tension hummed between them. She didn’t look at him, didn’t speak. She didn’t want him to speak. She didn’t want anything to change, to interrupt what had to happen between them.

  Had to.

  She felt it. She knew he felt it, too.

  She unlocked her door, disengaged the alarm and immediately reset it.

  When she turned, he pulled her into his arms. Her purse slid to the floor, and his lips were on hers, warm, insistent, soft. She slid her hands around his neck, felt his muscles tense, relax. She opened her mouth and pressed her body into his and felt his erection. She heard herself moan.

  This wasn’t about protection. This wasn’t about him being a cop. This was about pure physical need. He wanted her, and he was exactly what she needed. Maybe what she’d always needed.

  But she didn’t want to think about any of that now. She only wanted to...

  Somewhere in the deep recesses of her barely aware mind she heard a noise.

  Someone cleared his throat. Loudly. Not Dean.

  He pushed her behind him and whirled. In a blur of motion he reached for the gun strapped to his ankle beneath his pants and brought it up gripped in both hands.

  “Good evening— Hey! Hold on there.”

  Her heart pounding, June gaped at her usually dignified uncle, who looked terrified as he backed away from Dean with both hands in the air.

  “Dear God, man, don’t shoot.”

  June tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. “That’s my uncle,” she finally squeaked, her voice two octaves higher than usual.

  “This is your uncle?” Dean demanded, not lowering his weapon.

  June swallowed. “Yes. He has a key. It’s his penthouse.”

  Dean nodded, aimed the pistol at the floor but didn’t relax.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Uncle Mike asked, returning his arms to his sides, his gaze darting from Dean to June. She noted her uncle’s formerly thick, dark hair had receded and thinned a little more since his last visit. He wore dress slacks, although he’d removed his jacket and hung it over a chair along with his tie. Mike’s resemblance to her father startled her every time he came.

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You surprised us. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “It was a last-minute decision to attend a meeting rather than teleconference. I didn’t expect to be greeted by your gun-toting boyfriend.”

  “Detective Dean Hammer.” Dean replaced his weapon in the holster by his ankle and stepped forward with his arm extended.

  “Michael Latham.” The men shook hands, sizing each other up. “You’re a police detective?”

  “City of Miami Beach,” Dean said. “Sorry about the scare, sir, but we’ve had a bit of trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Mike looked at June. “What sort of trouble?”

  With her pulse finally returning to normal, she moved to give her uncle a hug. As the only family she had left gathered her close, her gaze locked with Dean’s. He looked worried, but shrugged and gave her a smile. She smiled back.

  So much for the passionate night in his arms she so desperately needed.

  “I got your message,” Uncle Mike said, pulling back. “Something about employees of Latham Imports?”

  “It’s a long story,” June said. “You’d better sit down.”

  Starting with the incident in the North Beach pet shop, June explained the situation to Uncle Mike. Dean filled in details where necessary. When she got to Sandy’s murder, Mike paled and went to the bar to pour himself an inch of
his expensive Scotch.

  “Go on,” he said after a healthy swallow.

  At the conclusion, Mike stared into his drink. “So you believe this John Smith is at the root of the murders?”

  “We’re certain that’s not his real name, but yes,” Dean said. “Somehow he knows June, but she doesn’t know him.”

  “And you think he’s a former employee of Latham Import?”

  “That’s one theory,” Dean said.

  “Do you know where any of the old records are?” June asked.

  “No,” Mike said. “And I doubt if the old CPA firm still has any records after all this time.” He rose and walked toward the aviary. Lazarus issued a quiet squawk.

  Mike turned. “You know, I never believed my brother was involved in smuggling.”

  June stared at him. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You were shell-shocked, Junie.” Mike smiled gently at her. “There was never a good time to talk about your parents.”

  June looked away. Of course that was true. For years she hadn’t wanted to even think about her mom and dad, much less talk about them. She’d change the subject if anyone dared bring them up.

  “This may mean nothing,” Mike continued, “but there was one employee who remained insistent that your parents would never have involved themselves in something illegal.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Dean asked.

  “Al Kublin.”

  “Is there any way to locate him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mike said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “The murdering bastard is locked up in Raiford Prison. He got life for setting fire to the Latham Import warehouse, but never stopped swearing to anyone who would listen that he and June’s parents were innocent.”

  “You’re saying the man convicted of the arson and the Latham murders insisted his victims were innocent of smuggling?” Dean asked.

  Mike nodded. “And himself of murder, of course, but the evidence was overwhelming.”

  “Why don’t I recall any of this?” June said.

  “I kept you in New York during the trial,” Mike said. “The media were all over the story, and I wanted to protect you. You were only seventeen.”

  “And furious with my parents for their lies,” June remembered. And I still am.

  “We were both hurting,” Mike said. “I wanted to be in that courtroom every day to watch Kublin get what he deserved, but knew I had to keep you away from more turmoil.”

  “Did you ever meet Kublin?” Dean asked.

  “Many times.”

  “June, where’s that photograph of the grand opening of Latham Imports?” Dean demanded.

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Can you get it, please?”

  Realizing where Dean’s thought process had led, June hurried to retrieve the photo and handed it to her uncle. Dean stepped close and the three of them stared at the festive scene.

  “Do you see Kublin?” Dean asked.

  “Right there,” Mike said and placed his finger beneath the beaming face of John Smith.

  “Bingo,” Dean said, meeting June’s gaze. “There’s our connection. But he’s not in Raiford anymore.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, after his shift, Dean went to the gun range. Target practice was good for more than brainstorming and clearing his head; it was also excellent for releasing frustration. And man, was his life full of that these days. Was it because he was getting old, losing his edge? Had he always felt this gnawing sense of unease when a case didn’t go right? Or was it just this case because of the lovely June Latham? Maybe he needed a night out on Ocean Drive.

  He put on ear and eye protection, sighted the target and released a round. Then another, and another. And another. Until the clip was empty. He lowered his weapon. He needed to empty his gun a few more times before he felt better.

  As the silhouette returned to him to examine for placement, he wondered who he was shooting at. Al Kublin? The warden at Raiford Prison?

  All of his shots had hit the bull’s-eye, but the pattern was more random than Dean’s usual. He replaced the target and activated the pulley system to return it to the range.

  He decided the prison authorities in Starke, where Al Kublin should have been safely incarcerated in the state penitentiary known as Raiford, were the primary source of his ire.

  Kublin hadn’t been at Raiford for a long time. Dean emptied his weapon into the new target.

  According to the warden, Kublin had demonstrated what the shrinks labeled aberrant behavior once incarcerated a few years. Dean slammed a new clip into his weapon—hell, what prisoner didn’t exhibit crazy behavior behind bars? Being locked up changed a man. But some bleeding-heart judge had released Kublin to Sunrise, a state psychiatric hospital in Melbourne, for evaluation and treatment. The warden had agreed with the transfer. What a crock.

  Dean emptied the new clip into the silhouette, lowered his weapon and took a deep breath.

  Sunrise was what was known as a country-club facility. By faking a mental disorder, a smart man, a careful man, could enjoy privileges other prisoners didn’t. Was Kublin that kind of man? Or had guilt legitimately made him crazy enough to be locked away from the regular prison population?

  So there was the number-one question, and not knowing was making him nuts. Dean emptied his weapon into target after target until his muscles grew fatigued. Was Kublin still locked up? Dean hadn’t heard back from the authorities at Sunrise to confirm Kublin was where he should be. But how could he be?

  Maybe Mike Latham’s ID was faulty. Hell, maybe Kublin had a twin. Yeah, right. He needed confirmation, but Dean suspected Kublin wasn’t anywhere near Melbourne. He was somewhere in Miami Beach, where he’d caused at least two deaths. Junie had been the intended target for one of them.

  And there was another source of his frustration. June Latham.

  He wanted her with a hunger that ate at him to the point of distraction, interfering with his work, a situation he’d never before allowed to happen. He didn’t understand it. His obsession with June made no sense. He’d been in lust plenty of times—hell, way too many times, if he were honest—so what made her different?

  Sure, she was beautiful, intelligent, feisty. Committed to the things she loved. And that body. Man.

  Was it because he’d paid attention to his stupid damn rules and resisted her so far? That resistance had come close to ending last night. More accurately, there’d been no resistance. If her uncle hadn’t shown up— Dean allowed himself to imagine the bliss of undressing Junie, of making love to her, and felt himself harden. Shit. June made him as horny as a damn teenager.

  “Detective Hammer?”

  Dean turned and found a gray-haired man in his fifties holding his hand out to him. He’d seen the man around the range occasionally and had noted his skill in shooting.

  “I’m Hammer,” Dean confirmed, knowing the man had to be law enforcement of some kind to be granted privileges at the police gun range. They shook hands.

  “I’m Don Gillis, a Fish and Wildlife officer. You phoned me a few days ago.”

  “Agent Gillis, yes. I’ve been trying to reach you.” So this is Junie’s contact with Fish and Wildlife, the old friend of her parents’.

  “I was out of town and got your message this morning. When I saw your name on the sign-in sheet, I asked around if you were still here. Nice shooting, by the way,” Gillis said with an appreciative nod.

  “Thanks,” Dean said.

  “Your message said you need information about an old case?”

  “Yes. Have you got a minute?”

  Shooting on the range resumed, making it difficult to hear. Gillis nodded.

  “Let’s move,” Dean yelled over the gunfire.

  Dean packed up, and he and Gilli
s relocated inside the range’s office, finding a quiet spot close to the coffee machine.

  “I’m investigating the Latham Warehouse fire from ten years ago,” Dean said.

  The pleasant expression on Gillis’s face sobered. “Bad business. Why would you be looking into that?”

  “I believe the fire has a connection to two recent murders.”

  Gillis nodded, looking as if he finally understood something. “You’re the detective working with June.”

  “That’s right,” Dean said. So June had mentioned him to her FWC contact. What had she said? “I understand you were friendly with her parents?”

  Gillis’s face tightened. “Their criminal activity and deaths were a huge blow to me and my wife. Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”

  “It sucks when a case gets personal,” Dean said. And that’s exactly what’s happening to me with this case.

  “Amen, brother,” Gillis said. “So I’m guessing you want any notes or files I have on the Latham case?”

  “Anything at all. I know it’s been a long time, but was hoping because of that personal connection, you might have kept a file.”

  “I haven’t looked at it in years, but yeah, I still have something. Or should. I don’t remember tossing those records. I’ll make a copy and send it to your office.”

  “That’d be great.” Dean handed him a card. “Thanks.”

  “You do know they convicted the arsonist,” Gillis said after inserting the card in his wallet.

  “Yeah. My cases have hit a roadblock, and I’m just following up loose ends, looking for anything.”

  Gillis nodded knowingly. “I’ve been there. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gillis turned to go, but hesitated as if he had something else to say. Dean waited him out.

  “June is a fine young woman,” Gillis said, “but her parents’ death changed her, made her a different person. Stirring up that tragedy again will be difficult for her.”

  Dean nodded, knowing Gillis was right on. Reliving her painful past was torture for June. And in a way she was stuck back there because she obviously hadn’t gotten over her parents’ betrayal.