by Anna Sugden
“We all know that this guy enjoys being singled out about as much as getting a root canal, but moments of heroism like his deserve recognition.” Scott gestured toward him. “So on behalf of the Michigan State Police Brighton Post, I would like to congratulate Lieutenant Ben Peterson on a job well done.”
Ben opened his mouth to try again, but the other lieutenant raised a hand to stop him.
“Even on his day off, Lieutenant Peterson single-handedly took down two suspects in a bank robbery attempt, and at the same time he—” Scott paused, winking “—made a deposit into his interest-bearing checking account.”
“Are you kidding? Interest-bearing?” Vinnie’s eyes were as wide as his grin.
“Thanks for protecting the greenbacks,” someone called from the back of the room.
“Can you get me a preferred rate on a sixty-month CD?” another chimed.
As the punch lines continued pinging around the room, Ben finally let go of the breath he’d been holding. Compared to the awkward accolades his coworkers might have given him for those thirty terrifying minutes at Brighton Bank & Trust, this gentle ribbing was a gift.
When the laughter filtered down to chuckles, he jumped in. “Thanks again. But I was only doing my job. Just as any of you would have done.”
“But would we?”
Scott’s words cut him off and ended the other conversations in the room. “We want to believe we’ll be ready if called upon to act, even when off duty. And Lieutenant Peterson was ready. Good to know, especially for those of us who drive desks more often than patrol cars.”
He gestured toward Ben to indicate whom else he included in that sedentary us.
“Glad you remembered to show off your good side on Channel 3,” Vinnie started again.
“Thanks.” Ben winced at the memory of last night’s interview and the others he would have to endure for the benefit of the post. The media attention hit too close to a home he never planned to visit again by choice. Not that he’d chosen it the first time, either.
“You’re one lucky asshole,” Trooper Grant Maxwell called out.
“That coming from a guy who narrowly escaped a bullet last spring,” Vinnie quipped. “Now there’s some luck.”
“Just another day on the job,” Grant said with a smug grin. “Anyway, I’m not the one who’s gonna get his own comic-book character. He leaped right into hero mode without breaking a sweat.”
“I’m no hero.” Ben’s words were automatic. A reflex. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I just did what I had to do.”
The sense that he was being watched was so strong that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Of course someone was watching. They all were. But he had no doubt that one individual would be studying this scene more carefully than the others. Sure enough, a petite brunette stood at the edge of the activity, always as an observer, but never quite a participant.
Trooper Delia Morgan couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable, her posture as stiff as the unforgiving bun she always wore in her hair. Though a competent, by-the-book new recruit and a skilled, left-handed sharpshooter, from the start she hadn’t fit in well with the Brighton Post team, and she’d made no effort to change that.
Deep blue eyes, heavily lashed and so huge that they seemed to see everything and more, caught Ben’s gaze and gripped tight. Of course Trooper Morgan would be suspicious of him now. For months, he’d preached teamwork to her like a televangelist, and here he was basking in the spotlight of individual praise.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” she said after what must have been the most pregnant pause known to mankind.
“Uh. Thanks.”
Strange, she’d been obliged to say something nice, and yet she’d almost sounded sincere. That couldn’t be right. She was the last person he’d expect to get caught up in this hero nonsense. Did Delia see him differently now? Would he enjoy it if she did? As Ben pushed away those disconcerting thoughts, Delia tilted her head and a tress of shiny hair escaped its clip, falling across her jawline. It came to rest along the fair skin of her neck.
The impulse to test the feel of those silky-looking strands struck him so fast that his hand reached out before he had time to get his thinking straight. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets, blinking several times, his mouth suddenly dry. What was that? Never mind that the woman was clear across the room, nor that this particular woman would have slugged him for getting too close. Thankfully, she must have missed his idiotic move because she reached up and shoved her hair out of the way herself.
He swallowed. What was he doing focusing on Delia like that anyway? Make that Trooper Morgan. Even if the overly independent officer had been an enigma to him since she’d been assigned to the Brighton Post nearly a year before, now wasn’t the best time for him to try to figure her out. He had no business thinking of her in any way other than as a fellow officer, either. Especially not as an attractive woman.
“Well, I wonder who’s out protecting the citizens of Michigan this morning.”
Ben straightened like a teenager caught scoping out a girl during a bio quiz, which was especially awkward since he was thirty-two and Delia was twenty-six. Luckily, none of the other officers had noticed his gawking. They’d turned to the far doorway where Captain Lou Polaski stood, his beefy arms crossed, his expression stern. But then the hard line of his mouth curled, and he started clapping, setting off another round of applause.
“Well done, Lieutenant Peterson.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
With a nod, the post commander shifted to face the whole group.
“Yesterday’s events offer the post some positive PR in a time of state belt-tightening and post closures,” he said. “But they should also serve as reminders that we always need to be prepared to react. Even while off duty.
“We are first responders. Period.” Polaski swiped a hand through the air to emphasize the finality of that point. “The requirement for us to carry our weapons at all times is not just a suggestion. We must always be ready. Lives depend on it.”
The flash of panic that Ben had experienced inside that bank lobby rose again like bile in his throat. His pulse thrummed now as it had then, while he’d frantically tried to recall whether or not he’d strapped on his ankle holster before running errands. If he’d forgotten just that once, the post might have had little to celebrate today.
The squad room fell silent at the gravity of Polaski’s words. Was Ben the only one whose insides quaked at the thought of flags flying at half-mast? Who worried that his mistakes could have grave consequences and leave grave markers in their wake? These troopers put themselves in harm’s way every day. They did it for their fellow officers, who were like family, and they did it for people they’d never met. Yesterday’s incident only reminded them of what the stakes were. And how high.
“So on that note, everybody get back to work.” Polaski pointed with his thumb to the steel door that led to the parking lot. “The state isn’t paying you to stand around, patting each other on the back.”
Ben breathed a sigh of relief. The rodeo show was over. At least for now. The normal din of the squad room returned as troopers shrugged into their coats, grabbed their radios off chargers and started for the door. Some of the higher-ranking officers drifted down the hall, but Ben waited for the last few troopers to leave on patrol.
Instead of rushing out to her car to be first on the road the way she usually did, Trooper Morgan took her time collecting her things. When the door closed behind the others, she turned back to him.
“Lieutenant Peterson, you did a great job yesterday.”
Ben stared at her. She’d probably felt pressured to say something kind earlier, but this was overkill.
“It’s what we’re trained to do,” he managed over the awkwardness clogging his throat.
“But you really did it.”
“Uh...thanks.”
The inflection in his last word made his comment sound like a question, and he recognized that
it was one. Was that shock he’d heard in her voice? Or awe? It must have sounded strange to her as well because her eyes went wide. He should have looked away. It would have been the decent thing to do when she looked uncomfortable enough to fire through the floor for an escape route. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her face. Porcelain skin without a freckle anywhere, a straight nose with one of those cute tipped-up ends that women paid good money for and a mouth as close to a perfect bow as any he’d ever seen.
Why had he never noticed those things about her before? Weren’t details supposed to be the bread and butter of good police work? Maybe it was because she was behaving as suspiciously as a suspect with half a dozen crack cocaine rocks in her pocket. Or maybe because she was treating him so differently today. Like she admired him or something equally unbelievable.
No matter the cause, it was ridiculous to be seeing Delia Morgan as if for the first time and, worse yet, this time he was noticing all the wrong things. As if to put an exclamation mark on that point, his gaze dipped to just below her silver badge where small breasts softened the boxy lines of her uniform. Would they be as perfect as he imagined? He averted his gaze as heat rushed to his face. He really was just a horny teenager, hiding behind a uniform and a fancy title.
The trooper must have read his mind because she lifted her chin to stare him down for his unprofessional behavior, an expression that might have been more effective if she’d been standing on the desk instead of next to him where she had to look up. Way up. Nevertheless, she was again that tough young officer, too independent for anyone’s good, including her own.
“Well, Trooper—” he paused, clearing his throat “—be safe out there. Remember, call for backup when you need it.”
“I will...if I need it.”
Ben chose to let the comment pass this time. She couldn’t take back what she’d said earlier, anyway. And if she really did see him differently now, then maybe she would finally listen to his teamwork message. Finally buy into it just a little. He could hope, couldn’t he?
“Also, you should try to meet up with everybody after your shift. They’re going to the Driftwood instead of Casey’s Diner this time. I’m sure the others would like it if you came.”
“Okay. Sure.”
She didn’t look at him as she said it. He made a mental note to remember how she looked, acted when she was lying. She shoved open the door, allowing the frigid air to whoosh inside, and stepped outside. Either she or the wind pushed it closed behind her.
For a few seconds, Ben could only study the exit and wonder what had just happened. Their strange conversation wasn’t the half of it. Twice, in a matter of minutes, he’d checked out a female trooper, something he’d better stop doing yesterday if he planned to keep his job. What was wrong with him?
Maybe it was simply this unusual day, surreal in Groundhog Day proportions, that had made him so uncomfortably aware of her. Or maybe it was that Trooper Morgan had surprised him. Only a handful of people had ever been able to do that.
In his experience, people stayed true to form, no matter what that form was. Law-abiding citizens kept following the rules, and convicted felons became repeat offenders with tragic regularity. He understood too well the collateral damage those habitual offenders left behind, not to mention the worry over apples that fell too close to their second-rate trees.
Trooper Morgan either didn’t understand the rules of the game or refused to play along. Just when Ben had begun to wonder if he’d ever find a crack in her armor of fierce self-reliance, Delia had shown him a flicker of possibility.
Somehow he had to help her become a real part of the Brighton Post team before Polaski decided that her independent streak was a bigger liability than her determination and commitment to justice were assets. But how could he convince someone like her that there was no I in team? Maybe he should become more involved in her work development, while maintaining strict professional boundaries, of course. He could do that with his eyes closed, right?
As he entered his office, giving a self-satisfied nod, an image popped into his head, unbidden and unwelcome. Delia as he’d never seen her, her dark mass of hair flowing down her back, those huge eyes shining with humor and a sexy smile playing on those perfect, kissable lips. He blinked away the rest of the image because in it, besides that smile, she wore nothing at all.
On second thought, he needed to forget about doing anything with his eyes closed. He’d better keep them wide-open, and if he had any sense, he would stretch a barrier of bright yellow crime-scene tape between him and a certain female trooper. Tape that said Police Line Do Not Cross.
* * *
DELIA GRIPPED THE steering wheel so hard that her hands cramped as she merged the patrol car onto Interstate 96, but even focusing on her aching fingers failed to clear her thoughts. She should have felt better in the familiar black interior of her car, where the rules made sense, where she was in control, but everything was out of whack now.
Why had she said those things to Lieutenant Peterson? It wasn’t like her, at least not the current her. That little girl behind the curtain of her past, she might have said something like that. She’d been the one prone to hero worship, who’d trusted grown-ups too easily. And she’d paid dearly for those mistakes. Delia barely remembered that silly, naive girl.
If only she could forget today’s conversation with the lieutenant. Why hadn’t it been enough for her to just congratulate him like everyone else had? Especially when all he’d really done was to be at the right place at the right time. Okay, maybe a little more than that, but still. As if the hero’s welcome hadn’t been enough, she’d heaped more praise on him when no one was watching.
But you really did it.
The memory of his chocolate-colored eyes widening behind those Clark Kent glasses had her straightening in the seat now. But her words weren’t even the worst part. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d meant what she’d said. Despite the fact that the type of opportunity she’d needed to distinguish herself at the post had fallen right into his lap. Or that she couldn’t move up to a higher-profile agency where she could focus on child-predator cases while she spent her days handing out traffic citations and investigating property-damage accidents.
I’m no hero.
She squirmed in her seat as his words echoed in her ears. With her watching and waiting for his teamwork message to implode over his fifteen minutes of fame, Lieutenant Peterson had come up with a comment like that. It didn’t make sense. She knew police officers. They were cocky SOBs, who would take credit for building the Ambassador Bridge if they thought they could get away with it. The attitude came with the uniform. That edge showed up with the badge.
If Sergeant Leonetti had been the one congraluted, he would have grabbed a microphone and cued a comedy monologue. Trooper Shane Warner would have struck a pose to show off his overdeveloped biceps. Even she would have only pretended to hate the attention. After all, it was a means to a critical end.
But Lieutenant Peterson had come through for those bank customers in a highly volatile situation, and he’d done it with the kind of humility she couldn’t help but admire. She’d never seen anything like it. The people in her life had never even stood up for those they claimed to love, let alone for strangers.
A reluctant hero, but a hero still.
She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that Lieutenant Peterson had reacted differently than others would have. Sometimes it astonished her that a man like him, someone with such kind eyes, had become a cop in the first place. He had “nice guy” written all over that baby face he tried to shield behind his glasses. As if those could do anything to hide that dimple in his chin or the way his smile lifted slightly higher on one side. Even his light brown hair betrayed him by curling the moment it grew a millimeter outside of its close-trimmed cut.
Not that she’d noticed those things when she’d started working at the post ten months ago. Or kept noticing them.
“Great. Just great.
”
Delia shook her head as she took the exit for US 23 and continued to her favorite traffic surveillance point near Whitmore Lake. Today backing into the spot shielded by the overpass felt like diving for cover. Why was she allowing herself to have inappropriate thoughts about a fellow officer? And more dangerous than that, letting herself be tempted to believe that any man was different. They were all the same, and she knew it.
Delia reached for the passenger seat and flipped on her handheld radar gun. The numbers reset on the screen, their details clear. If only her thoughts about a certain lieutenant were as easy to flip on and off. She had to make them stop. Wasn’t it difficult enough being a woman on the force without her behaving like one of those vacuous females who oohed and aahed over heroes in uniform? All of her effort to establish herself as the most competent recent graduate of the State Police Recruit School would be down the drain if she didn’t get her thoughts under control. She could almost hear the sucking sound of her lost momentum.
A beep on the laptop, stationed on her console, interrupted her pity party like a needle popping balloons. Setting the radar gun on the passenger seat, she clicked on the message from Gail Jacobs, the administrative assistant.
Lieutenant Peterson asked if you could make a run through Kensington Metropark during your shift. He wants you to take a look around the scene where that burned-out car was discovered last week.
Delia hit Reply and typed OK. It wasn’t as glamorous as thwarting a bank robbery, but routine assignments were part of the job. She glanced down at the message again and blew out a breath. Obviously, she’d made a big deal out of nothing. Just because she’d made some goofy comment this afternoon didn’t mean there would be some monumental change at work between her and the superior officer.
Before she could return to traffic monitoring, another beep announced a second message.
Oh. He also said thanks again. All that attention today must have been killing the poor guy.
Delia swallowed as she lifted the radar gun and pointed. Whether or not Gail had misunderstood the message she’d been asked to pass along, something had clearly changed at the Brighton Post. And it had moved as quickly as the red pickup truck that raced past Delia, clocking eighty-five in a seventy-miles-per-hour zone. But no matter what had shifted, she’d better figure out a way to move it back.