by Anna Sugden
His freezing hands fumbled with the keys, and they dropped to the snow-dusted wood with a thunk. It just figured he would have forgotten to leave the outside light on tonight. Why did he continually forget when he knew how dark it was out in the country? Grumbling, he crouched near the door and patted around him until his fingers closed over the keys. After several of his misdirected jabs, he finally slipped the key into the lock.
He pushed the door open, welcoming the rush of heat that struck his face even before he could reach inside to switch on the light. With the corncob-quality insulation in these walls, this would be the only time he felt warmth in this place all night. He kicked the door shut harder than he’d planned to and then braced for the sound of breaking glass. The near complete silence that only those who live outside of city limits ever experience filled the space instead.
As he rounded the corner into the formal living room, a collection of faces stared back at him, their photo frames askew but still clinging to the wall. Enlarged color snapshots featured a silver-headed couple with a boy at various ages, but most of the images were in black and white. A portrait of the great-grandparents he’d only known from their stories took the center spot in the display. They weren’t smiling, either.
“Your week must have been as bad as mine.”
As Ben hung his coat on the antique coat tree and zipped on the sweatshirt he always wore inside the house, his gaze followed the lines of the Victorian furniture that had been there for as long as he could remember. There probably wasn’t a single piece that had anything more than sentimental value, but they all had plenty of that to spare. Except for the goldfish bowl on the bookshelf, nothing in this room had changed in thirty years.
On his way through the house, Ben smoothed his hand along the dark wooden doorway molding. Admiring some of the woodwork he’d restored himself usually calmed him after a stressful shift, but there was nothing usual about this week. He braced himself for another onslaught of images he would never forget, shouts ringing again in his ears, the pungent scent of his own fear still fresh in his nostrils. He’d hated the stink of it, even then.
He shivered, telling himself it was only from the cold. He could lie to himself if he wanted to. The house felt chillier tonight, anyway. Bigger. And emptier. The hollow echoes of his own footsteps chased him on the creaky floors as he continued into the kitchen. As he’d done so many nights before, he washed vegetables, diced chicken and sprinkled spices. Only after the chicken in the wok had turned white and the pea pods and water chestnuts were sizzling in the sesame oil did he remember that he’d already eaten.
Slamming a plastic container on the countertop, he poured the meal inside it to refrigerate for later. He should have known better than to show up at the Driftwood tonight after his crazy day at work. And not just because of the pep session, either. If he’d known that Delia would be there, he would have headed straight home. Technically, she’d warned him that she planned to show up, but he’d had no reason to believe her. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d joined them at either of the haunts where the officers gathered after their shifts, so he couldn’t account for her presence any more than he could explain the spike of his pulse when he’d seen her there.
Even now, he wasn’t sure how he’d made it across the restaurant to sit next to her without falling over his feet like in a B-rated comedy flick with a D-list cast. Worse yet, that clumsy approach had been the most acceptable thing he’d done all night. He’d whispered close to her ear so he could sneak a whiff of her lavender shampoo, and he’d made up so many excuses to accidentally brush her arm that it must have looked like an elbow fight. He probably would have copped a feel right over her oh-so-proper black turtleneck if he could have gotten away with it. He’d sure helped her out of that sweater with his eyes.
Suddenly thirsty, he threw on the faucet and poured himself a glass of water. With his eyes squeezed shut, he took several gulps. What had happened to him? He used to be a professional. He knew the rules, and until now, he’d followed them. So how had he gone from finding ways to bring one of the troopers more fully into the post team to wanting to frisk her in all the best ways right there on the table?
It didn’t make any sense. He’d passed by Delia Morgan every day for months, wearing the same uniform, finishing up reports at the same desktop computer, and he’d never once suffered from a case of dry mouth. Until today. He couldn’t recall a single case of sweaty palms over her nearness, either. Until... But that was the thing. Something had tripped a switch in him today, and no matter how hard he tried to click it off again, she kept showing up in his thoughts, accentuated by nothing less than ideal lighting.
He took another drink and then held the cool glass to his cheek. Unfortunately, his face wasn’t the only thing that felt too warm over just the thought of her and that sweater.
This situation had disaster written all over it. He couldn’t be attracted to a trooper, even if he wasn’t her direct supervisor. He didn’t do interoffice romances. He wished he could make the excuse that it had been too long since he’d dated, but that disastrous blind date from last weekend probably still counted. As for “afternoon delights” as Vinnie would have called them, though, it had been a long, dry year in the whole delights department, afternoon or otherwise.
“Get your head on straight, Peterson,” he grumbled.
Polaski definitely would tell him that if he saw him now and probably with more colorful vocabulary. Whether or not Ben had sought out attention when he’d entered the bank yesterday, he’d become an object of curiosity. A hero in some people’s minds, even if he would never see himself as one. Well, he’d better start behaving like one. A hero would always be his best, most professional self, not someone who only thought about his own needs as his father had. A hero wouldn’t allow himself to see a coworker as anything more than a brother or sister in blue. He would work solely for the good of the public and the post.
Yes, he still wanted to help Delia Morgan better assimilate into the post family. It was the right thing to do for the team, after all. But if he couldn’t put his plan into action without crossing that firm line, then he needed to back away for his own good...and hers.
* * *
THE EIGHT PCS positioned around the squad room were deserted, except for the one where Delia sat typing information into the blanks of an electronic arrest report form. She would have been just coming off patrol herself soon if not for a routine traffic stop earlier that ended in an arrest. That stop had changed when her Law Enforcement Information Network database search had shown an outstanding arrest warrant.
Sensing that she was no longer alone, she lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder. Not hoping it would be anyone in particular. Just curious. Sure enough, Lieutenant Peterson leaned casually against the door frame. His pose and the way he startled, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, had to be the reasons for the tickle that skittered up the back of her neck.
She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”
He smiled then, and Delia’s tummy did an unfortunate jig the way it had so many times around him lately. She tightened her jaw and crossed her arms over her stomach to still those dancing feet. Why couldn’t she just get past these inappropriate reactions to him?
Sure, Ben Peterson had never been invisible to her. Far from it, no matter how hard she’d tried not to see him. But everything was magnified since his shining moment last week.
Since she’d noticed him staring back.
She’d probably imagined that, too, so it was downright annoying that the sparks she felt around him continued to crackle and pop.
“I just wanted to get a good look at the trooper who arrested Mary Poppins in there.” Ben pointed with his thumb toward the door to the cinder-block holding cell where Delia’s suspect sat awaiting transfer to Livingston County Jail.
Frowning, she spun her office chair to fully face him. “I would expect that a lieutenant would take an ar
rest seriously. Any arrest.”
“Seriously? Even this one?”
As much as she wanted to hold on to her stern expression—this was their job after all—she didn’t stand a chance when facing off with Ben’s silly smirk. He had a point. It was pretty funny. “Why are you so interested in this arrest, anyway? Are you a closeted Poppins fan?”
“So what if I am?” He pursed his lips. “Er...was.”
She finally gave in and grinned over his joke about him giving away his secret. “‘Practically perfect’ and all of that?”
He grinned again. “You know it.”
It was amazing how easily she bantered with Ben now, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. As often as he’d struck up conversations with her during her shifts in the past week, how could she not have become more comfortable around him? She shouldn’t make too much out of it, though. Ben was friendly with everyone at the post, from the commander to the lady at the front desk. But he’d focused on Delia lately, seeming determined to roll past that awkwardness between them and to really become her friend.
Strange how she wanted to give in on both things. Having someone to talk to at work certainly hadn’t been all bad. She’d found herself looking forward to the moments he would stop by, curious what interesting thing he would say next. Even if he’d probably only made the effort to further his plan for making her team-worthy. Of course he had an agenda. Everyone did. People didn’t do things without a motivation of some sort. Even Ben. She should know better than to believe he was doing it just to be nice.
He stepped closer to her desk and glanced at the report over her shoulder. “This has to be a good story. Tell me how you broke this case.”
Immediately, she stiffened again, a reflex when anyone moved too close to her, but she forced a smile and continued typing. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
“Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t expect to find anything on LEIN when I pulled over a white-haired lady for driving thirty-two in a seventy.”
Whether he shifted to the next PC to ensure that the machine was working or to signal that he’d noticed her discomfort, Delia couldn’t tell.
“Usually a good bet,” he said finally.
Delia swallowed, sliding a glance his way. Though he could have been answering either her comment about senior suspects or the thoughts she’d kept to herself, she chose the safety of the earlier topic. “But then doesn’t that make me guilty of profiling? Or un-profiling?”
“Probably just of being human. No one wants to think of anyone’s grandma as a suspect.”
“Don’t let me off the hook so easily.”
He pointed to the closed door. “Come on, Delia. That woman in there is proof that looks can be deceiving. She looks more like an escapee from a library convention than a suspect with an outstanding warrant for failure to appear on an impressive list of check-fraud charges.”
“Maybe it was just a clever disguise.”
After another look at the holding cell, he shook his head. “No. I bet she always looks like that. Sensible shoes and all.”
“Then clever career choice?”
He gestured toward the arrest report on her screen. “If that isn’t a pink slip for that particular job, I don’t know what is.”
“No unemployment line for that one, either.”
“After an arrest like that, taking down a wanted fugitive and all, you’ll be the next one to make the local news.” He paused, chuckling. “Viewers will be relieved to see your pretty face after having to look at mine for so long.”
Pretty face? A startled laugh escaped before she could stop it. Was Ben Peterson flirting with her? Would she like it if he were? Of course he wasn’t, and no, she wouldn’t. He was only joking with her the way all of the officers did with each other, and she was making too much out of it. Again.
“In my interview, I’ll give credit to the team like—” Delia stopped herself, glancing over at him. She hoped he didn’t think she was making fun of him over the banking incident. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, nobody makes the news for bringing down Mary Poppins. Or maybe Mrs. Doubtfire, who—”
“Wasn’t who she seemed to be,” they both said at the same time and then laughed.
“A senior-citizen fugitive or big bad bank-robbery suspects.” She held out both hands, palms up, weighing the two options in an imaginary scale. “Those two arrests don’t compare on the if-it-bleeds-it-leads scale for TV news.”
He tilted his head back and forth, considering her words. “Guess not, but they should.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, there was no blood in either of those arrests,” he pointed out.
“Which is a good thing.”
Ben shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in their conversation. He hadn’t spoken about the incident at the bank at all other than the details he’d listed in the report. Was there more about the case that he hadn’t disclosed? Something critical that he’d left out of the report?
But he spoke up again before she had time to ask. “We were both just doing our jobs.”
She had returned to her own report, but now she couldn’t help but to look back at him, waiting for answers.
“Some cases get more attention than others—” he paused, shrugging “—but all of our work is important as we serve and protect the people of southeast Michigan.”
The words were out of her mouth before she had time to edit them. “I was wrong about you.”
His eyes widened behind his glasses. “You mean you no longer think I’ll forget about the team now that I’ve made the six o’clock news?”
Delia was just standing up from the chair, but his comment caused her to pop up so quickly that her holstered weapon bumped the desk. “What do you mean? I never said—”
He shook his head. “Forget I said that. I meant to ask how you were wrong about me.”
Because she didn’t want to confess that he’d already hit on the exact answer like a nail driven home by one perfect strike, she scrambled for another reason. “I was wrong to think you’d tried to avoid speaking to the media because public relations wasn’t your forte.”
“Oh. Then you were right the first time.”
He tipped his head to the side, his chuckle low and sexier than it had any right to be, especially right there in the squad room where just anyone could hear it. Delia refused to think about other locations where a sound like that would be perfect. Places with low lighting and soft music—
“Nope,” she said to the both of them. She shook her head as much to clear it as to disagree with him. “Not buying it. Just listen to you. You’re a walking, talking public-service announcement. ‘Serve and protect the people of southeast Michigan’? In front of a camera, you could convince residents that they want us to give them speeding tickets.”
“Thanks, I guess. But let’s hope I don’t have to prove it now that the media attention has died down.”
Delia needed to finish the report before her suspect was transported to jail, but she was stalling. She had a job to do, and she could only stand there searching for something clever to say that might keep him there longer.
“You’re a good cop, Trooper Morgan.”
She swallowed. Those were the words she’d worked so hard to hear. Words that meant everything to her. She sneaked a calming breath, exhaling in slow puffs. Maybe she should have expected that he might be the first to say those words to her, but she couldn’t have guessed how much they would humble her.
“Thanks. Um, you, too, uh...Lieutenant.” Strange how she was tempted to call him Ben, even here where it would be frowned upon. The way she would talk to a friend.
The side of his mouth lifted. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but if you’re handing them out, I’ll be happy to take a few big ones, please.”
“I’m serious. Really.”
And she was serious, even if he was determined to deflect the praise. Stranger still, she was suddenly tempted to say more. Thoughts she should
keep to herself. Like that he was a real hero. And how incredibly rare people like him were. Maybe even how lucky she was that someone like him wanted to be her friend.
But someone threw open the door to the parking lot then, a strong-arm invasion of winter gusting inside. Kelly Roberts and Grant Maxwell hurried into the squad room, still laughing over some earlier joke while they brushed snowflakes off their covers and uniforms.
Delia straightened, gripping the edge of the desk. She appreciated the jolt from the frigid air almost as much as she did the interruption. At least both gave her a chance to rethink what she’d been about to say.
Things she’d had no business saying. She was grateful for the growing collection of witnesses and the comforting hum of conversations other than the tape repeating inside of her head. The one that demanded to know why she was tempted to let down her guard with Ben Peterson. But most of all, she was grateful for all of these things that saved her from saying words she couldn’t take back.
CHAPTER FOUR
“PERFECT TIMING.”
Delia turned toward the voice to find Jamie Donovan next to her as they sloshed toward the post building. Nearly soaked after just stepping out of their patrol cars, they didn’t bother sprinting for the door.
Jamie shook his head, spraying more droplets in Delia’s direction. “What’s with the downpour in January? Isn’t this supposed to be snow? In the Upper Peninsula where I grew up, this would be snow.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, are you, Toto? Here sometimes it’s snow, and sometimes it’s rain.”
“This is so not Oz,” he grumbled.
She had to agree with that. “It’s going to be a nightmare tonight. When all of that freezes...” She shook her head, imagining the work ahead for the midnight-shift troopers. That shift was the only one where troopers were partnered for patrols, and they would definitely need their partners tonight. “Let’s just hope drivers slow down.”