Jillian’s breath caught in her chest.

Michael Cutler was striding down the hallway. Tall, intent, his black hair rumpled. Wearing his uniform and needing a shave. Walking straight toward her.

She ran right up to him and locked her arms around his waist. “Are you all right? The news about the hostages—”

“Damn it, woman, I’m worried about you.” He pressed his thumb against the swell of her bottom lip. “I don’t scare easily, sweetheart, but your messages…”

“I’m okay. Better, now that you’re here.”

Instead of giving a verbal response, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall. She quickly realized his pent-up desire had been intensified by fear and confusion and want. Because Jillian was feeling it, too.

Takedown
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Norbert Wenzl. A true gentleman, a fun guy,

a kind soul. And my friend.

And for Cheryl Schuett. A smart, classy, talented lady.

Thank you for the immeasurable positive influence you had on my son’s life by teaching him to read music.

I’d work on a show with you two any day.

Thanks for reading my books and loving theater.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Captain Michael Cutler —Commander of KCPD’s premier SWAT team. A single father and seasoned warrior used to leading men, saving lives and guarding his heart. After burying his wife, he’s not prepared to love again—especially a much younger woman.

Jillian Masterson —This physical therapist has fought hard to become a healthy adult—determined to make amends for the mistakes of her rebellious youth. Falling in love with the father of one of her patients isn’t part of her life plan. Neither is her mysterious “admirer” who seems intent on ruining any chance at a successful life—permanently.

Mike Cutler, Jr. —The captain’s teenage son has an attitude problem.

Troy Anthony —A patient of Jillian’s.

Dylan Smith —A coworker at the hospital physical therapy clinic.

Dr. Wayne Randolph —He helped Jillian turn the corner in rehab.

Blake Rivers —Jillian’s ex-boyfriend.

Isaac Rush —Drug dealer. A so-called friend from Jillian’s former life.

Mr. Lynch —Rush family enforcer. You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.

LaKeytah Anthony —An overworked, overworried grandmother.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

Jillian—

Your smile and your laugh light up a room even on the darkest of days. The rose I sent made you smile, I know. Perhaps white, the color of purity, would have been a more fitting choice, but I know that red is your favorite color. You look stunning in red.

Sometimes, I don’t know which I love more—your kick-ass body or that sweet personality. You can be one of the guys or the sexiest woman in the room with equal ease, and that always keeps me guessing—and wanting more of you.

Jilly, I know, too, that there’s something deeper inside you that most people don’t notice. Pain. Vulnerability. Need. I notice. I’ve felt those same things, too.

I want you to know just how much I care about you. I know where you’ve been—what you’ve had to overcome—the difficult path that lies ahead. I understand that we can show the world a strength we don’t necessarily feel inside. I admire that about you—how you always keep fighting, even when it’s tough—maybe especially when it’s tough.

I just want you to know that you don’t have to keep fighting alone. I’m here for you. If you need anything, you don’t even have to ask. I won’t let anything—or anyone—hurt you ever again.

My heart will always be true to you.

I am forever,

Yours

While the letter printed off, he picked up the snapshot of her unwrapping the ribbon and plastic from around the flower he’d had delivered, and pressed a kiss to her adorably surprised expression. Then he dug a pin from the desk drawer and gently tacked the photo on the wall above the computer beside the collage of similar images hanging there.

His favorite picture was one in faded black-and-white newsprint, something from a state high school basketball tournament. But he knew Jilly’s colors by heart. Long, dark brown hair. Eyes as bright and verdant as Celtic green.

And she was smiling. Right at him.

He smiled back and pulled the letter from the printer. Then, with clumsy gloved fingers, he pushed aside the gun and plastique, the ammo clips and clockwork devices, and cleared a spot on top of his desk to work. He folded the paper into three neat rectangles and stuffed it inside the matching envelope before rolling his chair away from the desk and heading out to deliver it.

Soon, she would know how much he had done for her, the risks he would take for her—all without complaint.

Soon, she would know how much he loved her.

Chapter One

“Nice shot, Troy!”

Jillian Masterson applauded as the basketball swished through the net.

Her young charge with the neat black braids pumped his fist in the air and whooped in victory. “Oh, yeah. I’m all that!”

“And a bag of chips,” she cheered. He pushed his wheelchair beneath the basket to retrieve the ball while Jillian turned to her other patient and smiled. “Come on, Mike. Your turn.”

“Basketball is lame,” he groused.

Ignoring his ironic choice of words, she let his blue-eyed hatred for the world bounce off her skin and reached for his arms. Clamping one hand firmly around each wrist and bracing her feet in front of his, she pulled him out of his chair and balanced him against her shoulder while his leg braces locked into place. “Well, unless you want to plant some grass and turn this gym into an indoor football field, we’re stuck with a basketball court. Let’s try one from the free throw line.”

“Why? It’s not even a real court. Troy’s baby brother could make a shot from that free throw line.”

“You afraid you can’t match up with an eighth grader?”

“I can do it,” he argued. “I just don’t want to.”

“Show me.”

“Jill…”

She stepped away, brushing the bangs from her eyes and shaking her ponytail down her back, forcing Mike Cutler, Jr.’s, reknit bones and weakened muscles to function on their own whether he liked it or not. She supposed the modified half-court in the university hospital’s physical therapy center couldn’t compete with the grass and fresh air and promise of the field where this high school athlete had once caught passes and run for touchdowns.

But she’d spare him the lucky-to-be-alive-get-over-yourself speech, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words. She understood the black hole he was fighting to crawl out of. She’d lost her dreams when she was a teenager herself. Or rather, after her parents’ tragic deaths in a plane crash, she’d single-handedly blown those dreams into smithereens, nearly ruining what was left of her older brother’s and sister’s lives as well as her own in the process.

Now, at twenty-eight, after rehab and long years of counseling and healing, she could look back objectively and see her mistakes, see that the love of her brother and sister, along with help and hope, had always been there for her. But Jillian would forever remember those dark days well enough to know that, at sixteen, Mike Cutler couldn’t yet see beyond the fear, despair, anger and resentment that clouded his young life.

Instead of lecturing him, she stuck to the job she’d been trained to do—helping rebuild the bodies of accident victims and medical patients through physical therapy. And she was counting on the innate competitiveness of his sports-loving nature to help get the job done. Jillian reached down beside him to pick up the stainless steel cane from the polished wood floor beside him. Then she held out her arm and the cane, giving Mike the choice of which way he wanted to get himself to the free throw line eight feet away.

One of the advantages of standing five foot eleven herself was that she could look Young Mr. Attitude in the eye and not be intimidated by the width of his shoulders or the glare in his expression. “You gonna put your money where your mouth is and make the shot?”

“Do it, man.” Troy Anthony put the ball in his lap and wheeled back over to their position. “If we don’t play, then we’ll have to go back to the weight room with the old farts and work out. I do not want to have Mrs. Hauser talking to me about her operation anymore. She smells like my great-grandmother used to. Creeps me out. And you know you don’t want Old Man Wilkins talking to you about the Chiefs’ off-season trades and recruitment again. That’d suck right down to your shorts.”

Apparently willing to do anything to shut up his young compatriot, Mike snatched the cane from Jillian’s hand. “Fine. I’ll shoot the damn ball.”

Jillian spared Troy a wink of thanks as Mike hobbled past her. She turned and studied the slight improvement in his jerky gait. A cataclysmic car crash had killed Mike’s friend and shattered his legs. According to the medical reports Jillian had studied before writing up a therapy plan, it was a miracle that Mike Cutler was alive, much less walking. Several surgeries, steel pins and one determined father had gotten him to this point. But it would take a lot of patience—and convincing Mike to apply that stubborn attitude to his own recovery—to get him back to some semblance of normal life again.

“Here, bro.” Once Mike had reached the free throw line and paused long enough to catch his breath, Troy shot him the ball.

Reading that split-second moment of terror in Mike’s expression, Jillian reached around him and intercepted the straight-line pass. In one smooth movement that didn’t allow either teen the time to feel embarrassment or regret, she tucked the ball against Mike’s stomach, forcing him to steady it with his own hand. In the next second she took his cane, watching the muscles beneath his jeans and T-shirt clench and adjust to maintain his balance.

Good. Use what you’ve got, kid. You can do it.

Mike’s athleticism would be as much a boon to his recovery as it had once been to her own. She’d remember to make good use of his natural balance and strength. Jillian bit down on the urge to cheer his success and pushed him a little further. “Dribble it.”

An answering groan filled Mike’s lungs with a deep, healthy breath. Jillian moved behind him, bracing his hips while he used different muscles and adjusted his equilibrium to control the bounce of the ball in front of him. She felt him tense his core muscles, stabilizing his body without any real help from her. Excellent! “Now shoot.”

The normal bend of the knees to make such a shot couldn’t yet happen, but the instincts were there. He raised the ball above his forehead, took sight of the net and pushed the ball off the tips of his long fingers. Jillian held her breath along with him as the ball arced through the air, hit the backboard and circled twice around the rim before dropping through the hoop.

“Yes!” She held up a hand and was rewarded with a high five. “Don’t tell me basketball isn’t your game.”

Mike grinned. Stood a little taller. “Told you I could do it if I wanted to.”

Uh-huh. Victory.

Troy rolled past him and the two teens touched fists. “Sweet, man.”

Unexpected applause startled Jillian and drew their attention to the sidelines and the man standing in the doorway. “Nice shot, son.”

Easy, girl. Flighty female had never been her style. She wasn’t going to let her sick new pen pal turn her into a woman who jumped at the sound of a man’s deep voice. Fixing a friendly smile on her face, Jillian calmed the startled leap of her pulse. “Captain Cutler.”

Michael Cutler, Sr., filled the entrance to the gym, his square, muscular frame cutting an impressive figure in his KCPD uniform—black from shoulder to toe, save for the white SWAT logo emblazoned on his chest pocket and ball cap, and the brass captain’s bars and KCPD badge pin tacked to his collar. His sturdy bicep was marked by a black armband, his long legs by the gun strapped to his thigh.

Talk about sweet.

“Jillian.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his cap and acknowledged her with a slight nod.

Though she guessed he had only a couple or three inches on her in height, and was probably fifteen years her senior, Jillian couldn’t stop the quiet little flutter of breath that seemed to catch in her throat each time the widowed cop came by to pick up his son after a therapy session. There was something overtly masculine about the military clip of his salt-and-pepper hair and the laser beam intensity of his dark blue eyes. Or maybe it was just the mature confidence of a man at ease inside his own skin, evident in every stride as he pulled off his cap and crossed the gym floor, that made Jillian’s neglected feminine hormones stand up and take notice.

Objective appreciation, she told herself. An attractive man was an attractive man at any age—especially one who kept himself in as good a shape as Michael Cutler.

“Ow.”

His son, Mike, Jr., pinched Jillian’s shoulder in a painful squeeze, jerking her from her wandering thoughts. “I need to sit down,” he whispered between gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Of course.” Jillian hid the blush warming her cheeks by helping Mike walk toward the chair. It was less embarrassment than guilt at being distracted from her job that had her sliding her shoulder beneath his arm and anchoring her hands at his waist to guide him to his seat. Mike’s balance might not be rock steady yet, but he was doing the bulk of the work, moving as quickly as his clumsy legs would let him. Maybe something had seized up with a cramp.

“Are you in pain?” his father asked, instantly standing behind the wheelchair like a wall of black granite to keep it still while Mike turned and plopped onto the seat.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Mike insisted, shrugging off his father’s hand while Jillian knelt down to adjust the foot rests and position his feet. She glanced up into the teen’s downturned expression. Just as she suspected. The only thing cramping was Mike’s attitude.

His father must have sensed it, too. With a measured sigh, he moved away from the chair and turned to greet Troy. He shook the young man’s hand. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s your brother? Dex, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. He made the honor roll last semester.”

“Good for him. Good that he’s got a big brother like you in his corner. And your grandmother?”

“Working. Two jobs. Like always. I might be getting a job pretty soon, too. As soon as I get this thing all figured out.” He spun his chair in a tight circle, proving that, physically, at any rate, he was closer to healing than Michael’s son. “I’m trying to finish my GED, too, but the math sucks.”

Michael inclined his head toward his son. “Mike’s pretty fair with numbers. He’s in geometry at William Chrisman this year. Maybe he can coach you.”

“Dad!”

Troy shrugged off Mike, Jr.’s, shut-up-and-don’t-volunteer-me-for-anything reprimand, his own tone growing a little more subdued. “I’ll get it figured out.”

“I like hearing that. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

Jillian stayed down longer than necessary so that she wouldn’t interrupt the man-to-man interchange that Troy got far too little of in his life. Even paralyzed below the waist and struggling to be the man in his family, Troy Anthony was still a big kid at heart. He beamed at the paternal approval in Captain Cutler’s voice before wheeling over to Mike’s side and thumping him on the arm. “Hey, will you be back on Monday, bro?”

Mike rolled his eyes, as if the Monday-Wednesday-Friday sessions he’d been attending for the last month and a half since mid-February would go on forever and ever. “I dunno.”

“Jillian said if enough of us got together, we could play some hoops. She says there’s a whole wheelchair league in Kansas City.”

Go, Troy. Jillian had hoped that pairing up her two youngest charges in therapy sessions would boost their mental outlooks as well as their physical training. “With that upper body strength and the hands you’ve got,” she observed, “you’d be a natural.”

If anything, Mike grew even more sullen at her compliment. “I told you I hate basketball.”

“Mike—” his father scolded.

But Troy was back in can’t-touch-this form. He knew how to push Mike’s buttons. “You hate losing, too?” He spun his chair toward the exit and took off. “Last one to the machine buys the pop.”

A beat of silence passed before Jillian coyly prodded Mike. “Didn’t you buy the sodas last time?”

“Hey!” With a sudden burst of movement, Mike raced after the other teen, his hands gliding along the wheels of his chair. “Get back here, loser.”

“I ain’t the one in last place, loser.”

“Shouldn’t you be walk—”

Jillian grabbed Michael, Sr.’s, arm, stopping him from going after the boys. His forearm muscles bunched beneath her fingers before he swung his attention back to her. “Shouldn’t he be walking to build up his leg strength instead of getting more used to that damn chair?”

Jillian drew her hand away from the crisp sleeve and the solid man inside the uniform before her curious fingers dug into that warm flex of muscle. “Let him have a little fun. He’s already put in a decent workout session today. Physically, he’s reached a plateau and I don’t want to burn him out.”

Michael Cutler’s eyes, as blue and dark as a twilight sky, assessed the shrug of her shoulders before zeroing in on her expression. “He’ll continue to improve, won’t he?”

“His doctors seem to think so.” Jillian reminded him of the good news without sugarcoating the bad. “Mike needs to build his self-confidence as much as anything right now. He needs to care about moving on to the next stage of his recovery before more strength and coordination training will do him much good.”

Michael, Sr., rubbed his palm over the top of his hair, making the black and silver spikes spring up in the wake of his hand. “Sorry. It always comes down to the mental game, doesn’t it?”

Jillian nodded.

“I just get frustrated that he’s missing out on so much. He’s still only sixteen.”

“Think about his frustration.”

“He won’t even talk to me about the night of the accident. I had to read the details in a police report.”

“Does he share with his trauma counselor?” Jillian’s own sessions with Dr. Randolph, the psychologist who’d helped her through rehab at the Boatman Clinic eleven years ago, and who remained a friend and occasional father confessor to this day, had been invaluable to her mental recovery as a teenager.

“Not much. You seem to be the only person he opens up to.” Captain Cutler worked the brim of his cap with long, strong fingers before everything about him went utterly still—as if he’d suddenly realized his emotions were showing and he’d shut them down. Such precision, such control. No wonder other cops snapped to his commands. Stop noticing details about the man, already. Jillian focused on what he was saying, made sure she was listening as he slid the cap into his hip pocket and continued. “He doesn’t have to play football anymore, or go to Harvard or get rich. I’d just like him to leave his room once in a while and walk without those damn braces—meet girls and hang out with his buddies and be a teenager again.”

“Trust me, it’ll happen.” Jillian went to retrieve the basketball Troy had left on the floor. She knew that damaged people healed at different speeds, and that not even a father’s unflinching support could force the process to go any faster. “He just needs time.”

“Well, I’m glad you have the patience to deal with him. You had him smiling and trading high fives before he knew I was here. Seems everything I say or do ends up in a shouting match or him closing the door and not saying anything at all.”

Jillian opened the storage bin outside the equipment closet and dropped the ball in. “Just doing my job.”

Michael Cutler was there to close the lid for her. His piercing eyes seemed to catch the light, even in the shadows from the stands and supports above them. “Working magic is more like it. He likes you. Likes coming here. It’s just me at home since his mom passed away. Some nights, when he’s shut up in his room and I can’t figure out what he needs, it feels like he doesn’t have anybody. I’ve thought about taking another leave of absence from work—like I did right after the accident—but then I think he prefers the time away from me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t count on it. I’ve negotiated with crazy people, talked kidnappers into releasing their hostages and convinced murderers to put down their guns. But I can’t get my own son to open up to me. Pam—Mike’s mother—she would have known how to talk to him, how to reach him.”

A wistfulness briefly hushed his succinct tone at the mention of his late wife, making Jillian suspect that the father was missing the woman who’d been lost to cancer two years ago just as much as the son. Though she didn’t know the details of Pam Cutler’s death, Jillian knew the basics after discussions with Mike, Jr.’s, doctor when they’d been planning his physical therapy. And she understood down to her bones how the loss of loved ones could wreak havoc on the family left behind.

The urge to reach out and offer a comforting touch was powerful. But Jillian reminded herself that they were little more than friendly acquaintances—that it was this man’s son she cared about—and stuffed her wayward fingers into the pockets of her khaki slacks, instead.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Captain.” She called the cops she knew by rank or nickname, the same way her brother, an investigator for the district attorney’s office, her sister the M.E., her sister-in-law the police commissioner and her KCPD brother-in-law did. “I know how hard it can be on family to see someone you love hurt like that. You want to help him—make things right. But you can’t. The reality is, accident or not—Mike’s still a teenager. He’s going to have moods. And he’s going to have to figure out for himself how to make this work. In the end, the best thing you can do for him is love him.”

Those blue eyes narrowed, silently asking a question. Yes, she was speaking from personal experience, but Mike’s dad didn’t need to know everything about her sordid past.

When she turned away to get her clipboard and wristband of keys, he followed her, letting her pretend she had no shameful secrets to keep. “He’s got that. The love, I mean.”

“Mike knows that, down inside. He may not remember it every day, but he knows you love him. Just the fact that you use your dinner break to bring him here to the clinic and pick him up means something to him.” Jillian slipped the elastic key bracelet around her wrist and tucked the clipboard of treatment logs under her arm. Together, they headed toward the gym exit and the hallway beyond. “Look at Troy, on the other hand. He’s fighting most of his recovery battle on his own. Ever since the shooting, his grandmother refuses to leave his brother, Dexter, alone. Either he’s at school or she locks Troy in the apartment with him to keep an eye on him the evenings she works her second job.”

“It can’t be easy for her.”

“I’m sure it’s not—and I admire her for supporting her grandkids financially, but it’s almost as if she’s given up on saving Troy and is focusing all her energy on Dexter. If Troy wants to come to physical therapy he has to schedule the appointments himself and take the bus to get here. I’ve been giving him a ride home, at least, trying to give him a little extra attention and ease some of the burden.”

“You’re driving him home tonight?” The captain stopped, checked his watch. It wasn’t five o’clock yet, and she’d done it more than a dozen times. No big deal.

She turned at the doorway arch. “As soon as I log in these stats and sign out.”

“Where does he live?”

Jillian named the street and apartment area just west of downtown Kansas City. His mouth thinned as he propped his hands on his hips. “At HQ we call that neighborhood No-Man’s Land. It’s not the safest place to be after dark.”

“Clearly. Otherwise, Troy might not have been shot in the back by that stray bullet.”

“I’m serious, Jillian.”

Did he see her laughing? She knew about the dangers of No-Man’s Land—more personally than Michael Cutler would probably imagine. If she could keep Troy from falling prey to them the way she once had by simply giving the kid a little extra time and offering him a ride, she would. “I don’t take chances I don’t have to. But I’m not going to let Troy shoulder his recovery all by himself, either. Somebody always knows when I leave and where I’m going.”

“And when you get back?”

Jillian groaned. “It’s just a car ride. I can handle it, Captain.”

His low-pitched curse followed her into the hallway as she locked the gym door behind them. “I’m not your commanding officer, so why don’t you call me Michael? That’d be a damn sight friendlier than ‘ugh’ or ‘whatever,’ which seems to be all I’m hearing from Mike these days.”

Jillian relaxed enough to smile, glad his disapproval of her efforts to help Troy had been short-lived. “Captain Ugh. I bet your men would love to call you that.”

“My men wouldn’t dare. Not to my face.” Instead of heading past her door to get Mike from the break room, he followed her into her office. “Can you spare another minute?”

“Sure.” Jillian hugged the clipboard to her chest and turned.

“I wanted to double-check the PT schedule. Mike’s school is having their spring break next week. He’s pretty bummed about making up extra class work while his classmates go on vacation, and since he seems to enjoy his time with you and Troy, I wanted to see if I could still bring him in for his regular sessions—give him a break from history and geometry and…me.”

“I’ll be here,” Jillian promised. “Anything else I can do to help?”

“Yeah. Be careful driving through No-Man’s Land. My son needs you.” He pulled his SWAT cap from his back pocket and pulled it on over his head. The stern police captain had returned. “Keep your doors locked. If you feel threatened in any way, stay in your car and drive straight to the nearest police station. Run red lights if you have to. If you think someone is following you, stay in your car and honk the horn until an officer comes out to assist you.”

“You know, I have a big brother to give me lectures like that. You don’t have to.”

“As long as you listen to one of us. I can give Troy a lift home on the days I’m off duty and don’t have to get back to the precinct.” He adjusted the brim of his cap to shade his eyes. “If riding with a cop wouldn’t cramp his style.”

“That’s nice to offer. I’ll ask him.”

“Be careful. Mike’s counting on you.”

Look who was talking. She dropped her gaze to the sidearm holstered at his thigh. “You be careful.”

“Always.”

After he tipped his hat and left, Jillian watched him stride down the hallway. Yeah. Big-brotherly overprotection aside, fortysomething looked good on the police captain from this view, too.

Savoring the responding skitter of her pulse, Jillian turned to her desk. Her gaze landed on the droopy, fading flower in the glass vase there, and her heart rate kicked up another notch. Would it have killed the sender to include a note? Or even just a name?

Between friendly discussion and heated debates, she’d forgotten for a few minutes that not all men were as straightforward as Michael Cutler. Maybe she was only crushing on the older man because she was 99. 9 percent certain he hadn’t sent her that mysterious rose. As beautiful and blameless as the deep red flower might once have been, she’d lived with too many deceptions in her life already. The whole secret admirer thing had lost its charm long ago.

Dismissing the tiresome joke with a shake of her head, Jillian sat behind her desk, pulling up Mike’s and Troy’s files on her computer to chart the updates. But the rose kept taunting her from the corner of her eye.

It was the sort of apologetic gesture her ex-boyfriend, Blake Rivers, would have made to get himself out of trouble with her. She supposed breaking up with him after an attempt to rekindle a relationship—clean and sober style—had failed qualified as trouble. But she had no proof the flower had come from Blake. No reason to suspect him. She’d left him months ago. He’d moved on to some blond reporter or red-haired heiress, according to the paper’s society page. Jillian was old news.

And she intended to stay that way. As wealthy and handsome and devilishly clever as Blake might be, he had a reckless streak in him that had enabled her own addiction and nearly gotten them both killed. Jillian had promised her family, her therapist Dr. Randolph and herself that she was never going to go down that dangerous, self-destructive path again.

But if not Blake, then who had sent her the flower?

She supposed a phone call to Blake’s office at Caldwell Technologies couldn’t hurt. She didn’t want to send any false signals to her ex, but a few words to put her mind at ease and set him straight on the romance-is-over message was worth the risk. And if the rose wasn’t from Blake…?

Jillian was leaving a message on Blake’s answering machine, reluctantly asking him to return her call, when Dylan Smith, another physical therapist who worked at the hospital’s outpatient therapy clinic with her, knocked on her door. She waved him into the room as she hung up the phone. As usual, Dylan’s dimpled cheeks and mischievous grin demanded she smile in return.

“What’s cookin’, Masterson?” He shoved his fingers through his muss of blond hair and sat down. “Makin’ plans for a hot date?”

“I’m workin’, Smith. Aren’t you?”

“Hell, no. It’s five o’clock, it’s Friday and a bunch of us are going over to the Shamrock to hit happy hour. If you don’t have plans, come with us.”

The Shamrock Bar? Fun with her friends sounded tempting, but her drinking days were over. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got things to do at home this weekend.”

“I helped you move into that apartment—up three flights of stairs, I might add—and everything looked neat and pretty and sitting in its place before we all left. Come.”

Jillian grinned at his pitiful, boyish pout. “My bedroom is only half painted, and the dueling colors have been driving me nuts all week. We’re supposed to have rain this weekend, and if I can’t open the windows and work, I’ll have to suffer through Pepto-Bismol pink and ice blue for another whole week. I need to get started on it tonight.”

Dylan leaned forward, reached across the desk and laid his hand over the top of hers where it rested on the blotter. Every muscle in Jillian’s fingers froze at the unexpected touch, though she managed to keep her smile in place.

“Just for an hour or two, Jilly? Please?” Dylan coaxed.

“I can’t.”

“I’ve got a bet with that new occupational therapist that I can eat an entire serving of the Shamrock’s fried habaneros and win free drinks for a year. You can cheer me on.”

“Or bring the stomach pump you’ll need when you’re done.”

“Very funny. Where’s the love?”

There was nothing secret about Dylan’s harmless flirtations. If you were female, he flirted. Still, boyish charm aside, Jillian thought it wise to steer clear of romantic entanglements for now, and gently extricated her hand from his. “Sorry. Ask the O.T. to cheer you on. She’s a hottie and it sounds like she might be interested in you. Share your habanero breath with her.”

“You’ve got to have fun sometime.” Dylan pushed to his feet, his grin firmly locked into place. He placed his hand over his heart and made a slight bow. “And I’m your man whenever you’re ready. Oh, I forgot.”

He reached inside the royal-blue polo shirt that matched her own clinic uniform, pulled out an envelope and set it on her desk.

“What’s this?”

“Lulu at the front desk was on her way out. She asked me to deliver it to you.”

Please, no. Jillian gingerly picked it up. No return address, and though the envelope had a stamp, it hadn’t been canceled. But the name and clinic address clearly belonged to her. An uneasy feeling soured her lips into a frown. “I thought the mail already came.”

Dylan plunged his hands into his pockets. “It must have dropped behind the counter or something.”

Jillian shrugged off the perplexing mystery and slid her finger beneath the flap to open it. “Thanks.”

He nodded toward the corner of her desk. “By the way, your flower needs some water.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” Enough with the torment. Jillian plucked the dead rose from the vase and dropped it into the trash. “I should have sent it over to the main hospital for a patient who’d take better care of it than I did. My bad.”

His gaze seemed to fix on the fallen flower for a moment before the grin returned. “Not a green thumb, huh? I’ll make a point to remember that next Valentine’s Day.”

“Bye, Dylan. Don’t forget to take a gallon of milk and a fire extinguisher with you. Good luck, you idiot.”

The blond charmer left with a laugh. Once she was alone, Jillian took a deep breath, pulled out the letter and leaned back in her chair to read it.

She slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

MICHAEL HAD SEEN THAT LOOK on the faces of parents waiting outside a school building locked down because of an armed intruder or bomb threat. He’d seen that look on a hostage-taker who’d gone off his meds and didn’t understand why he’d been shot by one of Michael’s SWAT team.

He hadn’t expected to see it on Jillian Masterson’s youthful face when he raised his hand to knock on her open office door.

Shock. Helplessness. Fear.

“Are you all right?”

Green eyes darted up to his and she jumped to her feet, sending her chair crashing back into the wall behind her desk. By the time she’d groused and righted the chair and spun around to face him, her cheeks were flushed a rosy color. He’d clearly startled her. Again.

“What…are you doing here?” she stammered.

His negotiator’s instincts kept his voice calm, his movements slow and precise as he stepped into the room. Whatever was wrong here, he didn’t want to aggravate the problem. “I forgot Mike’s cane. The gym’s locked. Are you all right?” he repeated.

Jillian wadded up the letter that was already half crushed in her fist and shot it into the trash can beside her desk. “I’m fine.”

And he was the tooth fairy. “Was that bad news?”

She swept aside a strand of coffee-colored hair that had fallen across her cheek and tucked it into the long, sleek ponytail at her nape. Then she was circling her desk, pulling the keys off her wrist, offering him a smile he didn’t believe. “It’s just one of those chain letters. You know, send it on to so many people and you’ll get a bunch of stuff in return. Annoying, aren’t they?”

He wouldn’t know. But he did recognize a load of BS when he heard it. “Jillian—”

“I need to sign out ASAP so I can get Troy home before dark. I’ll be right back so you don’t have to keep Mike waiting.”

Miles of long legs and the graceful athleticism of her walk quickly carried her down the hallway and around the corner. Conversation over, old man. Take the hint.

For a moment, Michael debated between trusting his instincts about people and minding his own business. But he’d spent too many years as a cop, training his mind and body to pay attention to the warning signs people gave him, to let her behavior go without an explanation. It was always easier to stop trouble before it got started.

Pretty, sassy, make-his-son-smile Jillian Masterson was in trouble.

Making sure he was alone in her office, he plucked the paper wad she’d tossed out of the trash can and unfolded it, smoothing it open against his thigh. He read it quickly. Read it again. Frowned.

A love letter.

One that made a healthy woman go pale, jump at his approach and toss the missive away with a flippant excuse before bolting from the room.

Right. Nothing suspicious about that.

Chapter Two

“Can you get it, Troy?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Jillian closed the passenger-side door of her dark blue SUV, pressed the automatic locks and turned a slow 360 to take note of the traffic, parked cars and local residents up and down both sides of the drab, run-down city block. There were patches of brightness and warmth here and there where hope and promise tried to shine through. A freshly painted window box waited for spring flowers to be planted. A trio of preteen girls sat on the stoop across the street, chattering in laughing voices under the rosy glow of the setting sun. Construction signs promised a condemned building was about to be razed and replaced by something clean and new.

But she was just as aware of the weary posture of the shopkeepers locking their doors and pulling down protective cages, the curious glances and quick dismissals from workers climbing off the bus at the corner and hurrying toward their respective homes before any kind of trouble found them. And she couldn’t miss the homeless man, dragging a filthy backpack behind him as he turned into an alley and disappeared.

Thankfully, though, there were no pimps, no gang-bangers, no visible dealers she recognized from those lost days a decade ago when the dark corners and hidden secrets of this Kansas City neighborhood had offered her a false escape from the sorrows and stress of her teenage life. Of course, night hadn’t fallen yet. Shadows and moonlight were usually the only invitation the cockroaches needed to come out of their holes.

A shiver of remembered nightmares rippled across her skin, leaving a sea of goose bumps in its wake.

You’ve moved beyond this place, she reminded herself with a mental nod, shaking off the sudden chill. She was older, wiser and ten years clean without a fix of coke. To her dying day, she’d atone for that wasted part of her life by helping youths like Troy Anthony move beyond the sucking trap of No-Man’s Land the way she finally had. So do it, already.

“Wait up.” Zipping the front of her sweatshirt jacket, Jillian hurried to catch up to Troy as he maneuvered his chair over the curb onto the sidewalk. She grabbed the handles and steered him up the concrete ramp that zigzagged beside the stairs leading to the apartment building’s double doors. “I promised front door service, and that means apartment 517.”

Troy turned his key in the lock of the inner lobby door. “Ain’t nothing wrong with these magic hands. I can get up to the fifth floor by myself. You’d better head on home before dark.”

“Is everybody my big brother today? This’ll take like, what, five minutes max?” Jillian rolled him across the cracked tiles of the lobby floor, and waited while he pushed the elevator’s call button. The numbers over the elevator doors didn’t light up, but she could tell from the grinding of gears and cables that the car was descending inside the shaft. “I don’t want your grandmother to worry about you getting home safely. She’s got enough on her plate.”

“You’re sure you’re not coming upstairs to snitch one of her chocolate chip cookies?”

“Hey, if somebody offers me homemade cookies and there’s chocolate involved…” Jillian waved her arms out in a dramatic gesture. “Ahh!”

Their shared laughter ended abruptly when the light beside the super’s door clicked on. Jillian clutched her fists back to her chest and she masked the catch in her throat with a cough. Great. Since when had she gotten so skittish?

Stupid letter. Stupid flower.

She smoothed her hair into her ponytail and tried to ease her paranoia by taking stock of her surroundings inside the lobby. She and Troy were alone. The super’s light must be rigged with some kind of motion sensor that she had inadvertently set off, because no one else had entered the building behind them or come out of the apartment. She should be relieved the light had snapped on because it dispelled the evening gloom gathering in the lobby, although the corridor beyond the super’s apartment remained in shadows. She was relieved. For a moment. Deliberately focusing her senses also gave her a whiff of a pungent odor that was decidedly less pleasant than the aroma of freshly baked cookies she imagined coming from Troy’s apartment.

Jillian wrinkled up her nose. “What is that smell?”

“Probably Mrs. Chambers’s cats in 102. She can’t say no to a stray. You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I think somebody needs to change the litter box.”

“You sure? You seem a little rattled.”

“Just tired. It’s been a long day.” A final ding of the elevator gave her the perfect excuse to brush aside Troy’s concerns. As the steel doors parted, she grabbed the handles on Troy’s wheelchair. “The Jillian Masterson chauffeur service is ready to—”

“There you are. Where have you been? You’re late. Way late.” A sharp voice from inside the elevator greeted them before the tall, stout black woman braced the doors open with her thick, gnarled fingers.

“Grandma—”

“Don’t you Grandma me.”

Jillian pulled the chair back as LaKeytah Anthony stormed out. The older woman with the purplish-dyed hair reached out to her grandson to give him a tweak on his chin and a light cuff on his ear in one smooth motion. “Dex is upstairs by himself, doin’ his homework. You were supposed to have him here forty minutes ago. Now I’ll be late gettin’ to my shift at the Winthrop Building.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Anthony. I got held up at the office for a few minutes. Troy called.”

“An hour ago!”

“It’s rush hour,” Troy defended. “Jillian drove as quick as she could. You know there’s construction and stuff.”

LaKeytah wouldn’t hear it. “I thought the whole idea of you drivin’ him was to get him home early. You know what I’m fearin’ when I don’t know where my boys are.”

The idea was to get Troy to therapy, period. Saving the Anthonys time, money and concern was supposed to be the bonus. “It wasn’t my intent to worry you.”

“I can’t get to work if he isn’t here.”

“Dex is fourteen,” Troy argued. “He can be by himself for half an hour.”

“How old were you when you got shot?”

“Mrs. Anthony!”

The older woman’s fatigue was evident as she finally paused to catch her breath. “Maybe if I’d been here to walk you home that night…”

“Then maybe you’d have got shot, too.”

Dismissing the sad logic of Troy’s words, LaKeytah straightened and pointed a stern finger at him. “Dinner’s in the microwave. Make sure Dex finishes his algebra.” The accusatory finger swung toward Jillian. “I’m gonna be late to clean my offices now, thanks to you. If you want to help Troy, you get him home on time.” With a grunt and a glare, LaKeytah stormed outside, letting the lobby’s double doors slam shut behind her.

A beat of shocked silence passed before Troy leaned forward to open the elevator doors again. “Sorry about that.”

Still feeling a sting of guilt, Jillian summoned a wry smile. LaKeytah Anthony worked two jobs, raised two teenagers and had plenty of reason to worry about her family in this neighborhood. Though she didn’t appreciate being anyone’s whipping post, Jillian thought she could understand the other woman’s anger. “Your grandmother’s stressed out about work, and like she said, she’s concerned about you.”

“She’s concerned about Dexter.” He rolled his eyes to punctuate his mocking acceptance that he was the grandson LaKeytah had already given up on. “She just wants me home so I can babysit.”

“Troy.” Jillian squeezed his shoulder. “It’s more than that.”

He shrugged off her offer of comfort. “She’s got no cause to jump your case like that.”

“Forget it.” She wheeled him inside and let him position his chair while she pushed button number 5.

“I can get upstairs on my own.”

“I know you can. But I promised to see you home, okay? Home’s the fifth floor.” The doors drifted shut. Let him be all tough and hide the hurt he must be feeling—Jillian was still going to care. “Besides, if anything happens to you between here and there, I don’t want your grandmother chewing me another new one.”

“I hear that.” Troy grinned.

Jillian relaxed. He was going to be okay.

HE SILENTLY PULLED THE DOOR SHUT behind him and crept out of the shadowed hallway into the lobby, his senses finely tuned to the sweet scent of Jillian Masterson, despite the ammonia odor of soured kitty litter that left his eyes watering.

A terrible sense of right and wrong burned through his belly. What he’d just overheard had been wrong. All wrong.

He needed to make it right.

The old woman in apartment 102 had generously opened her door to give him directions to Troy Anthony’s place. It had probably been more foolish than generous for the old cat freak to unlock her door to a stranger—but not as foolish as the woman who’d just reamed Jillian up one side and down the other for no good reason. Grandma Anthony’s harsh words had upset Jillian, he could tell. She was worried about the boy, too.

She smiled and tried to apologize, even joked with the kid afterward, but he could tell.

Nobody upset his sweet Jillian.

And got away with it.

JILLIAN SWALLOWED THE LAST BITE of the rich chocolate chip cookie and laughed as the two Anthony brothers dutifully closed the cookie jar and reached for their dinner plates to cut up their chicken. Dessert first had lightened Troy’s mood, the sun was setting and it was time for Jillian to say her goodbyes and go home.

She plucked a stray cookie crumb from the sleeve of her jacket and popped it into her mouth before pushing her chair away from the kitchen table. “Don’t forget to study for your GED, Troy.” She winked at his younger brother. “You’ll have to have Dex help you with the math.”

Dexter laughed. “I will if you teach me how to dunk.”

Troy rolled his eyes and put his big hand over Dexter’s face, pushing the grin aside in a timeless gesture of brotherly annoyance.

Good. LaKeytah’s lecture, the resulting guilt and the challenges of coping with his disability had all receded to manageable levels for Troy, and his attitude seemed fixed firmly back in the positive position. Jillian had trouble masking her own smile at his resiliency. Everything in Troy’s apartment seemed clean, relatively clear of obstacles to his wheelchair and safe. He would be okay. “Call me if you need something. Otherwise, I’ll see you Monday at the clinic.”

“I’ll get the door,” Troy answered, angling his chair to follow her. “See ya.”

Jillian waited to hear the door lock behind her before she went back to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors opened immediately. She pulled her keys from her pocket and stepped into the empty car with a weary sigh. Short temper and paranoia aside, LaKeytah Anthony was to be commended for keeping her home in such good shape, and for putting square meals and a strong set of values on the table every day.

As she rode the elevator down, the musty odor of age and neglect screamed for some antiseptic and air freshener. But when she stepped out into the lobby, the smell turned more perfumey, more musky, like the scent of cologne on a man.

The subtle sweetness in the air was enough to pull Jillian up short and tighten her lips into a wary frown. She turned to her right, turned to her left—held her ground as the security light over the super’s door blinked on again. “Hello?”

Her breathing quickened a notch. Of course, no one would answer. The elevator had still been on the fifth floor where she and Troy had gotten out. There was no one in this lobby, no sounds beyond the usual creaks and moans of the old building, no reason for that little shiver of awareness to creep along her spine.

Get over it, girl. No one is in here spying on you.

“Right,” she agreed out loud, fighting to strengthen her resolve. Seeing nothing and no one, Jillian clutched her keys like claws between her fingers, pushed open the double glass doors and hurried straight down the steps.

Long shadows cast by the high-rise buildings cooled the sidewalk as she lengthened her stride to reach her SUV. The chattering girls from the stoop across the street had gone inside. The bus stop was clear. Traffic had trickled down to a few cars. Still, that buzz of hyperawareness refused to dissipate.

She was being watched.

Whether it was idle curiosity, or something much more focused and sinister, didn’t matter. Jillian tilted her head to check the windows of the apartments and businesses on either side of the street. Nothing but curtains and blinds and emptiness. It was more night than dusk now, yet she still peered into the alley across the way, looked through the windshields of the parked cars she passed. No one.

Those stupid letters had her rattled, that was all. Shivering, despite the decent warmth of the early spring evening, she jogged the last few steps to her car.

She’d just beeped the lock open when a beige Cadillac Escalade whipped around the corner and screeched to a stop beside her car, blocking her in. Instinctively on guard, Jillian drifted back a step. Had this guy been waiting for her to come out of the building?

The driver’s-side window lowered and her shoulders stiffened with a flash of remembrance. And not a good one. Big black man. Shaved bald head. Muscular. Silent. Sure to be armed.

Known to her simply as Mr. Lynch.

As if she wanted to visit with a face from her past.

Get in the car!

Jillian turned and plowed right into the shoulder of a man she had even less desire to see.

“Easy, babe.”

Isaac Rush.

As the whiskey-scented breath of one of Kansas City’s most wily and successful drug dealers washed over her, Jillian swallowed a curse and backed away. His handsome, biracial face didn’t make him charming. His tailored suit didn’t make him sophisticated. The tight fingers that clamped around her elbow did make him dangerous, however.

She yanked her sleeve from his grip. “Don’t call me that.”

Now the big Cadillac with the armed chauffeur made sense. Jillian glanced over her shoulder and exchanged a silent nod with the big man. Lynch wasn’t what she would call a friend, certainly not someone she would ever want to hang out with or run into in a dark alley, given that his job for Isaac involved guns and fists and breaking client’s fingers. But, for whatever reason, the imposing, unsmiling brute had rescued her one night, a lifetime ago…from the very man who was sliding his fingers over Jillian’s and the door handle right now.

But Lynch wasn’t helping her tonight.

“Need something I can hook you up with, sugar?”

As if sugar was any better than babe, coming from this lowlife. Jillian snatched her hand away from the smarmy touch and stood tall. She’d be taller than Isaac if she’d been wearing heels instead of running shoes, but she doubted even that would intimidate him. “There’s a reason you haven’t seen me for ten years. I don’t do that anymore. You have nothing I want. I was just giving a friend a ride home. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Still, with money and Lynch and control of these streets to back him up, Isaac didn’t give up easily. He leaned against the door, putting his body between her and getting in. “Somebody making trouble for you around here? Maybe I can help.”

“You’re the only trouble I see.”

“Tough talk, Jilly. You know, I always liked you. And now that you’re a full-grown woman, we can do something about it.” Liar! Being seventeen hadn’t stopped him from trying to do something about his attraction to her all those years ago. Maybe she should be grateful that his attempted rape had finally driven her to that lowest point where she could agree to entering rehab at the Boatman Clinic. But Isaac was still trying to make his role as her onetime supplier sound like something romantic had passed between them. He brushed his fingertips across the back of her knuckles. “I miss seeing you. We used to be the best of friends—”

With a silent scream pinging inside her ears, she grabbed his hand, twisted his wrist and pinched his nerve in a move her former cop brother, Eli, had taught her. Isaac yelped as his grip popped open and his knees buckled at the awkward position she’d put him in. Mr. Lynch’s car door swung open, but Isaac put up his free hand to tell him to stay put.

“We were never friends.” Jillian seethed between clenched teeth as she released her defensive grip and shoved him away. She pulled the SUV door open and climbed in.

“I like this new you. You’ve got spirit. It’s hot.”

With a groan at the unappreciated compliment, Jillian slammed the door shut. And locked it.

He was laughing as she started the engine. “You know where to find me if you change your mind. About anything.”

Not bloody likely.

She leaned on the horn to get Lynch to move. The big black man might have saved her from some serious hurt once, had maybe even saved her life—and for that intervention she would always be grateful—but he seemed in no mood to go against his boss tonight. The time it took him to pull a cigar from his trench coat pocket and light it was the time Jillian needed to realize just how helpless she was at this moment. And just how annoyingly right Michael Cutler had been about the dangers of trespassing through No-Man’s Land after dark.

Her breath caught in her throat and stuttered out on a mix of fear and adrenaline.

Locked doors couldn’t keep Isaac and Lynch out if they wanted in. A bullet could pierce her windshield. They could march Troy and Dexter out here right now and threaten them, and she’d do whatever Isaac said to keep the boys safe. When she’d been high on coke or desperate for a fix, Jillian hadn’t fully understood just how inescapably at the mercy of these two men she’d been.

She understood the threat now as clearly as the gun peeking from the holster inside Lynch’s coat. Get out of here! She honked again. Now!

Isaac rapped on her window and grinned as she startled halfway out of her seat. “You come see me again sometime soon, babe. I’ll have something real good for you, I promise. The first line will be on the house.”

Then he raised his hand and signaled Lynch to move his car. The instant the Cadillac had pulled back enough for Jillian to squeeze her SUV out, she stomped on the accelerator, peeling away in a blind rush to freedom and safety, leaving Rush and Lynch and the tarnished memories from a past she couldn’t quite escape behind her.

Her heart wasn’t pounding so hard against her ribs that she couldn’t feel the still watchful eyes glued to her every movement as she sped away.

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