Badge of Honor

by Justine Davis

  Miguel knew she understood some Spanish, but not how much. If she understood any of the more descriptively lewd terms or the suggestions they had for her, it didn't show. She moved confidently, easily. She was wearing a soft, white sweater over blue jeans this morning, jeans that made her legs look even longer by the time they ended at a pair of scuffed white running shoes.

  She hadn't seen him yet, he guessed. He was pretty well hidden from her where he sat on the low wall beside the dingy stairway, especially with the four Downtown Boys clustered around him. He was able to watch her, a blonde in a section of town that rarely saw them, walking as if she had every right to be there, exuding a demeanor that would make anyone with any sense think twice before accosting her.

  Which explained, he thought wryly, the way his companions began to move, turning to blatantly watch her as she approached.

  He should have known she'd turn up. Kit Walker wasn't about to let a simple thing like the fact that the Downtowner known as Choker no longer lived where he had at the time his car was supposedly stolen stop her. Nor that to find out anything about him she was going to have to come to a neighborhood where most men walked with care.

  But she slowed, and he guessed she had deduced from their attire and the signature colors that these were Downtown Boys. With anyone else, male or female, he would have questioned the wisdom of walking into four-to-one odds. But he'd seen Kit fight when she had to, and unless they had guns on them, which he was reasonably sure they didn't, they would have a surprise on their hands if they made a move on her. She'd had years of martial arts training. She was tough, quick, and she'd surprise the hell out them.

  Not, of course, that he was going to let that happen. If he let her get much deeper into this without making his presence known, it could get awkward. Besides being a duplication of effort. And he didn't see any point in calling any more attention than necessary to their inquiries.

  One of the others made a surprisingly mild comment about the soft, inviting curves of her breasts, and while Miguel couldn't deny that he agreed—just as he couldn't deny the spark of response in his body at the thought—he thought it time to call a halt before things got ugly.

  "No tocha," he said sharply. "Soy mia."

  Claiming her as his woman and telling them hands off was the best way he could see out of this. Kit wouldn't thank him for bailing her out, so it was best if he stopped any trouble before it began.

  The others stared at him. One dared to voice disbelief, but shut up when Miguel stood and looked at him coldly.

  Kit saw him then. He saw her eyes widen in surprise.

  "I've been waiting for you," he said smoothly before she could speak. "My friends here, they have been keeping me company."

  He saw her assess the situation and prayed her ever-quick instincts wouldn't fail him.

  They didn't. "Sorry I'm late," she said with a shy, fittingly female smile.

  "It is all right," he said with an answering smile. "Some things a man does not mind waiting for." He slipped his arm around her possessively, and a little to his surprise, she let him. With an expression he hoped was lurid enough, he began to walk, and Kit instinctively went with him.

  The hoots and whistles behind him told him they had bought the story. For all their fierce awareness of their heritage, there was still some lingering trace of instinctive male admiration for one of their own able to claim a beautiful white woman. Miguel hated that it was true, hated the underlying things that made it true, but he knew it was true.

  He also knew that they probably thought he'd had her meet him here just to show her off to them. It would appeal to that sense of machismo they cultivated.

  As they walked he kept waiting for her to speak, to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing or to at least pull away and demand an explanation. But she didn't. In fact, she seemed to move closer. After a moment he let himself enjoy the feel of her tucked close to his side. Again he noticed how well she fit and that he didn't have to shorten his stride for her to keep up. He took a deep breath, and over the smell of hot asphalt, car exhaust and other unpleasant odors trapped here on the dingy streets, he caught the sweet scent she wore, something rich and heady. Maybe gardenia, he thought, remembering the white flowers Anna had been forever trying to grow. It was one of those feminine touches that had always reminded him this tough, competent cop was still, and forever would be, a woman.

  As if he needed reminding, he thought. The heat that had sparked in him at the almost wistful mention of her soft curves came back with renewed force. It took everything he had not to look at her, at the way the soft white knit of her sweater first clung, then slid over those curves. And the way the jeans hugged her hips, cupped her bottom, making his hands itch to do the same.

  God, he had to stop this. If he was going to go into overdrive every time he saw her, he'd have to stay away. It should have seemed silly, heating up over his old friend, but it was painful. And, he realized, hard to hide in the jeans he had put on this morning with a worn white T-shirt with a faded advertisement for a Mexican beer that was popular in the neighborhood. If she was at all inclined to look, she'd easily see where his thoughts had wandered.

  And for an instant, before his better judgment quashed the idea, he almost wished she would.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  They were well out of sight of their small audience when Kit finally spoke. Miguel was glad when she did, because it made him drag his mind away from the images he found himself battling more and more often. Thoughts he had to keep telling himself he shouldn't be having. Thoughts that weren't paying any attention to what he was telling himself.

  "You seemed to fit right in."

  Miguel dragged his mind to reality. "I was a street cop down here for a long time. I can still speak the language if I have to."

  "What if they'd recognized you? Wasn't that taking a big chance?"

  He shrugged. "I gambled that they wouldn't know me on sight, out of context. And none of them were old enough to remember me when I was on the street." He gave her a sideways look. "It was less of a chance than being a hazel-eyed blonde in this part of town."

  "I can't stop an investigation just because I don't fit in the neighborhood."

  "Nor would I expect you to."

  "Then I suppose," she said, returning his sideways look with one of her own, "you have a very good reason for hustling me out of there like that."

  She didn't elaborate on "that," for which he supposed he was grateful. He skipped over his concerns for her safety, acknowledging his cowardice in doing so. She hadn't gotten where she was in a tough job in a tough town without being able to take care of herself, and he knew he wouldn't have felt the same concern if it had been a male detective in her place, and that was an issue he'd just as soon avoid. So he cut to the bottom line.

  "Because I already have what you were after."

  She stopped walking, turned and looked at him. "You do?"

  He nodded. "Choker is doing time. For OTA. He got sent up about three years ago."

  He saw one corner of her mouth lift at the irony of him being arrested for the same thing they wanted to talk to him about as a supposed victim.

  "Well, at least he'll be easy to find," she said.

  Miguel let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Apparently she wasn't going to question his hustling her out of there. Whatever her reasons, common sense or not wanting to argue with him, he was glad; he wasn't sure how he would have explained, since he wasn't sure why his reaction had been so immediate and protective. She didn't need—nor would she appreciate, no doubt—him coming to her defense. But neither could seem to stop the gut-level response. And he didn't like the idea he had his own version of machismo to fight.

  He could come up with a simple explanation, that it was a deeply ingrained and quite possibly genetic instinct of the male to guard the female, but he knew it went deeper than that. With Kit, everything seemed more complex, more confus
ing. Even a simple dinner unexpectedly turned into a morass of emotional entanglement.

  "I don't suppose we're so lucky that they knew where?" she asked, coming to a halt.

  Her question brought him out of the reverie he found himself slipping into. He realized they were next to her low-slung red coupé, which she'd parked safely several blocks away. He'd left his more recognizable city car well out of the neighborhood. It was another ten-minute walk.

  "No," he said, turning back to her question. "But it should be easy enough to find out with a computer check through the Department of Corrections."

  She nodded. "I was going to run him today, but Robards has been shadowing my every move."

  Miguel's gaze narrowed. "Do you think he suspects something?"

  She shook her head. "No. Not about this, anyway."

  "Why would he be shadowing you, then?"

  Her mouth twisted wryly. "That's his idea of supervision. We all take our turn in the bucket."

  He gave her a puzzled look. "The bucket?"

  "He sort of takes turns on us. That's why I didn't call about Choker. I was afraid if he was monitoring me, since it seems to be my turn, he might hear and recognize the name."

  "Monitoring?"

  She nodded. "He'll just be there, hovering, following us around, double-checking everything we do, calling us into his office for status reports, listening in on our phone calls."

  He frowned. "That's a bit extreme."

  She grimaced. "He says that with a lazy bunch of so-called detectives who couldn't find their ass with a compass, a little micro managing is necessary." Her mouth twisted sourly. "And micro managing, according to him, is the only useful term that's ever come out of all those college boys."

  Miguel stared at her. He stifled an oath, then wearily rubbed a hand over his forehead and down his face. He'd been frowning too damn much lately.

  "I didn't realize it had gotten that bad. I should have done something before now."

  "Contrary to public opinion, even Miguel de los Reyes can't do it all."

  His head came up sharply. She wasn't looking at him as if she'd made a joke, she was looking at him with concern, as if she was worried about him. That warmed him, but there was something else there, something that seemed half-hidden beneath the concern, something that made his pulse speed up and his mind hasten to deny.

  "I … my car's farther down," he said, more for something to say to cover his uncharacteristic disconcertment than anything else.

  "I'll give you a ride." He hesitated until she prompted him. "It'll look rather odd if any of your friends see us separating so soon, won't it?"

  "Good point," he muttered. He didn't think the Downtowners were still around, but everyone knew the gangs had eyes everywhere, and if you were on their turf, you had to assume you were being watched. "But it'll look odd to them if I let you drive, too."

  She lifted a delicate brow at him. "That macho thing is alive and well, is that it?"

  "Afraid so."

  She took it easily, but then Kit had never been one who had to blare her feminism at every turn, he thought. She quietly went about her business in a man's world in that sure, steady, competent way that proved more about her mettle than any verbal claims could.

  "Are you sure you just don't want to drive my car as a change from that city boat?" she teased.

  He eyed the little coupe appreciatively. He'd admired it more than once since she'd bought it last year and had thought more than once that the little red car and the classy blonde made quite a picture.

  "Maybe," he admitted.

  She laughed. And tossed the key ring at him. "Feel free to bark the tires if it will add to the image."

  He caught the keys and laughed in turn. And he wondered how long it had been since he had laughed like that, easily. A long time. Too long, he thought.

  He did bark the tires, but only a little, as they pulled away from the curb. Kit grinned at him, and he laughed again, liking the feel of it

  A mile away, he slowed as they neared where he'd left his car. He found a vacant spot just ahead of it and maneuvered the little coupe into it with an ease that was not lost on him. Maybe next year he'd push for a smaller car. It wasn't all that often he had to cart around dignitaries, although it did happen.

  Or maybe he'd do what he'd done this year and take the money that was to go for his car and turn it back to the department Trinity West could certainly use it Then he'd buy his own car, one he wanted, and just drive it, forgoing the city car altogether. It wasn't like he had far to drive. If he stayed where he was, of course. He wasn't quite sure if he meant the job or the place that passed for home.

  Kit had been quiet on the short drive, and when he glanced at her after parking her car he thought he could read her expression.

  "Something else you want to talk about?" he asked. She hesitated, and he was immediately wary.

  "We have another problem," she said after a moment.

  Something in her tone made him edgy, like he felt when he sensed a flank attack from an entirely new direction.

  "Oh, good," he said dryly, "I was running short of problems."

  She smiled at his attempt at humor, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, and his tension went up a notch. When she reached into her purse and brought out a small cassette recorder, like many officers carried, he lifted a brow at her.

  "When I got in today, Lieutenant Robards was in my office," she said.

  Since she'd already told him that Robards didn't suspect the Rivas case hadn't been reified and forgotten, Miguel knew it couldn't be that. Which meant his feeling had been right—this was something new. She seemed almost embarrassed, which made no sense to him.

  "And?" he prompted when she didn't go on.

  "I … somebody saw us last night and told Robards."

  "Last night?" It hit him then. "At the restaurant?" She nodded. He thought, his brow furrowing as something tugged at his memory. Then he had it. "The big man with the dutiful wife," he said.

  A slight smile flickered across her face. "That's what I thought, too. He just looked—"

  "Like the kind of guy who would be a buddy of Robards," he said.

  "Exactly."

  He smiled at her much the same way she'd smiled at him when he'd quickly reached the same conclusion she had. But then he frowned as the possible implications of what she'd said began to run through his mind. He skipped over why the man would have called Robards in the first place—he knew the lieutenant well enough to know his method of choice was spying and acquiring leverage—and cut to what she'd initially said.

  "And how," he asked quietly, keeping his seething suspicions at bay for the moment, "is this a problem?"

  She took a deep breath. She looked at him, hesitated, and he saw her lips tighten. Whatever this was, it had really upset her.

  "Go ahead," he said, his voice a little tight with apprehension as he felt a sinking in his gut along with the growing certainty that he knew exactly what this new problem was.

  After a moment she set the recorder on the center console and pushed a button.

  He clamped down hard on his reaction as he listened, and it took a little more effort with every second the tape played. Not because of himself, he'd heard this kind of trash more than once, but because it had been said to Kit. He hated to think of her hearing this, of her being put in this position. But at the same time he couldn't help feeling gratified that she had come straight to him with it. That she trusted him enough to do so. And he wasn't sure which feeling was stronger.

  When it was finished, when there was nothing coming from the small speaker but the hiss of blank tape, it took even more effort to look at her. His thoughts came back to haunt him.

  Had she dared not say no to dinner because of who he was? Had he inadvertently stepped into the sexual harassment ring?

  He couldn't believe she would think that way, not Kit, not with all the past between them. She knew him better than that. She knew he would never, ever use his p
osition to force any woman, but most especially her, to be with him if she didn't want to be. She knew. If he couldn't believe that, then he couldn't believe anything in this world.

  And then he realized her face was giving him the assurance he needed. She was staring at the recorder as if it was a coiled rattlesnake.

  "That man," she said through clenched teeth, "should be fed to sharks. Except they'd probably turn up their noses."

  "Do sharks have noses?" he asked mildly. He was surprised at how thoroughly her anger had soothed him, had eased his uncalled for doubts. And she was angry. No, she was furious, he amended when she lifted her gaze and met his eyes.

  "How can you joke about that?" She gestured rather wildly at the recorder.

  "Kit, I've heard worse, and from better men than Robards."

  "Well, that part wouldn't be hard," she muttered.

  "Rather ironic, isn't it? Support of sexual harassment as an offense, coming from him?"

  She grimaced. "Well, he could surely be an expert witness." He chuckled. She looked startled at the sound. "How can you not want to—"

  "Oh, I do. I do. But if I get angry, if I let myself be hurt, then he wins. And I refuse to let him win."

  "But—"

  He held up a hand. "I won't get mad, and I'll go way beyond getting even. He's going to go down, Kit. I promise you that."

  She hesitated, looking troubled. "You do know that I would never…that I don't believe—"

  "I know," he said softly. "That's why I didn't ask."

  She studied him. Then she nodded. And as softly as he had spoken, she said, "He has no idea what kind of man you are. And that's going to cost him."

  Her words stirred up a feeling deep inside him that it took him a moment to recognize. Pride. Pride that someone as smart, as good, as sharp as Kit thought that of him.

  And there was something in her eyes that warmed him beyond anything he could remember. It was so intense he wanted to look away, but he couldn't. It was as if those hazel eyes held his gaze with some kind odd force. Gold flecks, he noticed rather vaguely. The gold flecks in her eyes were really bright right now, as if—