In the Blink of an Eye

by Julie Miller

  She’d never gotten to touch Mac like that before

  She’d never touched any man like that.

  She never thought she could.

  Fingertips tracing the angles and dipping into the contours of his rugged face. Julia’s palms receiving a jillion little jolts of electricity as she rubbed them along his beard.

  Nothing in her limited experience had ever made her so aware of a man.

  In last night’s brief, charged moments with Mac, something inside her had awakened. All her schoolgirl dreams of what it might be like to be truly intimate with a man had escaped the little Pandora’s box she kept tightly locked deep inside her heart. That little locked box had saved her from humiliation more times than she cared to remember.

  I’m thinking of you as a woman, he’d said.

  Well, she was certainly thinking of him as a man….

  IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

  JULIE MILLER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

  Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

  Books by Julie Miller

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  588—ONE GOOD MAN*

  619—SUDDEN ENGAGEMENT*

  642—SECRET AGENT HEIRESS

  651—IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE*

  THE TAYLOR CLAN

  Sid and Martha Taylor:

  butcher and homemaker

  ages 63 and 62

  respectively

  Brett Taylor:

  contractor

  age 38

  the protector

  Mac Taylor:

  forensic specialist

  age 37

  the professor

  Gideon Taylor:

  firefighter/arson investigator

  age 35

  the crusader

  Cole Taylor:

  the mysterious brother

  (the family’s not quite sure what kind of work he does—undercover)

  age 30

  the lost soul

  Jessie Taylor:

  the lone daughter

  antiques dealer/buyer/restorer

  age 29

  the survivor

  Josh Taylor:

  police officer

  age 27

  at 6'3", he’s still the baby of

  the family

  the charmer

  Mitch Taylor:

  Sid’s nephew—raised like a

  son

  police captain

  age 39

  the chief

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MacKinley Taylor—His brilliant mind and legendary control can’t help him see. But they might help him see the truth.

  Julia Dalton—How far will she go to help a childhood hero? She’s willing to risk her life—but does she dare risk her heart?

  Jeff Ringlein—Mac’s protégé. Just who was he afraid of?

  Melanie Ringlein—How much does a public servant’s pension pay, anyway?

  Inspector Joe Niederhaus—An Internal Affairs investigator due to receive his gold watch. He plans to get his man one last time. Even if it’s the wrong one.

  Inspector Eli Masterson—Joe’s partner. This Internal Affairs man has learned from the best. But who is receiving the benefit of his inside information?

  Wade Osterman—A uniformed police officer with a bad habit of betting on the games.

  Arnie Sanchez—Missing evidence would get his case dismissed.

  Martha Taylor—Meddling mother #1. Is this matchmaker in over her head, trying to rescue her second son?

  Barbara Dalton—Meddling mother #2. She is only trying to help her daughter.

  Mitch Taylor—There’s a cover-up going on in his precinct. Is the traitor’s identity closer to home than he realizes?

  For Scott and Ryne

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Mac Taylor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose and studied the slim band of light beneath the door to the Fourth Precinct Crime Lab. He glanced at his watch to check the time again. 1:13 a.m. A shuffle of movement drew his focus back to the door at the end of the hallway opposite his office.

  “I thought I was the one married to my job.” Who would be in the lab at this hour? As sure and even as his footsteps down the deserted corridor, his mind clicked with possibilities.

  Custodian? No. They weren’t allowed in the lab itself. Thief? In a police building with officers on duty twenty-four hours a day just one floor down? Not likely. Technician? The Fourth was a satellite unit that kept regular office hours. Only the main lab south of town stayed open around the clock.

  With the possibilities systematically rejected, only one option remained. Trouble.

  Tucking the manila envelope with the technical data he carried under his arm, he turned the knob and opened the door, identifying the intruder before he allowed himself to be heard.

  “Jeff?”

  His quiet voice startled the ponytailed chemist in the white lab coat. Jeff Ringlein hunched his compact shoulders over the stainless-steel counter, righting the instrument tray he’d hit with his elbow.

  “Mac.” His hands stilled their work, but he didn’t turn around. “You’re here late.”

  “So are you.” Mac strolled over to the center table, his long legs giving him an easy stride that belied the eagle-sharp observation of eyes that missed nothing.

  A Bunsen burner on steady heat. An assortment of liquids in beakers. An open evidence bag, its label written in his own illegible scrawl. One of the perks of working as a forensic pathologist for the Kansas City Police Department was that he could delegate routine tests to a staff lab tech, and concentrate on assessing the crime scene and piecing together the entire case.

  He didn’t recall this particular assignment.

  “You on to something interesting?” he asked. Jeff had been right out of college when he started at the lab. Though technically proficient, he lacked the instincts to make his investigative work anything more than routine. His eagerness to please, though, had ingratiated him to his co-workers and earned a bit of indulgent patience from Mac.

  So his rushed, toneless answer sounded perfectly normal. “I’m running a dye test.”

  Mac eyed the twist of threads lying inside the bag, then surveyed the counter once more.

  No microscope. How did he expect to ID the sample without one?

  Mac leaned his hip against the table, banking his inquisitive nature in an effort to put Jeff at ease. “I don’t think the criminals will overrun the city if we knock off and get a few hours of sleep now and then.”

  Jeff finally turned, but his dark-eyed gaze never quite met Mac’s. “What are you doing here?�
��

  Fair question. “I’m testifying at Ned Prosky’s hearing later this morning. I wanted to double-check my facts.”

  “He’s the alleged hit man?”

  “Yeah. If I can put him at the scene of the crime, we can at least nail him for accessory. Dwight Powers is going after him as the trigger man, though.”

  Jeff’s chin sank to his chest at the mention of the assistant district attorney’s name. He returned to his work. “Powers is pretty ruthless. Think you’ll win the case?”

  Mac shrugged. He loved the immutable laws of science, the simplicity of seeing facts in black and white. But he accepted that most of the world evaluated things in shades of gray. “I just interpret the data. The rest is up to Dwight and the jury.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Mac shifted his weight onto both feet and fished in the pocket of his jeans for his keys. “Look. Whatever I gave you to do can wait until morning. Knock off and go home.”

  “I will. As soon as I get this cleaned up. Good night.”

  The anxious farewell pricked Mac’s curiosity even more than the incomplete experiment setup. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.” Jeff opened the cabinet above his workstation and lifted the box where samples were stored. Maybe he’d screwed up a test earlier, and was here to rerun it without the teasing of his fellow technicians. Mac’s prying wouldn’t help get the guy home to his wife any faster.

  Mac squeezed the envelope in his hand. His company tonight would be printouts of DNA strands and microfibers. Jeff had a flesh-and-blood woman waiting for him. He couldn’t blame the guy for being impatient.

  “Be careful, then.” He headed out the door, his curiosity unappeased, but his confidence in his staff intact.

  That’s when the smell hit him. The sharp sting of mismatched chemicals stung his nose and made his eyes water. “Jeff, what are you…?”

  Startled by Mac’s reappearance, Jeff lurched. A beaker flew from his hand and shattered on the countertop. “Leave me alone!”

  When he spun around to confront Mac, his elbow hit the Bunsen burner and toppled it.

  “Kill the flame!” Mac ordered. His report flew into the air as he snatched the fire extinguisher by the door and dashed across the room.

  “Just let me do my job.” Jeff’s hand curled into a fist. He cocked his arm back to take a swing at Mac. Mac ducked, but avoiding the flying fist wasn’t necessary. Jeff froze, halfway through the roundhouse punch, and stared at the wisps of flame consuming the sleeve of his white lab coat. “Oh my God—”

  “Move!” Mac pulled the trigger and doused Jeff’s arm with the suffocating foam. “Get out of here!” He nodded over his shoulder and turned the extinguisher on the counter. “What the hell…?”

  Mac shoved his fingers beneath his glasses to wipe the burning film clouding his eyes, and looked at the counter a second time to be sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. An assortment of plastic evidence bags floated in a pool of clear amber liquid inside the metal tray. “It’s all contaminated.”

  Destroying evidence.

  Incompetence? Or sabotage?

  Acting on instincts ingrained more deeply than self-preservation, Mac reached for the bags. Hair, filaments, cloth, fingernails and more—he rescued them from the toxic pool and tossed them aside.

  He saved two, five, six bags before the sharp thwack at the base of his skull knocked him, belly first, onto the counter. An explosion of fireworks shot through his brain. He staggered to his feet and turned to see the missing microscope—raised high in Jeff’s fist, ready to strike again.

  Mac reached behind him for the first available weapon to defend himself against the unexpected attack. His fingers touched the metal tray. He gripped it in his fist and slung it straight at Jeff’s face.

  The flying steel knocked him back a step. But the corrosive liquid that splattered across his face proved even more effective. The microscope crashed to the floor as Jeff doubled over, clutching at his face and screaming in pain.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Slightly breathless from the combination of poisonous fumes and the blow to the head, Mac staggered over to Jeff and turned him toward the door and fresh air. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You can’t know.” Jeff wheezed through the stinging pain. “He’ll hurt Melanie.”

  “Who?” Mac recognized the name of Jeff’s wife, but the plea made no sense.

  “I have to do my job.” Jeff shoved Mac into the wall and swayed back to the counter.

  Mac followed a step behind.

  A step too late.

  Jeff hit a switch, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and click…

  The gas from the Bunsen exploded into a fireball.

  The toxic air ignited, consumed Jeff in its fiery claws. The names on the plastic bags shrivelled and died as they melted into a puddle. Like relentless, grasping hands, the flames reached out for their next victim.

  Mac backpedaled his feet and tried to retreat.

  But the shockwave tossed him across the room and slammed him into the wall. The impact of shattered glass and scorching metal pierced his skin like gunfire.

  Those immutable laws of science followed their true nature, and plunged Mac into oblivion.

  Chapter One

  Six Weeks Later

  “What have you gotten me into this time?”

  Julia Dalton paused at the threshold of the sturdy rock house and held her breath. Literally.

  Nestled among two-story relics from the 1920s, the high ceilings and oak floors spoke of the leftover charm of this once-wealthy neighborhood near the Kansas City Museum. But this sweet little cottage just northeast of the Market area where she grew up had lost something over the years. What time and urban fatigue hadn’t done to the house, an interior tornado bent on destruction had.

  Her mother, Barbara, followed a step behind. “Oh, my. What’s that smell?” Her scrunched-up nose brought an unexpected grin to Julia’s freckled face.

  The faint pungency of formaldehyde hung in the air. “The sewer’s not backed up, is it?” asked Julia.

  She lifted her foot over the crumpled doormat and led the way into the living room. Her mother’s best friend, Martha Taylor, closed the door and joined them. “No. Everything in the house works fine.” She shrugged her shoulders, clearly embarrassed by the mess, but ready with an explanation. “My oldest son, Brett, bought this place to fix up and resell. He’s just getting started on the remodeling, but the plumbing is fine. It’s the current tenant—”

  “Martha.” The clear snap of her mother’s voice captured Julia’s attention as well. She caught the unsubtle message flashed from hazel eyes to blue.

  Martha, taller, and a tad thinner, shook her head. “She’s bound to notice.”

  Julia knew the dynamic duo was up to something, but she could never be sure where her mother’s good intentions might lead, much less when she was in cahoots with her lifelong pal since kindergarten.

  She’d been home only a few days, but the urgency the two older women had used to get her out of the house that morning made her wonder if she had already overstayed her welcome.

  “Anyone want to offer an explanation yet?” she asked. “You said you needed a nurse, not a housekeeper.”

  Martha perked up at Julia’s comment. “As a professional health-care worker, do you think living like this presents a health risk?”

  “Not if you’re a cockroach or a rat looking to make a new home.”

  Julia stacked the magazines strewn across the couch and set them on the end table. She checked the dark stain on the seat cushion beneath for dryness before plopping her backpack that served as both purse and overnight bag on the empty spot.

  Then she folded her arms across the front of her denim jacket and switched roles from daughter to authority figure. “So who’s going to fess up? You told me to pack a bag and my credentials because you had an emergency at home. But we didn’t walk across the street to your con
do, Martha. We drove here. What’s going on?”

  Though humor had always been her first best line of defense, she hadn’t managed the night shift of one of Chicago’s toughest emergency rooms without learning how to throw around a little intimidation. She knew how to draw up all five feet, six inches of her blocky figure into a not-to-be-messed-with show of force.

  Unfortunately, she’d learned the trick from her mother. Barbara mimicked her daughter’s stance. “Don’t get mad at Martha. I agreed with her totally on this. I thought it was a good idea.”

  “I’m not mad. I just want to know—” A solid thump from the back of the house rattled the chandelier above her head. Julia jumped in her boots. But other than a quick catch of her breath, she didn’t let her mother see how the unexpected sound unnerved her. A sense of impending dread pulsed through her at the uneven tread of heavy footsteps advancing toward them.

  “Who’s the patient, Martha?” These women were not given to lying. But they might fudge a little bit if they believed it would help someone they loved. “Mom?” she prompted.

  “Ma?!”

  She knew that voice. Years ago she’d memorized the quiet authority, the distinct pitch of it. The deep tone had a raspy, strident ring to it now. But she’d know that voice anywhere.

  Once, it had saved her life.

  Today, it could destroy her.

  “I’m not ready for this.”

  Shreds of panic plummeted to her toes, robbing her of conscious thought and reliable self-assurance. She snatched her bag and flung it over her shoulder. Her mother hadn’t known then. She didn’t know now. Julia had never told a soul. Her humiliation ran too deep. The futility of her feelings was a raw, vulnerable wound, barely shielded now after all that had happened in Chicago.