She tried to pull away, but his hold was firm. “I’m not your prisoner. You’re not responsible for me.”

He was close enough that she could see the muscle in his jaw jerk. “I am. Make no mistake about that.”

His bare chest loomed close enough that all she had to do was reach out and she would be touching his naked skin. She let her eyes drift down across his chest, following the line of hair as it tapered down into the open V of his unbuttoned jeans.

She flicked her eyes up. His breath was shallow, drawn through just slightly open lips. His eyes seemed even darker.

And then he closed the distance between them and pulled her body up next to his, fitting her curves into his strength.

About the Author

As a child, BEVERLY LONG used to take a flashlight to bed so that she could hide under the covers and read. Once a teenager, more often than not, the books she chose were romance novels. Now she gets to keep the light on as long as she wants, and there’s always a romance novel on her nightstand. With both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director, she now enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past their bedtime.

Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit www.beverlylong.com or like her at www.facebook. com/BeverlyLong.Romance.

For the Baby’s Sake

Beverly Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Mary, Linda, Karen and David. Family,

and friends, too. We’re lucky!

Chapter One

Liz Mayfield had kicked off her shoes long before lunch, and now, with her bare feet tucked under her butt, she simply ignored the sweat that trickled down her spine. It had to be ninety in the shade. At least ninety-five in her small, lower-level office.

It was the kind of day for pool parties and frosty drinks in pretty glasses. Not the kind of day for sorting through mail and dealing with confused teenagers.

But she’d traded one in for the other years ago when she’d left her six-figure income and five weeks of vacation to take the job at Options for Caring Mothers—OCM.

It had been three years, and there were still people scratching their heads over her choice.

She picked the top envelope off the stack on the corner of her desk. Her name was scrawled across the plain white front in blue ink. The sender had spelled her last name wrong, mixing up the order of the i and the e. She slid her thumb under the flap, pulled out the single sheet of lined notebook paper and read.

And her head started to buzz.

You stupid BITCH. You going to be very sorry if you don’t stop messing in stuff thats not your busines.

The egg-salad sandwich she’d had for lunch rumbled in her stomach. Still holding the notebook paper with one hand, she cupped her other hand over her mouth. She swallowed hard twice, and once she thought she might have it under control, she unfolded her legs and stretched them far enough that she could slip both feet into her sandals. And for some crazy reason, she felt better once she had shoes on, as if she was more prepared.

She braced the heels of her hands against the edge of her scratched metal desk and pushed. Her old chair squeaked as it rolled two feet and then came to a jarring stop when a wheel jammed against a big crack in the tile floor.

Who would have sent her something like that? What did they mean that she was going to be very sorry? And when the heck was her heart going to stop pounding?

She stood and walked around her desk, making a very deliberate circle. On her third trip around, she worked up enough nerve to look more closely at the envelope. It had a stamp and a postmark from three days earlier but no return address. With just the nail on her pinkie finger, she flipped the envelope over. There was nothing on the back.

Her mail had been gathering dust for days. She’d had a packed schedule, and it probably would have sat another day if her one o’clock hadn’t canceled. That made her feel marginally better. If nothing had happened yet to make her very sorry, it was probably just some idiot trying to freak her out.

That, however, didn’t stop her from dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes when she heard a noise outside her small window. On her hands and knees, she peered around the edge of her desk and felt like a fool when she looked through the open ground-level window and saw it was only Mary Thorton arriving for her two-o’clock appointment. She could see the girl’s thin white legs with the terribly annoying skull tattoo just above her right knee.

Liz got up and brushed her dusty hands off on her denim shorts. The door opened and Mary, her ponytail, freckles and still-thin arms all strangely at odds with her round stomach, walked in. She picked up an OCM brochure that Liz kept on a rack by the door and started fanning herself. “I am never working in a basement when I get older,” she said.

“I hope you don’t have to,” Liz said, grateful that her voice sounded normal. She sat in her chair and pulled it up to the desk. Using her pinkie again, she flipped the notebook paper over so that the blank side faced up.

Mary had already taken a seat on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Pieces of strawberry blond hair clung to her neck, and her mascara was smudged around her pale blue eyes. She slouched in the chair, with her arms resting on her stomach.

“How do you feel?” Liz asked. The girl looked tired.

“Fat. And I’m sweating like a pig,” Mary replied.

Liz, careful not to touch or look at the notebook paper, reached for the open manila folder that she’d pulled from her drawer earlier that morning. She scanned her notes from Mary’s last visit. “How’s your job at the drugstore?”

“I quit.”

Mary had taken the job less than three weeks earlier. It had been the last in a string of jobs since becoming Liz’s client four months ago. Most had lasted only a few days or a week at best at the others. The bosses were stupid, the hours were too many or too few, the location too far. The list went on and on—countless reasons not to keep a job.

“Why, Mary?”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I gave a few friends a little discount on their makeup. Stupid boss made a big deal out of it.”

“Imagine that. Now what do you plan to do?”

“I’ve been thinking about killing myself.”

It was the one thing Mary could have said that made Liz grasp for words. “How would you do it, Mary?” she asked, sounding calmer than she felt.

“I don’t know. Nothing bloody. Maybe pills. Or I might just walk off the end of Navy Pier. They say drowning is pretty peaceful.”

No plan. That was good. Was it just shock talk, something destined to get Mary the attention that she seemed to crave?

“Sometimes it seems like the only answer,” Mary said. She stared at her round stomach. “You know what I mean?”

Liz did know, better than most. She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the open street-level window. Three years ago, it had been a day not all that different from today. Maybe not as hot but there’d been a similar stillness in the air.

There’d been no breeze to carry the scent of death. Nothing that had prepared her for walking into that house and seeing sweet Jenny, with the deadly razor blade just inches from her limp hand, lying in the red pool of death.

Yeah, Liz knew. She just wished she didn’t.

“No one would probably even notice,” Mary said, her lower lip trembling.

Liz got up, walked around the desk and sat in the chair next to the teen. The vinyl covering on the seat, cracked in places, scratched her bare legs. She clasped Mary’s hand and held it tight. “I would notice.”

With her free hand, Mary played with the hem of her maternity shorts. “Some days,” she said, “I want this baby so much, and there are other days that I can’t stand it. It’s like this weird little bug has gotten into my stomach, and it keeps growing and growing until it’s going to explode, and there will be bug pieces everywhere.”

Liz rubbed her thumb across the top of Mary’s hand. “Mary, it’s okay. You’re very close to your due date. It’s natural to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

Of course not. “Have you thought any more about whether you intend to keep the baby or give it up for adoption?”

“It’s not a baby. It’s a bug. You got some bug parents lined up?” Mary rolled her eyes.

“I can speak with our attorney,” Liz said, determined to stay on topic. “Mr. Fraypish has an excellent record of locating wonderful parents.”

Mary stared at Liz, her eyes wide open. She didn’t look happy or sad. Interested or bored. Just empty.

Liz stood up and stretched, determined that Mary wouldn’t see her frustration. The teen had danced around the adoption issue for months, sometimes embracing it and other times flatly rejecting it. But she needed to make a decision. Soon.

Liz debated whether she should push. Mary continued to stare, her eyes focused somewhere around Liz’s chin. Neither of them said a word.

Outside her window, a car stopped with a sudden squeal of brakes. Liz looked up just as the first bullet hit the far wall.

Noise thundered as more bullets spewed through the open window, sending chunks of plaster flying. Liz grabbed for Mary, pulling the pregnant girl to the floor. She covered the teen’s body with her own, doing her best to keep her weight off the girl’s stomach.

It stopped as suddenly as it had started. She heard the car speed off, the noise fading fast.

Liz jerked away from Mary. “Are you okay?”

The teen stared at her stomach. “I think so,” she said.

Liz could see the girl reach for her familiar indifference, but it had been too quick, too frightening, too close. Tears welled up in the teen’s eyes, and they rolled down her smooth, freckled cheeks. With both hands, she hugged her middle. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my baby to die.”

Liz had seen Mary angry, defensive, even openly hostile. But she’d never seen her cry. “I know, sweetie. I know.” She reached to hug her but stopped when she heard the front door of OCM slam open and the thunder of footsteps on the wooden stairs.

Her heart rate sped up, and she hurriedly got to her feet, moving in front of Mary. The closed office door swung open. She saw the gun, and for a crazy minute, she thought the man holding it had come back to finish what he’d started. She’d been an idiot not to take the threat seriously. Some kind of strange noise squeaked out of her throat.

“It’s all right,” the man said. “I’m Detective Sawyer Montgomery with Chicago Police, ma’am. Are either of you hurt?”

It took her a second or two to process that this man wasn’t going to hurt her. Once it registered, it seemed as if her bones turned to dust, and she could barely keep her body upright. He must have sensed that she was just about to go down for the count because he shoved his gun back into his shoulder holster and grabbed her waist to steady her.

“Take a breath,” he said. “Nice and easy.”

She closed her eyes and focused on sucking air in through her nose and blowing it out her mouth. All she could think about was that he didn’t sound like a Chicago cop. He sounded Southern, like the cool, sweet tea she’d enjoyed on hot summer evenings a lifetime ago. Smooth.

After four or five breaths, she opened her eyes. He looked at her, saw that she was back among the living and let go of her waist. He backed up a step. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“We’re okay,” she said, focusing on him. He wore gray dress pants, a wrinkled white shirt and a red tie that was loose at the collar. He had a police radio clipped to his belt, and though it was turned low, she could hear the background noise of Chicago’s finest at work.

He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a badge, flipped it open and held it steady, giving her a chance to read.

“Thank you, Detective Montgomery,” she said.

He nodded and pivoted to show it to Mary. Once she nodded, he flipped it shut and returned it to his pocket. Then he extended a hand to help Mary up off the floor.

Mary hesitated, then took it. Once up, she moved several feet away. Detective Montgomery didn’t react. Instead he pulled his radio from his belt. “Squad, this is 5162. I’m inside at 229 Logan Street. No injuries to report. Backup is still requested to secure the exterior.”

Liz stared at the cop. He had the darkest brown eyes—almost, but not quite, black. His hair was brown and thick and looked as if it had recently been trimmed. His skin was tanned, and his lips had a very nice shape.

Best-looking cop she’d seen in some time.

In fact, only cop she’d seen in some time. Logan Street wasn’t in a great neighborhood but was quiet in comparison to the streets that ran a couple blocks to the south. As such, it didn’t get much attention from the police.

And yet, Detective Montgomery had been inside OCM less than a minute after the shooting. That didn’t make sense. She stepped forward, putting herself between the detective and Mary.

“How did you get here so quickly?” she asked.

He hesitated for just a second. “I was parked outside.”

“That was coincidental,” she said. “I’m not generally big on coincidences.”

He shrugged and pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “May I have your name, please?”

His look and his attitude were all business. His voice was pure pleasure. The difference in the two caught her off balance, making her almost forgive that he was being deliberately evasive. There was a reason he’d been parked outside, but he wasn’t ready to cough it up. She was going to have to play the game his way.

“Liz Mayfield,” she said. “I’m one of three counselors here at OCM. Options for Caring Mothers,” she added. “This is Mary Thorton.”

The introduction wasn’t necessary. The girl had been keeping him up at nights. Sawyer knew her name, her social security number, her address. Hell, he knew her favorite breakfast cereal. Three empty boxes of Fruit Loops in her garbage had been pretty hard to miss. “Miss Thorton,” he said, nodding at the teen before turning back to the counselor. “Is there anybody else in the building?”

The woman shook her head. “Carmen was here earlier, but she left to take her brother to the orthodontist. Cynthia, she’s the third counselor, just works in the mornings. We have a part-time receptionist, too, but she’s not here today. Oh, and Jamison is getting ready for a fund-raiser. He’s working off-site.”

“Who’s Jamison?”

“He’s the boss.”

“Okay. Why don’t the two of you—”

Sawyer stopped when he heard his partner let loose their call numbers. He turned the volume up on his radio.

“Squad, this is 5162, following a gray Lexus, license Adam, John, David, 7, 4, 9. I lost him, somewhere around Halsted and 35th. Repeat, lost him. Keep an eye out, guys.”

Sawyer wasn’t surprised. He and Robert had been parked a block down the street. Sawyer had jumped out, and Robert had given chase, but the shooter had at least a two-block advantage. In a crowded city, filled with alleys and side streets, that was a lot. Every cop on the street in that general vicinity would be on the watch now, but Sawyer doubted it would do any good. Mirandez’s boys would have dumped the car by now. He turned the volume on his radio back down.

“Why don’t you two have a seat?” he said, trying hard to maintain a hold on his emotions. They hadn’t gotten the shooter, but maybe—just maybe—he had Mary Thorton in a position where she’d want to talk.

The counselor sat. Mary continued to stand until Liz Mayfield patted the chair next to her.

Facing both women, he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Are you feeling up to that?”

“You okay?” Liz Mayfield asked Mary.

The girl shrugged. “I suppose.”

The woman nodded at Sawyer. “Shoot,” she said.

Mary snorted, and the pretty counselor’s cheeks turned pink. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “We’re ready. Proceed. Begin.”

Wow. She was a Beach Boys song—a regular California girl—with her smooth skin and thick, blond hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She wore a sleeveless white cotton shirt and denim shorts, and her toenails were the brightest pink he’d ever seen.

What the hell was she doing in a basement on the south side of Chicago?

He knew what he was doing there. He was two minutes and two hundred yards behind Dantel Mirandez. Like he had been for the past eighteen months.

And the son of a bitch had slipped away again.

Sawyer crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back against the desk, resting his butt on the corner. He focused his attention on the teenager. She sat slouched in her chair, staring at the floor. “Ms. Thorton, any ideas about who is responsible for this shooting?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz Mayfield sit up straighter in her chair. “I—”

He held up his hand, stopping her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give Ms. Thorton a chance to answer first.”

“I don’t know anything, Cop,” the teen said, her voice hard with irritation.

Damn. “You’re sure?”

Mary raised her chin. “Yeah. What kind of cop are you? Haven’t you heard about people in cars with guns? They shoot things. Duh. That’s why they call them drive-by shooters.”

It looked as if she planned to stick to the same old story. He walked over to the window and looked out. Two squad cars had arrived. He knew the officers would systematically work their way through the crowd that had gathered, trying to find out if anybody had seen anything that would be helpful. He didn’t hold out much hope. In this neighborhood, even if somebody saw something, they wouldn’t be that likely to talk. He heard a noise behind him and turned.

“I’m out of here.” Mary pushed on the arms of her chair and started to get up. “I’ve got things to do.”

He wasn’t letting her off the hook that easy. “Sit down,” he instructed. “We’re not done.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Mary shouted.

You can’t tell me what to do. The words bounced off the walls, sharp, quick blows, taking Sawyer back seventeen years. Just a kid himself, he’d alternated between begging, demanding, bribing, whatever he’d thought would work. But that angry teenage girl hadn’t listened to him, either. She’d continued to pump heroin into her veins, and his son, his precious infant son, had paid the ultimate price.

Sawyer bit the inside of his lip. “Sit,” he said.

Liz Mayfield stood. “Detective, may I talk to you privately?”

He gave her a quick glance. “In a minute.” He turned his attention back to Mary. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What do you know about this shooting?”

“What I know is that you talk funny.”

He heard Liz Mayfield’s quick intake of breath, but the woman remained silent.

“Is that right?” Sawyer rubbed his chin, debating how much he should share. “Maybe I do. Where I come from, everybody talks like this. Where I come from, two drive-by shootings in one week is something worthy of note.”

Mary lowered her chin. Liz Mayfield, who had remained standing, cocked her head to the side and studied Mary. “Two?” she asked.

Sawyer didn’t wait for Mary. “While Ms. Thorton shopped in a convenience store just three days ago, the front windows got shot out,” he said.

“Mary?”

Was it surprise or hurt that he heard in the counselor’s voice?

The teen didn’t answer. The silence stretched for another full minute before Liz tried again. “What’s going on here?” she asked.

“There ain’t nothing going on here,” Mary said. “Besides me getting bored out of my mind, that is.”

“Somebody’s going to get killed one of these days.” Sawyer paced in front of the two women, stopping in front of Mary. “How would you like it if Ms. Mayfield had gotten a bullet in the back of her head?”

“I got rights,” Mary yelled.

“Be quiet,” he said. “Use some of that energy and tell me about Mirandez.”

“Who?” the counselor asked.

Sawyer didn’t respond, his attention focused on Mary. He saw her hand grip the wooden arm of the chair.

“Well?” Sawyer prompted. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about?”

“Stupid cops,” Mary said, shaking her head.

He’d been called worse. Twice already today. “Come on, Mary,” he said. “Before somebody dies.”

Mary leaned close to her counselor. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Honest, I don’t. You’ve got to believe me.” A tear slid down the girl’s pale face, dripping onto her round stomach. He looked away. He didn’t want to think about her baby.

“If I can go home now,” Mary said, looking up at Liz Mayfield, “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can talk about the adoption.”

The woman stared at the teen for a long minute before turning to him. “Mary says she doesn’t know anything about the shooting. I’m not sure what else we can tell you.”

Sawyer settled back against the desk and contemplated his next words. “That’s it? That’s all either of you has to say?”

Liz Mayfield shrugged. “I’d still like a minute of your time,” she said, “but if you don’t have any other questions for Mary, can she go home?” She brushed her hair back from her face. “It has been a rather unpleasant day.”

Maybe he needed to describe in graphic detail exactly what unpleasant looked like.

“Please,” she said.

She looked tired and pale, and he remembered that she’d already about passed out once. “Fine,” he said. “She can go.”

Liz Mayfield extended her hand to Mary, helping the girl out of the chair. She wrapped her arm around Mary’s freckled shoulder, and they left the room.

He had his back toward the door, his face turned toward the open window, scanning the street, when she came back. “I’m just curious,” he said without turning around. “You saw her when I said his name. She knows something. You know it, and I know it. How come you let her walk away?”

“Who’s Mirandez?” she asked.

He turned around. He wanted to see her face. “Dantel Mirandez is scum. The worst kind of scum. He’s the guy who makes it possible for third graders to buy a joint at recess. And for their older brothers and sisters to be heroin addicts by the time they’re twelve. And for their parents to spend their grocery money on—”

“I think I get it, Detective.”

“Yeah, well, get this. Mirandez isn’t just your neighborhood dealer. He runs a big operation. Maybe as much as ten percent of all the illegal drug traffic in Chicago. Millions of dollars pass through his organization. He employs hundreds. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old punk.”

“How do you know Mary is involved with him?”

“It’s my job to know. She’s been his main squeeze for the past six months—at least.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would he try to hurt her?”

“We don’t think he’s trying to hurt her. It’s more like he’s trying to get her attention, to make sure she remembers that he’s the boss. To make sure that she remembers that he can get to her at any time, at any place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Three weeks ago, during one of his transactions, he killed a man. Little doubt that it wasn’t the first time. But word on the street is that this time, your little Miss Mary was with him. She saw it.”

“Oh, my God. I had no idea.”

She looked as if she might faint again. He pushed a chair in her direction. She didn’t even look at it. He watched her, relaxing when a bit of color returned to her face.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said. “The tip came in about a week ago that Mary saw the hit. And then the convenience store got shot up. She got questioned at the scene, but she didn’t offer anything up about Mirandez. I’ve been following her ever since. It wasn’t a coincidence that my partner and I were parked a block away. We saw a car come around the corner, slow down. Before we could do anything, they had a gun stuck out the window, blowing this place up. We called it in, and I jumped out to come inside. My partner went after them. As you may have heard,” he said, motioning to his radio, “they got away.”

“It sounded like you got a license plate.”

“Not that it will do us any good. It’s a pretty safe bet that the car was hot. Stolen,” he added.

“Do you know for sure that it was Mirandez who shot out my window? Did you actually see him?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t him pulling the trigger. He rarely does his own dirty work. It was likely someone further down the food chain.”

She swallowed hard. “You may be right, Detective. And I’m willing to try to talk to Mary, to try to convince her to cooperate with the police. You have to understand that my first priority is her. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“She has Mirandez.”

“She’s never said a word about him.”

“I assume he’s the father of the baby,” he said. “That fact is probably the only thing that’s keeping her alive right now. Otherwise, I think she’d be expendable. Everybody is to this guy.”

Liz shook her head. “He’s not the father of her baby.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated. “Because I’ve met the father. He’s a business major at Loyola.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why isn’t he tending to his own business? What kind of man lets his girlfriend and his unborn child get mixed up with people like Mirandez? He knows about the baby?”

“Yes. But he’s not interested.”

“He said that?”

“Mary is considering adoption. When the paternity of a baby is known, we require the father’s consent as well as the mother’s.”

“I guess they’re not teaching responsibility in college anymore.” Sawyer flexed his hand, wishing he had about three minutes with college boy.

“Can’t download it,” she answered.

Sawyer laughed, his anger dissipating a bit. “And where does Mirandez fit into this?” he asked. “You saw her face when I said his name. She knows him all right. The question is, what else does she know?”

“It’s hard to say. She’s not an easy person to read.”

“How old is she?”

“She turned eighteen last month. Legally an adult but still very young, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gonna be young, foolish and dead if she doesn’t get away from Mirandez. It’s only a matter of time.” He wanted Liz to understand the severity. “Otherwise, if I can prove she was at that murder scene, then she’s an accessory and that baby is gonna be born in jail.”

“Well, that’s clear enough.” She turned her head to look at her desk. She took a deep breath. “It may not have anything to do with Mary.”

He lowered his chin and studied her. “Why do you say that?”

She walked over to the desk and flipped over a piece of notebook paper. She pointed at it and then the envelope next to it. “They go together. I opened it about a half hour ago.”

He looked down and read it quickly. When he jerked his head up, she stood there, looking calmer than he felt. “Any idea who sent this?”

She shook her head. “So maybe this has nothing to do with Mary. Maybe, just maybe, you were busting her chops for nothing.”

For some odd reason, her slightly sarcastic tone made him smile. “I wasn’t busting her chops,” he said. “That was me making polite conversation. First time you ever get something like this?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody really pissed off at you?”

“I work with pregnant teenagers and when possible with the fathers, too. Most of them are irritated with me at one time or another. It’s my job to make them deal with things they’d sometimes rather ignore.”

He supposed it was possible that the shooting wasn’t Mirandez’s work, but the similarities between it and the shooting at the convenience store were too strong to be ignored. “I imagine you touched this?”

She nodded.

“Anybody else have access to your mail?”

“Our receptionist. She sorts it.”

“Okay. I’ll need both your prints so that we can rule them out.”

She blew out a breath. “Fine. I’ve got her home number. By the way, they spelled my name wrong,” she said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not someone who knows me. Given that business is also spelled wrong and the grammar isn’t all that great, I’d say we’re not dealing with a genius.”

“They still got their point across.”

She smiled at him, and he noticed not for the first time that Liz Mayfield was one damn fine-looking woman. “That they did,” she said. “Loud and clear.”

“Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get an evidence tech out here to take your prints. That will take a few minutes. In the meantime, I’ve got a few questions.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll just bet you do,” she said before she dutifully sat down.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Montgomery, you owe me ten bucks. I told you the Cubs would lose to St. Louis. When are you going to learn?”

Sawyer fished two fives out of his pocket. He hadn’t expected his boys to win. But he’d been a fan since coming to Chicago two years earlier and going to his first Cubs game at Wrigley Field. He wasn’t sentimental enough to believe it was because of the ivy growing on the walls that it somehow reminded him of home. He liked to think it was because the Cubs, no matter if they were winning or losing, were always the underdog. Sort of like cops.

He folded the bills and tossed them at his partner. “Here. Now shut up. Why does the lieutenant want to see us?”

“I don’t know. I got the same page you did.” Robert Hanson pulled a thick telephone book out of his desk drawer. “It’s a damn shame. Veronica spent the night, and she’s really at her best in the morning. Very enthusiastic.”

“Which one is Veronica?”

“Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack.”

That described most of the women Robert dated. Sawyer heard the door and looked up. Lieutenant Fischer walked in.

“Gentlemen,” their boss greeted them, dropping a thick green file on the wood desk. “We’ve got a problem.”

Robert sat up straighter in his chair. Sawyer stared at his boss. The man looked every one of his fifty years. “What’s up?” Sawyer asked.

“We’ve got another dead body. Looks like the guy was beat up pretty good before somebody shot him in the head.”

“Mirandez?” Sawyer hissed.

“Probably. Our guys ID’d the deceased. Bobbie Morage.”

Sawyer looked at Robert. “Morage was tight with Mirandez until recently.”

Robert nodded. “Rumor has it that Morage was skimming off the top. Taking product home in his pockets.”

Lieutenant Fischer closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “No honor among thieves or killers.”

“Any witnesses?” Sawyer asked.

His boss opened his eyes. “None. Got one hysterical maid at the Rotayne Hotel. She found him on her way to the Dumpster. Look, we’ve got to get this guy. This makes three in the past two months. Eight in the past year.”

Sawyer could do the math. He wanted Mirandez more than he’d wanted anybody in fifteen years of wearing a badge.

“Are you sure you can’t get Mary Thorton to talk?” The lieutenant stood in front of Sawyer, his arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t know. Like I told you yesterday, she’s either in it up to her eyeballs, or she’s just a dumb young kid with a smart mouth who doesn’t know anything. I’m not sure which.”

“What about her counselor? What was her name?”

“Liz. Elizabeth, I guess. Last name is Mayfield.”

“Can she help us?”

“I don’t know.” Sawyer shook his head. “If anyone can get to Mary, I think she’s the one. She said she’d try.”

“We need the girlfriend. Push the counselor if you need to.”

Sawyer understood Lieutenant Fischer’s anxiety. People were dying. “She does have her own issues,” he said, feeling the need to defend the woman.

Lieutenant Fischer rubbed a hand across his face. “I know. You get any prints off the note she got?”

“Nothing that we couldn’t match up to her or the receptionist. We got a couple partials, and we’re tracking down the mail carrier to rule him or her out. I don’t know. It could be coincidence that she got this and then Mirandez went after Mary Thorton again.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Lieutenant Fischer said, his voice hard.

Sawyer didn’t much, either. “I’ll go see her now.”

“I’ll go with you,” Robert offered, clearly resigned that Veronica was an opportunity lost.

Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack. Liz Mayfield had green eyes, but other than that, she was just Robert’s type. “No,” Sawyer said, not even looking at Robert.

“Hey, it’s no problem. I like to watch you try to use that old-fashioned Southern charm.”

“I don’t need any help.” Sawyer looked at his lieutenant and got the nod of approval he needed.

“Fine,” Robert said. “Go ahead and drag your sorry ass over there again. I’ll just stay here. In the air-conditioning.”

Lieutenant Fischer shook his head. “No, you don’t. You’re going to the hotel to interview the maid again. She doesn’t speak much English.”

“Doesn’t anybody else speak Spanish?” Robert moaned.

“Not like you do. I’ve got officers who grew up in Mexico that don’t speak it as well.”

Robert grinned broadly. “It’s hell to be brilliant.” He ducked out the door right before the telephone book hit it.

A HALF HOUR LATER, Sawyer parked his car in front of the brick two-story. He walked past a couple brown-eyed, brown-skinned children, carefully stepping around the pictures they’d created on the sidewalk with colored chalk.

Sawyer nodded at the two old men sitting on the steps. When he’d left OCM the day before, he’d taken the time to speak to them personally, hoping they’d seen the shooter. From his vehicle, just minutes before the arrival of what he still believed was Mirandez’s band of dirty men, he’d seen them in the same spot, chatting.

They’d seen the shooter. It didn’t help much. He’d worn a face mask.

He took the steps of OCM two at a time. He just needed to get inside, talk to Liz Mayfield and get the hell out of there. Before he did something stupid like touch her. He’d thought of her skin for most of the night. Her soft, silky skin. With legs that went on forever.

Sawyer glanced down at the street-level window. Plywood covered the opening, keeping both the sun and unwanted visitors out. He didn’t stop to wonder how unwelcome he might be. He walked through the deserted hallway and down the steps. He knocked once on the closed door and then again when no one answered. He tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn.

“She left early.”

Sawyer whirled around. He’d been so focused on the task that he hadn’t heard the woman come up behind him.

“Sorry.” She laughed at him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Looking at her could scare almost anybody. She had bright red hair, blue eyeliner, black lips, and she wore a little bit of a skirt and shirt, showing more skin than material. She couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. If she had been his daughter, he’d have locked her in the house until she found some clothes and washed the god-awful makeup off.

His son would have been just about her age. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nicole.” She held up the palm of her hand and wriggled her fingers. “Don’t you recognize me?”

She was the part-time receptionist who had gotten her prints taken. An evidence tech had taken care of it for him. He’d been busy filling out case reports—one for the shooting, a separate one for Liz Mayfield’s threat. “Sorry. Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

“I’d do almost anything for Liz. Like I said, though, she’s not here. She left early. Maybe to get ready for the dance.”

Sawyer tried to concentrate. “A dance?”

“OCM is having a dance. A fund-raiser. Jamison says we’re going to have to shut the doors if donations don’t pick up.”

Sawyer had finally had the opportunity to talk on the telephone with Jamison Curtiss, the executive director of OCM, late the evening before. The man had flitted between outrage at both the shooting and the note Liz Mayfield had received, to worry about the bad press for OCM, to despair about the neighborhood all in a matter of minutes.

Sawyer had told himself, several times while he was shaving this morning, that it had been that conversation that had spurred dreams of Liz Mayfield. Otherwise, there’d have been no reason to take his work home, to take it literally to bed with him.

Dreaming about a woman was something Robert would do.

“Dinner is two hundred bucks a plate,” the girl continued. “Can you believe that? Like, I’d cook ’em dinner for half that.”

“Where?”

“Like, at my house.”

Sawyer shook his head. “No, where’s the dinner?”

“At the Rotayne Hotel. Pretty fancy, huh?”

“As fancy as they get.” As long as they keep the dead bodies hidden in the alley. “What time does it start?”

“Dinner’s at seven. My grandmother wanted me to go. Thought I might meet a nice young man there.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Not interested?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Last one I met got me knocked up. Guess Grandma kind of forgot about that. I don’t know what I would have done if Liz hadn’t helped me find a family for my baby. Now she’s living in the suburbs. Like, with a mom and dad and two cats.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“Uh…” He was so far out of his league here.

“Anyway,” she said, sniffing loudly. She tossed her hair back. “She’s the best. Some lawyer guy helps her. He talks fast, drinks too much and wears ugly ties. Easy to spot.”

“What’s his name?” Sawyer asked.

“Howard Fraypish. Liz went to the dance with him.”

Sawyer pulled his notebook out of his suit coat pocket and made a note of the name. Yesterday, after they’d gotten Liz Mayfield’s prints, he’d asked her whether she was seeing anybody. It was a legitimate question, he’d told himself at the time.

She hadn’t even blinked. Said that she hadn’t dated anyone for over a year.

Going to a dance with somebody sounded like a date.

“I think she just feels sorry for him,” the girl added.

So, she and lawyer guy weren’t close. Maybe there was someone else. He had a right to ask. Maybe the connection wasn’t Mary or Mirandez. Maybe the shooter’s target had been the pretty counselor. It wouldn’t be the first time a spurned love interest had crossed the line. “She seeing anybody else?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He was glad that Liz hadn’t lied to him. But it still surprised him. A woman who looked like Liz Mayfield shouldn’t have trouble getting a date. She had the kind of face and body that made a man stupid.

He’d made that mistake once in his life. He wouldn’t make it again.

HE TRIED TO REMEMBER THAT, two hours later, when he watched her glide around the room. She had on a long, dark blue dress. It flowed from her narrow waist, falling just shy of her ankles. It puffed out when she turned.

She’d pulled her hair up, leaving just a few strands down. Sawyer rubbed his fingers together, imagining the feel of the silky texture. The dress had a high collar and sleeves ending just below the elbow. She barely showed any skin at all, and she was the sexiest woman there.

Classy. It was the only word he could think of.

Determined to get it over with, Sawyer strode across the dance floor, ignoring the startled whispers or shocked glances in his wake. He felt as out of place as he knew he looked with his faded blue jeans and his beat-up leather jacket. He’d shed his suit earlier that evening before suddenly deciding that he needed to see Liz Mayfield tonight. She’d had her twenty-four hours. It wasn’t his fault that she was a party girl and wanted to dance.

He met her eyes over the shoulder of her date. Her full lips parted ever so slightly, and her face lost its color. He shrugged in return and tapped the man between them on the shoulder.

The guy, early forties and balding, turned his head slightly, frowned at Sawyer and kept dancing.

Sawyer tapped again. “I need a few minutes with Ms. Mayfield.”

They stopped. When the guy made no move to let go of her, Sawyer held out his hand. She stared at it for several seconds then stepped away from her date. Suddenly she was in his arms, and they were dancing.

He wanted to say something. But his stupid mind wouldn’t work. He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, couldn’t reason.

She smelled good—like the jasmine flowers that had grown outside his mother’s kitchen window.

He wanted to pull her close and taste her. The realization hit him hard, as if someone had punched him. He wanted his tongue in her mouth, her breasts in his hands and her thighs wrapped around him. He wanted her naked under him.

Sawyer jerked back, stumbling a bit. He dropped his hands to his sides. The two of them stood still in the middle of the dance floor like two statues.

Why didn’t she say something? Hell, why didn’t she blink? She just kept her pretty green eyes focused on his face. Sawyer kept his breaths shallow, unwilling to let any more temptation into his lungs. “Any more letters?” he asked. He kept his voice low, not wanting others to hear.

She shook her head. “Our mail doesn’t usually arrive until after lunch. I left before it got there.”

“So, no news is good news?”

“For tonight.”

He understood avoidance. At one point in his life, he’d perfected it. He felt silly standing in the middle of the floor. He stepped closer to Liz Mayfield, and she slipped back into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which didn’t make sense at all because it had to have been ten years since he’d danced with a woman. It felt good. She felt good.

He really needed to remember that he wasn’t here to dance. “What did your little friend have to say?” he asked.

Her body jerked, and he realized he’d been more stern than necessary. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s just that I…I didn’t see Mary today.”

“She didn’t show, did she?”

Liz shook her head and jumped in with both feet. “I had to cancel most of my appointments. I didn’t feel well.” That much at least was true. She’d been sick after hearing Mary’s voice mail. I’m not coming today. I’ll see you tomorrow at the regular time.

Liz had tried to call her a dozen times before giving up. Dreading that Detective Montgomery would find her before she had the chance to locate Mary, she’d left the office. She’d worried that a frustrated Detective Montgomery might take matters in his own hands and track Mary down.

Liz had never expected he’d show up at the fund-raiser. But she should have known better. Detective Montgomery didn’t seem like the kind of guy who gave up easily. In fact, he seemed downright tenacious. Like a dog after a bone.

She tried to hold that against him. But couldn’t. While it made for an uncomfortable evening, she couldn’t help appreciating the fact that he’d held her to her twenty-four hours. He took his work seriously. She could relate to that.

“Are you okay now?” he asked, sounding concerned.

She nodded, not willing to verbalize any more half-truths. From across the room, she caught Carmen’s eye. She was standing behind the punch table, pouring cups for thirsty dancers. Liz could read the concern on her pretty face. She’d had that same look since Liz had told her about the letter.

Liz shook her head slightly, reassuring her. Carmen was little, but she could be a spitfire. If she thought Liz needed help, she’d come running.

“Who’s that?” Detective Montgomery asked.

“Carmen Jimenez. She’s a counselor, too. I think I mentioned her yesterday.”

“I remember. Did you tell her about your letter?”

“Yes.”

“She hasn’t gotten anything similar?”

Liz shook her head.

“I’ve got some bad news,” Detective Montgomery said. “We found another dead body this morning. Right outside of this very hotel. He’d been shot. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d been a cook for Mirandez.”

“Mirandez has a cook?”

He leaned his mouth closer to her ear, and she felt the shiver run down the length of her spine. “Not like Oprah has a cook. A cook is the guy who boils down the cocaine into crack.”

“Oh. My.”

“People keep dying,” he said. “It’s my job to make it stop. If Mary knows something, it’s her job to help me.”

She’d been wrong. He wasn’t like a dog after a bone. He wanted fresh meat. She pulled away from him, forcing the dancing to stop. She couldn’t think when he had his arms around her, let alone when his mouth was that close. “If you had enough to arrest her,” she protested, “you’d have done it yesterday. You don’t have anything but a wild guess.”

He had more than that. The tip had come from one of their own. It had taken Fluentes two years to work his way inside. Sawyer didn’t intend to sacrifice him now.

Push the counselor. He could hear Lieutenant Fischer’s words almost as clearly as if the man stood behind him. “She was there. And you need to convince her to tell us what she saw. She needs to tell us everything. Then we’ll protect her.”

“You’ll protect her?”

“Yeah.” For some reason Liz’s disbelieving tone set Sawyer’s teeth on edge. “That’s what we do. We’re cops.”

“She’s eight months pregnant.”

“I’m aware of that. We would arrange for both her and her baby to have the medical care that they need.”

“And then what?” she asked, her tone demanding.

Sawyer threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I guess the baby grows up, and in twenty years, Mary’s a grandmother.” Sawyer rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head pounded, and the damn drums weren’t helping. “Look, can we go outside?” he mumbled.

She seemed to hesitate. Sawyer let out a breath when she nodded and took off, weaving in and out of the dancers, not stopping until she reached the exit. They walked outside the hotel, and he led her far enough away that the doorman couldn’t hear the conversation.

She spoke before he had the chance to question her. “I’ll talk to her. She’s supposed to come to OCM at eight tomorrow morning. It’s her regular appointment.”

“And you’ll convince her to talk to us?”

“I’ll talk—”

“Liz, Liz. Back here. What are you doing outside?”

Sawyer turned back toward the hotel door. Her date stood next to the doorman, wildly waving his arm. The man started walking toward them, his long legs eating up the distance.

“He doesn’t know about my letter,” Liz said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

When the man reached Liz’s side, he wrapped a skinny arm around her and tugged her toward his body. For some crazy reason, Sawyer wanted to break the man’s arm. In two, maybe three, places. Then maybe a kneecap next.

“You had me worried when I couldn’t find you,” he said.

She stepped out of the man’s grasp. “Detective Montgomery is the detective assigned to the shooting at OCM.” She turned back to Sawyer. “Detective Montgomery, Howard Fraypish,” she said, finishing the introduction.

The guy stuck his arm out, and Sawyer returned the shake. “I’m OCM’s attorney,” Fraypish said.

The man’s hot-pink bow tie matched his cummerbund. “I better get going,” Sawyer said. “Thanks for the information, Ms. Mayfield.”

“I certainly hope you arrest the men responsible for the attack at OCM,” Fraypish said. “Where were the city’s finest when this happened? At the local doughnut shop?”

Was that the best the guy could do? “I don’t like doughnuts,” Sawyer said.

“Are you sure you’re a cop?”

Liz Mayfield frowned at her date. The idiot held up both hands in mock surrender. “Just a little joke. I thought we could use some humor.”

Sawyer thought a quick left followed by a sharp right would be kind of funny.

“I should have called you, Detective. Then you wouldn’t have had to make a trip here,” she apologized.

“Forget it.” His only regret was the blue dress. He knew how good she looked in it. He wondered how long before he stopped thinking about how good she’d look without it.

LIZ WOKE UP at four in the morning. Her body needed rest, but her mind refused to cooperate. She’d left the hotel shortly after midnight. She’d been in her apartment and in bed less than ten minutes later. She’d dreamed about Mary. Sweet Mary and her baby. Sweet Mary and the faceless Dantel Mirandez. Jenny had been there, too. With her crooked smile, her flyaway blond hair blowing around her as she threw a handful of pennies into the fountain at Grant Park. Just the way she’d been the last day Liz had seen her alive. Then out of nowhere, there’d been more letters, more threats. So many that when she’d fallen down and they’d piled on top of her, they’d covered her. And she hadn’t been able to breathe.

Waking up had been a relief.

She showered, put on white capri pants and a blue shirt and caught the five-o’clock bus. Thirty minutes later, it dropped her off a block from OCM. The morning air was heavy with humidity. It had the makings of another ninetydegree day.

She entered the security code, unlocked the front door, entered and then reset the code. She didn’t bother to go downstairs to her office, heading instead to the small kitchen at the rear of the first floor. She started a pot of coffee, pouring a cup before the pot was even half-full. She took a sip, burned her tongue and swallowed anyway. She needed caffeine.

While she waited for her bagel to toast, she thought about Detective Montgomery. When he’d walked away, in the wake of Howard’s insults, she’d wanted to run after him, to apologize, to make him understand that she’d do what she could to help him.

As long as it didn’t put Mary in any danger.

But she hadn’t. When Howard had hustled her back inside the hotel, she’d gone without protest. Jamison had made it abundantly clear. Attendees had coughed up two hundred bucks a plate. If they wanted to dance, you danced. If they needed a drink, you fetched it. If they wanted conversation, you talked.

Liz had danced, fetched, talked and smiled through it all. Even after her toes had been stepped on for the eighteenth time. No politician could have done better. She’d done it on autopilot. It hadn’t helped when Carmen had come up, fanning herself, and said, “Who was that?”

“Detective Montgomery,” Liz had explained.

“I suspect I don’t have to state the obvious,” Carmen had said, “but the man is hot.”

Liz had almost laughed. Carmen hadn’t even heard the man talk. Or felt the man’s chest muscles when he’d held her close—not too close but close enough. She hadn’t smelled his clean, fresh scent.

Detective Montgomery wasn’t just hot; he was smoking hot.

Her bagel popped just as she heard the front door open. She relaxed when she didn’t hear the alarm. Who else, she wondered, was crazy enough to come to work at five-thirty in the morning?

When she heard Jamison’s office door open, she almost dropped her bagel. He probably hadn’t gotten home much before two.

She spread cream cheese evenly on both sides and started a second pot of coffee. Jamison was perhaps the only person on earth who loved coffee more than she did. She had her cup and her bagel balanced in one hand and had just slung her purse over her shoulder when she heard the front door close again.

She eased the kitchen door open and glanced down the narrow hallway. Empty. All the office doors remained closed. “Hello?”

No answer. She walked down the hallway, knocked on Jamison’s door and then tried the handle. It didn’t turn.

She walked down the steps to the lower level. Her office door and all the others were shut. “Good morning?” she sang out, a bit louder this time.

The only sound she heard was her own breathing.

Liz ran up the stairs, swearing softly when the hot coffee splashed out of the cup and burned her hand. She checked the front door. Locked. Alarm set.

She relaxed. It had to have been Jamison. What would have possessed him to come in so early and leave so quickly? She hoped nothing was wrong. She walked back downstairs and unlocked her office. It was darker than usual because no light spilled through the boarded-up window.

She had to admit that the wood made her feel better. Maybe she’d ask Jamison to leave it that way for a while. At least until she got her nerves under control.

Rationally, she didn’t put much stock in the letter. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that one of her clients or their partners had decided to jerk her chain a little. It didn’t make her feel any better, however, to think that the shooter had been aiming for Mary.

She intended to somehow make the girl open up to her, to tell her if there was any connection between her and Dantel Mirandez. But in the meantime, she needed to get busy. She sat down behind her desk and opened the top file. Mary was not the only client who was close to delivery. Just two days before, Melissa Stroud had been in Liz’s office. They’d reviewed the information on Mike and Mindy Partridge, and Melissa had agreed to let the couple adopt her soon-to-be-born child. Liz needed to get the necessary information to Howard so that he could get the paperwork done.

At twenty minutes to eight, she heard the front door open again. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs, and within seconds, her boss stuck his head through the open doorway.

“Hey, Liz. Nice window.”

She shook her head. “Morning, Jamison. How are you?”

“Exhausted. It ended up being a late night. We didn’t leave the hotel until they pushed us out the door. Then Reneé and I and a couple others went out for breakfast. I didn’t want to say no to any potential donors. I’ve got a heck of a headache, though. It was probably that last vodka tonic.”

“Jamison, you know better.” Liz smiled at her boss. “Had you been to bed yet when you stopped by here this morning?”

“This morning? What are you talking about?”

“You stopped in about six. I had coffee made, but you left before I could catch you.”

“Liz, how many glasses of wine did you have last night?”

Liz dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Two. That’s my limit.”

“Well, you may want to cut back to one. Reneé had set the alarm for seven, and we slept through that. I barely had time for a two-minute shower just to get here by now.”

Liz shook her head, trying to make sense out of what Jamison said. “I heard the door. The alarm didn’t go off. I’m sure I heard your office door open. But when I came out, there was nobody around.”

“It must have been a car door.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Liz protested.

“Then it was Cynthia or Carmen or one of the other staff. Although I can’t imagine why anybody would have gotten up early after last night. What were you doing here?”

“Mary Thorton is coming at eight. I wanted to get some stuff done first.” No need to tell Jamison that she’d been running from her dreams. He already thought she was losing her mind.

“Have you talked to her since the shooting? Poor kid. She must be pretty shook up.”

“I’m sure she was. Detective Montgomery thinks she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“Is that why he came to the dance last night?”

Liz was surprised. Jamison rarely noticed anything that didn’t directly concern him. But then again, Detective Montgomery had a way about him that commanded attention.

“Yes.”

“At least he wasn’t in uniform. That wouldn’t have been good for donations. How do you think the party went?” Jamison asked, sitting down on one of Liz’s chairs.

“People seemed to have a good time,” Liz hedged. When his eyes lit up, her guilt vanished. He could be a bit selfcentered and pushy, but Liz knew he’d do almost anything for OCM. She would, too.

Even spend an evening with Howard Fraypish, who had been Jamison’s college roommate. After college, Jamison had taken a job in social services and married Reneé. Howard had gone to law school, graduated at the top of his class, married his corporate job and produced billable hours. Lots of them, evidently. The man had a huge apartment with a view of Lake Michigan, and he’d opened his own law office at least five years ago.

The two men had stayed connected over the years, and when Jamison had been hired as the executive director of OCM, he’d hired Howard’s firm to handle the adoptions.

“Want a warm-up?” Jamison asked, nodding at Liz’s empty cup.

“Sure.”

They walked upstairs to the kitchen. Liz had poured her cup and handed the glass pot to Jamison when his cell phone rang. Liz started to walk away, stopping suddenly when she heard the glass pot hit the tile floor.

She whirled around. Jamison stood still, his phone in one hand and his other empty. Shards of glass and spilled coffee surrounded him.

“Jamison?” She started back toward her boss.

“There’s a bomb in my office.” He spoke without emotion. “It’s set to go off in fifteen minutes.”

Chapter Three

Detective Sawyer Montgomery arrived just minutes after the bomb squad had disarmed, dismantled and disconnected—she wasn’t sure of the technical term—the bomb that had been left in the middle of Jamison’s desk. It had taken them eleven minutes to arrive. The longest eleven minutes of Liz’s life.

Beat cops had been on the scene within minutes of the 911 call that Liz had made from Jamison’s phone after she’d pulled him, his phone and herself from the building. They’d blocked off streets and rousted people from their apartments. OCM’s neighbors, many still in their pajamas, had poured from the nearby buildings. Mothers with small children in their arms, old people barely able to maneuver the steps, all were hustled behind a hastily tacked-up stretch of yellow police tape.

Liz had wondered if Detective Montgomery would come. She hated to admit it, but she’d considered calling him. In those first frantic moments before help had arrived, she’d desperately hoped for someone capable. And Detective Montgomery absolutely screamed capable. She doubted the man ever encountered anything he couldn’t handle.

But now that he’d arrived, Liz wanted to run. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to run to him to seek shelter in his embrace or run far from him to protect herself from his intensity, his questions, his knowing looks.

Liz watched him get out of the car and scan the crowd. He said something to the man who rode with him. Liz knew the exact moment he spotted her. It didn’t matter that three hundred yards separated them. Liz felt the shiver run up her arm just as if he’d touched her.

“What the hell happened?” he asked when he reached her.

Liz swallowed, trying very hard not to cry. How ridiculous would that be? No one had been hurt. No one injured. And she hadn’t even thought about crying until Detective Montgomery had approached.

“Bomb threat,” she said. “Actually, more than a threat, I guess. The bomb squad removed it just a few minutes ago.”

“Where was it?”

“In the middle of my boss’s desk. In a brown sack.” The tears that she’d dreaded sprang to her eyes.

“Hey.” Detective Montgomery reached out and touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

He sounded so concerned. That almost made the dam break. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s just been great.”

Detective Montgomery frowned at her, but he didn’t let go. The most delicious heat spread up her arm.

“Come over here.” He guided her toward the curb.

“Okay.” Whatever he wanted. As long as she didn’t have to think. Because then she’d think about it, the bomb and the look on Jamison’s face. She’d remember the pure panic she’d felt as they’d run from the building.

He pulled his hand away, and Liz felt the immediate loss of heat all the way to her stomach, which was odd since his hand had been nowhere near her stomach. He unbuttoned his suit coat, took it off and folded it. He placed it on the cement curb. “Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested, pointing at his coat.

“I can sit on cement,” she protested.

“Not and keep those…short pants clean,” he said. His face turned red. “I know there’s a word for them, but I can’t think of it right now.”

He was smokin’ hot when he was serious and damn cute when he was embarrassed. It was a heck of a combination. “They’re called capri pants.”

He smiled. “It might have come to me.”

Oh, boy. She sat down. She knew she needed to before she swooned. “I’m sure it would have, Detective Montgomery.”

“Sawyer,” Detective Montgomery said. “Just Sawyer is fine.”

Liz nodded. The man was just being polite. After all, in a span of less than forty-eight hours, their paths had crossed three times. They weren’t strangers any longer. She was sitting on his coat. “Liz is fine, too,” she mumbled.

“Liz,” he repeated.

She liked the way the z rolled off his tongue. She liked the way all the consonants and the vowels, too, for that matter, rolled off his tongue. It was a molten chocolate center bubbling out of a freshly baked cake. Smooth. Enticing.

Maybe he could read her the dictionary for the next week.

“I need to ask you some questions,” he said.

She wasn’t going to get a week. “Sure.” Why the heck not? Together they sat on the faded gray cement, hips close, thighs almost touching. Liz wanted to lean her head against his broad shoulder but knew that would startle the hell out of him.

She settled for closing her eyes. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d crawled out of bed and caught the fiveo’clock bus.

“Sawyer?”

Liz opened her eyes. The man who had been with Sawyer when he’d arrived now stood in front of the two of them. He was an inch taller and probably ten pounds heavier than Sawyer. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

Was the sky raining gorgeous men?

“What did you find out?” Sawyer spoke to the man.

“Bomb, all right. Big enough that it would have done some damage. Quick to shut down. Looks like they wanted to make it easy for us.”

Sawyer didn’t say anything.

“Who are you?” Liz asked.

The man’s face lit up with a broad smile showing perfect teeth. “I’m Detective Robert Hanson. My partner has no manners. Otherwise, he’d have introduced us.”

“I’m Liz Mayfield.”

“I guessed that. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I—”

“What else?” Sawyer interrupted his partner.

Detective Hanson shrugged. “We’ll get the lab reports back this afternoon. Don’t expect much. Guys thought it looked like a professional job.”

“Professional?” Sawyer shook his head. “Half the kids in high school know how to build a bomb.”

“True.” Detective Hanson stared at Sawyer. “Did you get her statement?”

“Not yet,” Sawyer said, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket.

Detective Hanson frowned at both of them. Then he turned toward Liz. “Who got in first this morning?”

“I did,” she said. “I got here about five-thirty.”

Sawyer looked up from his notebook. “Short night?”

Liz shrugged, not feeling the need to explain.

“Door locked when you got here, Ms. Mayfield?” Detective Hanson asked.

“Yes. After I came in, I locked it again and reset the alarm.”

“You sure?”

“I’m usually the first person in. I know the routine.”

“Did you see anything unusual once you got inside?”

“No. I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.”

“Then what?”

“I heard the front door, and then I thought I heard Jamison’s door open. It appears I was right.”

“You didn’t see anybody?” Detective Hanson continued.

“No. When I left the kitchen, I looked around.”

“Then what—”

“You looked around?” Sawyer interrupted his partner.

“Yes.”

“You should have called the police.”

She frowned at him. His tone had an edge to it. “I can’t call the police every time I hear a door.”

“You got a threat mailed to your office, and then shots were fired through your window,” Sawyer said. “Maybe you should have given that some thought before you decided to investigate.”

“Maybe we should keep going.” Detective Hanson spoke to Sawyer. “You’re taking notes, right?”

Sawyer didn’t respond.

“After I looked around—” she emphasized the words “—I went down to my office and started working. After Jamison arrived, we came upstairs for coffee.”

“What time was that?”

“Almost eight. Jamison’s cell phone rang and then…we called 911. That’s about it.”

“It sounds like you stayed pretty calm. That takes a lot of guts.” Detective Hanson smiled at her again.

She smiled back this time. “Thank you.”

Sawyer grabbed Robert’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go. I want to talk to the boss.”

Liz stood—so quickly that her head started to spin. She picked up Sawyer’s suit coat, shook it and thrust it out to him. “Don’t forget this,” she said.

He reached for it, and their fingers brushed. The fine hairs on her arm reacted with a mind of their own. What the heck was going on? She’d never ever had this kind of physical reaction to a man. Especially not one who acted as if he might think she was an idiot.

Sawyer jerked his own arm back. “I’ll…uh…talk to you later,” he said. Great. She had him tripping over his own tongue.

Sawyer got twenty feet before Robert managed to catch him. “Hang on,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sawyer shook his head. “Just forget it.”

“You act like an idiot and think I’m going to forget it?”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten this. We’re here to investigate a crime. We’ve got a lot of people to talk to. I didn’t think it made sense to spend any more time with Liz.”

“Liz,” Robert repeated.

“Yeah, Liz.” Sawyer did his best to sound nonchalant. “She told me I could call her Liz.”

“Since when do you hang all over witnesses?”

“I wasn’t hanging all over her. She seemed upset. I offered her some comfort. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called compassion.” Sawyer started to walk away.

Robert kept pace. “That wasn’t compassion I saw. That was a mating call. What’s going on here, partner?”

Sawyer didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue why he started to unravel every time he got within three feet of Liz. “Liz Mayfield is a material witness to a crime. We had questioned her. I figured we needed to move on.”

“That’s it?”

“What else could it be?”

Robert looked him in the eye and nodded. “Your timing sucks. I could have had little Lizzy’s phone number in another two minutes.”

“Lizzy,” Sawyer repeated.

“She’s my type.”

Sawyer clamped down on the impulse to punch his partner, his best friend for the past two years. “She is nothing like your type.”

Robert cocked his head. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“I’ll be damned.” Robert laughed, his face transformed by his smile. “You like her.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sawyer walked away from his partner.

Robert ran to catch up with him. “You’re interested in a witness. Mr. Professional, Mr. I always use my Southern manners. This has got to be killing you.”

“Liz Mayfield is going to help me get Mirandez. That’s my only interest,” Sawyer said.

Robert slapped him on the back. “You just keep telling yourself that, Sawyer. Let’s go talk to the boss.”

When Sawyer and Robert reached Liz’s boss, the man held up a finger, motioning them to wait while he finished his telephone call. From the one side of the conversation that Sawyer could hear, it sounded as if the guy was making arrangements to refer his clients on to other sources. After several minutes, the man ended the call and put his smartphone in his pocket.

“Detective Montgomery.” The man greeted Sawyer, giving him a lopsided smile. “I have to admit I was hoping there wouldn’t be any reason for us to talk again.”

Sawyer felt sorry for him. He looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. “This is my partner, Detective Robert Hanson.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective Hanson. I’m Jamison Curtiss, the executive director of OCM.”

Sawyer watched Robert shake the man’s hand, knowing Robert was rapidly cataloging almost everything there was to know about Jamison.

“I understand you got the call this morning, warning you of the bomb,” Sawyer said.

“Yes. I’d just gotten to work. It was probably about ten minutes before eight.”

“What happened then?”

“Liz and I left the building.”

“Then what?” Sawyer prompted the man, reaching into his pocket for his notebook.

“Then I got a second call.”

“What?” Sawyer stopped taking notes.

“The second call came in just after they’d found the bomb. Same guy who called the first time. Congratulated me on following directions. Then he told me that unless I closed the doors of OCM, there would be another bomb. I wouldn’t know when or where, but there would be one.”

“Liz Mayfield didn’t say anything about a second call.” Sawyer couldn’t believe that she’d withheld information like that.

“She doesn’t know. I’m not looking forward to telling her.”

“Anybody else hear this call?” Not that Sawyer didn’t believe the guy. The man looked shaken.

“No. It lasted about ten seconds. Then the guy hung up.”

“What are you going to do?” Sawyer asked, keeping one eye on Jamison and casting a quick glance back at Liz. His heart skipped a beat when he didn’t see her right away. Then he spied her. She had her back toward him. It took him all of three seconds to realize he was staring at her butt and another five to tear his glance away.

Robert laughed at him. He was quiet about it—just loud enough to make sure Sawyer heard him. Jamison Curtiss looked confused. Sawyer nodded at the man to continue.

“In the past forty-eight hours,” Jamison said, “one of my employees received an anonymous threat. On top of that, my business has been shot at and almost blown up. Whoever is trying to get my attention has it. Unless you can tell me that you know who’s responsible, I don’t think I have a lot of options.”

“We don’t know—” Robert spoke up “—but we will. Who has a key to OCM?”

“All the counselors. And our receptionist. Everyone has a slightly different schedule.”

“And everybody knows the code to turn off the alarm?” Robert asked.

“Of course.”

“Keys to the office doors all the same?”

“Yes.”

“Same as to the front door?”

“Yes.”

Sawyer and Robert exchanged a look. One key and a code. Child’s play for somebody like Mirandez.

“You already gave us a list of employees with their home addresses. I’d like their personnel files, too,” Robert said.

Jamison wrinkled his nose. “Is that really necessary?” he asked.

“Yes.” Sawyer answered in a manner that made sure Jamison knew it wasn’t an option.

“Fine. I’ll have them to you by this afternoon.”

“Anybody else have a key? A cleaning service, perhaps?”

“We all know how to run a vacuum. We can’t afford to pay someone to clean.”

“Anybody really new on your staff?”

“No, we’ve all been working together for years. Liz and Carmen came at about the same time.”

“Carmen?” Robert asked.

“Lucky for her, her brother wasn’t feeling well this morning. She came to work late.” Jamison pointed to the group of counselors gathered across the street. “Carmen Jimenez is the dark-haired woman standing next to Liz.”

“My God, she’s beautiful,” Robert said, then looked surprised that the comment had slipped out. “Sorry,” he added.

Jamison shrugged. “That’s the reaction most men have. Many of our clients are Spanish-speaking. She’s a big asset.”

Sawyer studied the two women who stood close together, deep in conversation. Carmen stood half a head shorter, her black hair and darker skin a stark contrast to Liz’s blond hair and fair complexion. “Liz and Carmen close?”

“Best friends. We’re all like family.” Frustration crossed Jamison’s face. “I’ve got to talk to them,” he muttered. “They deserve to know what’s going on.”

Sawyer watched him walk across the street, joining Liz, Carmen and one other woman, who looked about ten years older. He assumed it was Cynthia, the counselor who just worked mornings. He couldn’t hear what Jamison told them, but by the looks on their faces, they were shocked, scared and, he thought somewhat ironically, Liz and Carmen looked downright mad.

It took another ten minutes before the group broke up. Jamison walked back to Sawyer and Robert. “Well, they know. I told them that I’ve already started making arrangements for our current clients to be referred to other agencies. We have a responsibility to these young girls.”

Sawyer understood responsibility. After all, he’d made it his responsibility to bring in Mirandez. “I’m going to go talk to Liz,” Sawyer said to Robert.

Robert gave Liz and Carmen another look. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

When Sawyer reached Liz, he realized that Mary Thorton sat on the bench directly behind her. The young girl looked up when Sawyer and Robert approached. She didn’t smile, frown or show any emotion at all. She just stared at the two of them.

Sawyer couldn’t help staring back. The girl had on a green shirt and a too-tight orange knit jumper over it. With her big stomach, she looked like a pumpkin. Then the dress moved in ripples.

Sawyer remembered the first time he’d felt his baby move. It had rocked his world. He’d first put his hand on his girlfriend’s stomach, then his cheek. It had taken another hour for the baby to roll over again, but the wait had been worth it.

Sawyer stuck his hand out toward Carmen Jimenez. “Ms. Jimenez,” he said. “I’m Detective Montgomery.”

“Good morning,” she said.

“This is my partner, Detective Hanson.”

Robert reached out his own hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Jimenez.” Robert smiled at the woman. It was the same smile Sawyer had seen work very well for Robert in the past.

Carmen Jimenez didn’t have the reaction that most women had. She nodded politely and shook Robert’s hand so briefly that Sawyer wasn’t sure that flesh actually touched.

Sawyer turned his attention to Mary, keeping his eyes trained on her face. He didn’t want to make the mistake of looking at her baby again. “Mary.” He spoke quietly. “Where were you at six o’clock this morning?”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

Mary gave him a big smile. “I don’t like to sleep alone.”

“So, I guess whoever you were sleeping with could verify that you were in bed this morning?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Come on, Mary. Surely he or she would know if you’d slipped out of bed.”

“Trust me on this, Cop. It wouldn’t be a she.”

“Didn’t think so,” Sawyer said. “What’s his name?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The girl’s eyes had widened, and Sawyer thought her lower lip trembled just a bit. Liz must have seen it, too, because she sat down next to Mary and wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

Sawyer deliberately softened his voice. He needed Mary. Hated to admit it but he did. “Mary, we can help you. But we need to know what’s going on. You need to tell us.”

“I don’t know anything. You’d need to talk to him.”

“Mirandez?”

Mary shook her head and frowned at Sawyer.

“No.”

“Who, Mary? Come on, it’s important.”

She hesitated then seemed to decide. “Well, okay. His name is Pooh.”

“Pooh?”

“Yeah. Pooh Bear. He’s been sleeping with me since I was six.”

He heard a laugh. Sawyer whirled around, and Robert suddenly coughed into his hand. Carmen, her dark eyes round with surprise, had her fingers pressed up against her lips. Sawyer looked at Liz. She stared at her shoes.

Damn. He could taste the bitter metal of the hook. The girl had baited her pole, cast it into the water and reeled him in. It was all he could do not to flop around on the sidewalk.

“Funny,” he said. “Hope you’re still laughing when you’re sitting behind bars, waiting for a trial.”

Liz stood up and jerked her head toward the right. “May I speak to you in private, Detective?”

Sawyer nodded and walked across the street. When he stopped suddenly, Liz almost bumped into him. She was close enough that he could smell her scent. It was a warm, sticky day already, but she smelled fresh and cool, like a walk through the garden on a spring night.

“Don’t threaten her,” Liz warned. “If you’re going to charge her with something, do it. Otherwise, leave her alone. This can’t be good for her or the baby.”

Sawyer took a breath and sucked her into his lungs. As crazy as it seemed, it calmed him. “She’s a little fool.”

“She’s a challenge,” Liz admitted.

Sawyer laughed despite himself. “Paper-training a new puppy is a challenge.”

Liz smiled at him, and he thought the world tilted just a bit.

“I’ll talk to her,” Liz said.

“How? Isn’t she being referred on?”

Liz glanced over her shoulder, as if making sure no one was close by. “I’m going to keep seeing her. She needs me.”

“Your boss is closing shop.”

“I know. Carmen and I already discussed it. We’ll see clients at my apartment.”

Calm disappeared. “Are you nuts?”

She lifted her chin in the air.

He pointed a finger at her. “You received a threat. Which may or may not have anything to do with the shooting. Which may or may not have anything to do with today’s bomb. Which may or may not have anything to do with Mirandez or Mary or the man in the moon. What the hell are you thinking?”

“I have to take the chance.”

She’d spoken so quietly that Sawyer had to lean forward to hear her. “Why?” The woman had a damn death wish.

“I just have to,” she said.

Was it desperation or determination that he heard in her tone? All he knew for sure was that nothing he could say was going to change her mind. “When? When are you starting this?” he asked.

“Mary’s coming to see me tomorrow.”

Great. That gave him twenty-four hours to figure out how to save them both.