Protecting Plain Jane

by Julie Miller

  “…identify the killer?”

  “Max?”

  “The dog stays.” The deep-pitched voice silenced the madness, and everything inside Charlotte went suddenly, blessedly still.

  The only thing Charlotte could hear was the rain dribbling on the asphalt. The only thing she could see were the broad shoulders of Trip Jones filling the opening at the back of the ambulance.

  He looked down at the detective beside him. “This interview is over.”

  Charlotte’s attention danced down to the bandage on his arm, up to the tanned angles of his exposed biceps and triceps. She read the white SWAT emblazoned across his vest, took quick note of the gun and badge on his belt. But in a matter of seconds, before the protests of the three men around her started in, her gaze went back to Trip’s grizzled jaw and the green-gold eyes looking down at her with a glimmer of something like intimate knowledge and understanding shining there.

  “You’re a crazy woman, all right. And I’m not sure I fully understand why. But…” He picked up Max in his arms and set him squarely in her lap. “The dog stays with her.”

  “Officer, we can’t—”

  “He’s a service animal. With him here you don’t need any sedatives. The dog stays.”

  “We have a job to do.”

  “You’re out of line, Jones.”

  “With all due respect, Detective, she’s been through enough.” Trip’s eyes cooled and his expression hardened as he looked at Detective Montgomery and the two EMTs, ensuring their cooperation. Charlotte hugged her arms around Max’s chest and lowered her chin to the top of his warm, damp head as Trip pulled something from the back of his belt and turned to shout to his friends. “Taylor, let me borrow your cuffs. Sarge? Murdock? Yours, too.”

  Charlotte watched in fascination as his big hands deftly linked the handcuffs into a long chain. He hooked the last one to Max’s collar and placed the jerry-rigged leash into her hand.

  “There. Now you can control him and he won’t be in anybody’s way.” As confidently as if they were long-lost friends, he reached out and mussed up Max’s fur. “He won’t bite.” When he pulled away, he winked at Charlotte, startling her, drawing her focus back to his teasing eyes. “As long as you’re nice to the lady.”

  For a moment, her eyes locked on to his. The teasing faded and something warmer, regretful almost, filled the air between them. Unused to her body’s curious response to a man who was practically a stranger to her, she hugged her arms tighter around the dog. But she couldn’t look away.

  Caught up in those eyes, in the kindness he’d unexpectedly shown her, in the confident strength of his presence, she breathed deeply, freely—once, twice. Maybe he was more serene mountain than volatile volcano, after all.

  He nodded, breaking the spell. “Charlotte.”

  And then Trip Jones walked away. Again.

  Taking Charlotte’s gratitude, and something less familiar and curiously unsettling, with him.

  THE MAN SITTING IN THE dark vehicle adjusted the focus on his zoom lens and snapped one more photo, congratulating himself on capturing the image of a bloodied, harried woman, curled into a ball and hugging her dog in the back of an ambulance.

  Pleased with his work, he powered down the camera and zipped it neatly into its carrying bag beside the cell phone he’d already crushed beneath his shoe. He tucked the bag into its spot on the floor behind his seat. Then he pulled his computerized notebook into his lap and clicked out of his file of old newspaper files and photos, which had provided all the information he needed to recreate the most vivid, frightening moments in Charlotte Mayweather’s life. With two more clicks he was online. He smiled. Yes. People were already chatting and blogging about Charlotte Mayweather coming out of hiding and being involved in another unfortunate incident.

  His anonymous post of tonight’s events had generated the response he wanted. Just as his helpful phone call had created the crowd of chaos he was enjoying tonight.

  Success flowed through his veins as he closed the computer and packed it in its pocket as well. Risking someone spotting the distant glow of his cigarette, he inhaled one last, long drag before pulling it from his lips and putting it out in the ashtray. He crushed the butt down—once, twice, three times before laying it neatly atop the ashes and shutting the tray.

  He picked up the gaudy daisy earring from the dashboard and cradled it in his open palm, smiling at the perfect order of things tonight.

  A good smoke.

  Tidy surroundings.

  An unexpected souvenir plucked from the floor of the Mayweather Museum’s warehouse.

  Yes. She’d just realized it was gone. His old friend was so terrified by his actions that he could see her practically crawling out of her skin as cops and medics and family alike tried to keep her on the gurney in that ambulance. Getting to the reclusive Charlotte Mayweather had been a cakewalk for a man like him.

  She’d always thought she had all the answers—that she was smarter, better than him—that her father’s money gave her the right to dismiss his talents. She’d made that mistake once—couldn’t be bothered with what he had to offer, refused to listen to reason. But he’d proved her wrong tonight. Not only was he intelligent enough to get to Charlotte, he was clever enough to get inside her head.

  He breathed in deeply, savoring the lingering smoke in the air, enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Nailing the old man had been simple. All he had to do was walk up and knock on the car window. The chauffeur had actually smiled, perhaps recognizing him, then rolled down the window as if he wanted to offer help. He reached over and stroked the gun and silencer on the seat beside him. The old man had helped, had served the necessary purpose. It wasn’t the first man’s death he’d agreed to in order to make his vengeful plan come to fruition.

  He was halfway through his list of wealthy women who’d slighted him over the years. Women he’d once trusted. Women who had used, betrayed and laughed at him. There’d be one more name checked off that list if Audrey Kline’s zealous boyfriend hadn’t gone into 24/7 bodyguard mode last November. Or maybe it had been his own mistake, thinking he could trust a gang of thugs to follow the rules of his plan.

  He bristled where he sat, the sweet aroma of his rare cigarette souring into a foul memory in his nose and lungs. He didn’t make mistakes.

  His fingers curved around the earring and squeezed, its sharp edges cutting into his skin.

  Normally, he preferred to put his hands on his victims, to feel them writhing with fear, to hear them begging for mercy. He opened his hand and forced himself to breathe deeply, recalling Charlotte’s screams of terror when he’d beat on the door. The erratic rhythm of his pulse evened out as he replayed her helpless gasp over the phone in his head. He turned from his hidden vantage point and watched her manic movements and pale expression as she dodged reporters and battled with cops and medical personnel amidst the glare of headlights and spotlights and television cameras. Seeing her weakness paraded on display in front of her family and the press strengthened his resolve, calmed him.

  This was all going to plan. Charlotte Mayweather craved security, predictability—she needed to know and trust everything and everyone around her in order to function like a normal human being.

  He’d take all that and more from her.

  Feeling tonight’s victory coursing through his veins again, he tucked the earring into his pocket and started the engine. Power over those who had wronged him, control of his own destiny—those were heady things that restored the equilibrium inside his own head.

  He pulled onto the street, driving two blocks before turning on his lights and heading across the city.

  His thorough research into her kidnapping ordeal, and into the hellish trial that followed, had paid off. He was in her head now, exactly where he wanted to be.

  Charlotte Mayweather didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Four

  Trip downed the last of his beer in one long swallow and plu
nked the empty glass on the table. Of all the nights he’d been to the Shamrock Bar, celebrating successful missions with his team, commiserating over the rare loss of a hostage or saluting a fallen friend, he’d always been able to tune out the noise of too many conversations and television sets and concentrate on his friends. Or on a pretty face who didn’t mind a little flirtation. Or on one of the classic novels he’d been too frustrated to get through when the rest of his classmates had been reading them back in school.

  Thank God for Classic Comics—or he might not have the high-school diploma he’d needed to get into the police academy eleven years ago.

  He rolled an imaginary crick from his neck and turned his attention back to the paperback he was reading at the corner table. It might take him all year long, but he was determined to get through the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.

  Only, Ents and elves and the scramble of letters he called Mordor kept getting sidetracked by sword-wielding women with pesky dogs and curvy hips and expressive eyes that shouldn’t be hidden away behind a pair of glasses.

  He turned his page toward the light hanging on the wall beside him and tried to focus. The qeaçous…no, beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid.

  But Trip’s thoughts weren’t in Middle Earth.

  The swirling lights and sirens meant backup had arrived. They meant somebody else was here to convince her that he was one of the good guys. “They’re here to help.”

  “Like you did?”

  Trip’s gaze drifted to the blank margin at the bottom of the page. Where did Charlotte Mayweather get off, all but accusing him of making a horrible night even worse for her? He’d volunteered on his own time to check on the friend of a friend in need. The dead body and forced lock he’d found had put him on full-alert-combat mode. The woman was safe with him there. She didn’t need to be afraid or cry or go psycho on him.

  She just needed to believe that he’d protect her—at any cost—because that was his job. It was who he was. It was what six feet, five inches of brawn, resourceful instincts and a talented set of hands was best suited for. He’d told her as much—had shown her—but she still didn’t believe he was one of the good guys.

  And then she’d cried on him? The stitches in his arm and threat of a killer on the loose he could handle. But those tears trickling over her cheeks had twisted his stomach into a knot and made him useless to her.

  And why was that stunned feeling of incompetence the memory that niggled his conscience two nights after the fact? Why wasn’t he analyzing the syrupy heat that had stirred in his veins when she’d halfway smiled at him for answering her tomboy whistle and plopping the dog in her lap?

  Why was anything at all about Charlotte Mayweather still stuck in his head?

  Trip closed his book and reached for his empty glass, tuning in to the other people in the bar. Captain Cutler sat at the end of the table, reading over the report from their performance-evaluation drill this afternoon. Alex Taylor sat directly across from him, on the phone with Audrey. Rafe Delgado was up at the bar, leaning in to stand nose-to-nose with their favorite bartender and adopted little sister, Josie Nichols.

  Whatever that hushed argument was about, Josie was standing her ground, flipping her long dark ponytail behind her back and tilting her chin, despite the fatigue that was evident in her posture. For half a moment, Trip considered poking his nose in and warning Sergeant Delgado to back it up a step. Couldn’t he see how she braced her hands at the small of her back? The woman was dead on her feet, attending nursing school by day and working long hours at her uncle’s bar at night. She didn’t need whatever grief Rafe was giving her right now. But then Trip’s rescuing skills seemed to be a little on the fritz right now.

  Still, Rafe seemed to be taking his overprotective-big-brother thing with Josie a little too far. Since she was the daughter of his first partner, who’d been killed in the line of duty, there was probably a stronger connection there. But it turned out there was no need to intervene. Josie flattened her hand in the middle of the sergeant’s chest and pushed him out of her space before spinning around and returning to her duties behind the bar.

  Seemed like Charlotte Mayweather wasn’t the only woman who didn’t want SWAT Team One looking out for her.

  “Here we go.” Randy Murdock, the newest member of the team, was driven and talented and female. Miranda, a feminine name that didn’t seem to fit either her personality or her deadly aim with a Remington sniper rifle, set a tray of beers on the table. The unwritten law was that the new guy bought the second round of drinks, since Josie Nichols seemed to always find an excuse to serve their first drinks on the house. “Everyone wanted a draft, right?”

  “Works for me.” Trip reached across the table and picked up his second beer. He wouldn’t resort to getting drunk to get his frustration with a certain toffee-haired heiress out of his system, but getting his hands busy with something else might. “Thanks, newbie.”

  Randy slid into the chair beside Trip’s, pulling a beer in front of her, too. “I don’t want you guys to think that just because I’m the only woman on the team that I’m going to be serving the drinks all the time. And don’t expect me to bake brownies or darn your socks.”

  “Don’t expect me to darn yours, either,” Trip teased, appreciating the normal interaction with a woman.

  “You can sew?” she countered.

  “You can cook?”

  The blonde’s cheeks blossomed with a blush that she quickly hid behind a swig of her beer.

  “Down, you two.” Captain Cutler chided them like a stern father, setting the report down on the table and picking up a glass. His dark blue eyes zeroed in on Randy. “As long as you keep making a perfect score on the target range, you don’t have to bring me another beer.”

  “I don’t mind doing that for you, sir.”

  Michael Cutler grinned. “Relax, Murdock—I’m paying you a compliment. Team One’s score today was the highest ever recorded on the course. Captain Sanchez on Team Two owes me twenty bucks. And I intend to collect.”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Congratulations to my team.” Cutler raised his glass and signaled to Sergeant Delgado to come over to the table and join their toast. “Now, you all perform that well on the street, and I can rest easy when I go home to my wife at night.”

  Trip raised his glass and took a drink to honor his team’s performance on the mock-terrorist-attack drill this afternoon. Even during those lucky stretches of time when there was no real bomb threat or fugitive alert or hostage crisis that needed SWAT on the scene, they trained in weapons and strategy to keep their skills and instincts sharp. Today’s drill had gone by the book—full cooperation, each playing to his or her strength, no mistakes.

  So why couldn’t he be savoring that victory instead of stewing over some eccentric kook…?

  Trip’s gaze skidded to the neat shock of red hair on the man walking through the Shamrock’s front door. One thing about hanging out at a cop bar was that eventually, almost every cop in KCPD, active or retired, would stop by. Even the ones he didn’t particularly like. Trip barely knew Spencer Montgomery, but something about a detective relentlessly badgering a witness in an ambulance when it was plain to anybody who looked that she was about to lose it, put him on Trip’s don’t-turn-your-back-on-him-yet list.

  Detective Montgomery must have felt Trip’s eyes on him because he paused before sitting and turned, trading nods of acknowledgment, if no smile of kinship, with him. Montgomery and his dark-haired partner had been assigned to the Rich Girl Killer investigation. A serial killer had already tortured and strangled two of Kansas City’s wealthiest beauties and was believed to be responsible for one or two more unsolved deaths. Just last year the killer had targeted Alex’s fiancée, but the perp had eluded identification and gone underground. Did Montgomery think there was some kind of connection between the dead chauffeur and the murderer he was after?

  Trip sat up straight in his chair.

 
Was that the killer Charlotte Mayweather feared?

  The man she’d thought he was?

  Maybe the prickly heiress’s paranoia wasn’t all about the trauma of being kidnapped ten years ago.

  “All right, sweetheart, I’ll see what I can do. You will not. You will not.” Alex’s voice interrupted Trip’s silent speculation. “If that’s the case, it’s not up for negotiation. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll swing by to pick you up.”

  “Problems with the soon-to-be missus?” Trip felt he’d better make a comment before anyone noticed his unusual preoccupation with his thoughts tonight.

  “Just a little discussion about taking unnecessary risks.” Alex closed his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “We reached a compromise.”

  “She’ll go ahead and do what she wants and you won’t complain about it?”

  “Ha-ha, big guy. I wouldn’t be giving me too much grief. You’ve been all kinds of quiet since that night at the Mayweather Museum.” So his brooding hadn’t gone unnoticed. “On the other hand, whatever you said or did, Charlotte’s still talking about it. Audrey’s at her house right now.”

  “Is she filing a harassment claim with the D.A.’s office?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly is she saying about me?”

  Captain Cutler put an end to the conversation. “What is this, junior high? You two settle your love lives on your own time. I just won a bet.”

  “Congratulations, captain,” Alex took a drink and then pushed his glass away. “Sorry to cut the celebration short, but, since we have the next couple of days off, I’ve got a favor to ask.” The others stopped their joking and drinking long enough to listen in. “Well, Audrey’s the one making the request, but—”

  “What does the counselor need?” Sergeant Delgado asked. As moody as he’d been lately, he had a soft spot for Audrey Kline, the assistant district attorney who’d put away the murderer of a little boy who’d died in Delgado’s arms back in November. They all owed Audrey a favor for that conviction.