“If someone gets too pushy or personal for you, call me about that, too. Anything. I’m not taking any chances with our star witness.”

So the warmth of his hand on her arm and the patient, adult conversation was about protecting the outcome of his task force investigation. “You’re not taking any chances?”

“No.”

With a wry smile, Bailey shook her head. Spencer Montgomery had KCPD running through his veins. Any shivers of awareness she might feel at his warm hands or masculine smells or polite attention were misguided responses to a man who was simply doing his job.

She was the surviving victim who could put away the Rose Red Rapist forever.

“I’ll call,” Bailey promised. “If I suspect anything’s not right, I’ll call.”

“Don’t go shopping by yourself. Make sure someone knows where you are at all times. You do whatever you have to to stay safe.”

She’d had younger, more charming men hit on her with sweet words and shower her with gifts. But she’d never responded so easily, so basically, to any one of them the way she was reacting to Spencer Montgomery today.

“I’ll try not to let you down, Mr Montgomery.”

“You won’t.”

You won’t.

Did those last two words mean Detective Montgomery had faith in her ability to get the job done?

Or were they a warning that he intended to make sure she didn’t screw this up?

Yuletide Protector

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those books she read growing up. When shyness and asthma kept her from becoming the action-adventure heroine she longed to be, Julie created stories in her head to keep herself entertained. Encouragement from her family to write down the feelings and ideas 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 this teacher serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Julie believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, this award-winning author now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and an assortment of spoiled pets. To contact Julie or to learn more about her books, write to PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA, or check out her website and monthly newsletter at www.juliemiller.org.

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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

September

“I’ll save you,” she whispered into the phone.

Brian Elliott looked at her through glass that separated them. The lines of strain around his blue eyes and handsome mouth were more pronounced. And the orange jumpsuit certainly didn’t flatter.

After all she’d done for him, he still doubted her? “You don’t think they’re screening all my visitors? You’re tempting fate by coming here.”

If he wasn’t looking so haggard, so in need of the comfort he normally sought from her, she would have been irritated by his doubt. Instead, she smoothed a smile on her face—for his benefit as well as the guards who might be watching. “It makes perfect, logical sense for me to come see you. Besides, you’ve had a lot of visitors, haven’t you? Too many for the authorities to focus solely on me.”

“You arranged all those visits?”

“Not many people can benefit from being associated with an alleged serial rapist.” She’d gone to work as soon as she learned the news of his arrest. “Some of your friends and business associates probably are truly concerned for your welfare. And I might have suggested to some of them how staying in your good graces would prove most beneficial once you’re acquitted.”

He tipped his mouth closer to the phone that connected them and rubbed at his temple, as though the stress of the past couple of days had given him a headache. “How can you be sure that will happen? The police have eyewitness testimony. Experts from the crime lab to talk about trace evidence and DNA.”

“The only thing their evidence proves is that you once fathered a child with a woman who’s now in a mental institution. The D.A. will never put her on the stand to argue that it wasn’t consensual sex. Everything else is circumstantial. A good lawyer will make that go away—and you’ve got the best attorney in town on your payroll. Any other charges are minor, and I expect you’ll get probation and time served.”

Her heart twisted with sympathy when he rubbed at the cuts and scratches on his forearm, painful wounds inflicted during his arrest just days earlier. “All it takes is one woman to stand up and identify me as the man who raped her.”

“An eyewitness?” Despite his pain, she had to laugh. “How can any victim swear it was you? They were all unconscious, and you wore a mask.”

“There’s Hope Lockhart.”

“You didn’t rape her.”

He cupped the receiver with his hand and revealed a hushed admission. “I wanted to. I wanted to hurt her so badly—”

“Shh.” She leaned toward the glass and splayed her fingers there, wishing she could physically touch him and reassure him. “A jury can’t convict you for being angry and having these revenge fantasies. But it won’t help public perception if word gets out that you...enjoy the violence.”

“I’m sitting in a jail cell. My bail hearing isn’t until tomorrow. Public opinion doesn’t matter in here.”

“You talk as though you don’t believe you’re getting out.”

She was pleased when he flattened his larger hand close to his side of the reinforced glass, touching her in the only way he could. For now. As long as he needed her, as long as he loved her, she’d find a way to make it work so they could both get what they wanted. “Do you really think we can fix this and make it go away?”

“Yes. But you have to trust me.” She pulled her hand away, getting down to business. Brian had always appreciated her practical sense about how to get things done. It was one of the things that had drawn them together in the first place, even though the arguments often drove them apart. “I would have taken care of that issue with Miss Lockhart, too, if I had known how upset you were. If you had listened to me before, if you had let me handle the situation, you wouldn’t be sitting where you are now.”

“Let you handle it? I can’t tolerate a betrayal like that. She needed to understand that I—”

“Hush.” She quieted him before his agitation drew the guard’s attention to their conversation. “Your emotions are your Achilles heel, Brian. I can think rationally, for the both of us. Let me do this for you. I’ve saved your gorgeous hide more than once. That was our agreement, remember? I take care of you. I know you’re sick. I can live with that. As long as you love me. But you have to trust—”

“Sick?” He shook his head and leaned back, the boardroom glare that had intimidated many an adversary directed squarely at her. “Trusting a woman is what got me into this mess in the first place.”

She smiled. Poor thing. Didn’t he know by now she couldn’t be intimidated? “Trusting a woman is what will get you out of it, too.”

She waited, displaying far more patience than he had ever shown her. At last, his broad shoulders lifted with a heavy breath and he nodded, accepting her promise. Accepting her.

“I love you.” Pursing her lips together, she blew him a kiss. “Oh, and Brian, darling?” There were rules to this relationship, and he needed to understand them. “I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to save you. But if you betray who I am to anyone—a cell mate, a police officer or even a fly on the wall—I will destroy you.” She smiled again. “Now, say you love me.”

She held the defiant challenge in his dark eyes until, with a nod of understanding, he lowered his gaze. “I love you.”

She hung up the phone and walked away.

Chapter One

December

“That’s him. I recognize his voice. The build’s right and the eyes are the same. He’s the man who raped me.”

Bailey Austin braced her hand against the chilly window that separated her from the suspect and decoys lined up in the adjoining room at KCPD’s Fourth Precinct headquarters and closed her eyes. They all wore black clothes and surgical masks over the lower half of their faces. But she didn’t need a visual to relive the sounds and smells and every violent, humiliating touch that had changed her life more than a year ago.

“Shut up!” A fist smashed across her cheekbone when she’d dared to beg him to stop. Pain pulsed through her fractured skull, swirling her plastic-covered surroundings into a dizzying vertigo that made her nauseous. Her stomach was already churning from the stingingly bitter smell of vinegar and soap on the washcloth he was bathing her with. As if he could simply wash away the pain and shock and violation of what he had done to her. Bound and battered, helpless to struggle against him, she tried to blank her mind against the unspeakable things he was doing to her. “I’m the one in charge here, you filthy thing,” he needlessly reminded her.

Dark eyes swam in and out of focus from the grotesque black-and-white mask he wore. “Please...”

“Close your eyes and that mouth, or I’ll put the hood on you again.” She squeezed her eyes shut, dutifully doing what she could to save herself more punishment. “Do exactly what I tell you,” he warned her, scrubbing away any evidentiary trace of himself or the crime scene from her body, “and maybe I’ll let you live.”

Bailey had been one of the lucky ones. She’d survived.

But she hadn’t been able to erase the memory that night, and she couldn’t now. Even with a simple recitation from a Kansas City travel brochure, she recognized his voice—so bitter and devoid of caring. “That’s him,” she repeated, opening her eyes to see a uniformed officer stop and cuff the black-haired man she’d identified. When he peeled off his mask, she recognized his face from the business and society pages of the Kansas City papers. “Brian Elliott is the man who... He’s the Rose Red Rapist.”

District Attorney Dwight Powers stood beside her at the one-way window. “You’ll testify to that in court? You’ll point him out to the jury?”

She swallowed the emotions that rose in her throat. Despite all logic that told her she was invisible to him here in the look-at room, Bailey hugged her orange wool coat tighter in her arms and backed away from the glass when her attacker turned and looked in her direction. She nodded, transfixed by the cruel eyes, warm with color and yet so cold. There was something wrong with that man, something sick or disconnected inside his head. A brilliantly successful businessman, charming on the surface, yet twisted, damaged, inside. And he’d taken all that rage, all that self-loathing out on her. As if she’d been the cause of his pain. Even through the glass she felt his hatred aimed squarely at her.

She could feel his hands on her all over again, her arms pinned above her head, his body on top of hers, and she shuddered.

“This is a dubious identification at best, Powers, and you know it.” Shaking off the nightmare crawling over her skin, Bailey turned away from the glass as Kenna Parker, Brian Elliott’s articulate defense attorney, started earning her expensive fee. The taller woman clutched her leather attaché in her fist and looked down with sympathy. “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through, Miss Austin. But if the district attorney here puts you on the stand, I can promise you that my cross-examination won’t be pleasant. If you’re certain my client is your attacker, then why didn’t you identify him sooner? He’s a known figure in Kansas City society.”

“I didn’t know him. Not personally.” Bailey’s gaze darted up to meet the blond woman’s faintly accusatory question. “I identified him by voice. And I did recognize his eyes as soon as I saw them again. Once he was arrested, I picked out his mug shot from a group of several suspects.”

“You had a head injury, didn’t you? Perhaps your memory isn’t as clear as you’d like it to be.”

Before Bailey could form the appropriate words to defend her competence as the prosecution’s star witness, Harper Pierce, the family attorney her parents had insisted accompany them down to Precinct headquarters this morning, interrupted.

“Is that a threat, Kenna?” he challenged.

The woman smiled up at the attorney in the three-piece suit. “Of course not. I’m good enough I don’t need to make threats.” With a polite nod to everyone in the room, she turned on her Italian leather pumps and headed out the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go talk to my client. Chief Taylor?”

Mitch Taylor, the Precinct commander who blocked the door, folded his arms across his barrel-chest. “My people made a good arrest, Ms. Parker. They pulled a dangerous man off the streets.”

“Did they?” She waited until he stepped aside to let her pass. “Or did they just find a convenient scapegoat so you could close your investigation and get the press off your back?”

Everyone in the tiny room turned their heads at the onslaught of voices and bright lights that greeted the lady attorney as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Reporters.

“Ms. Parker. Is your client a free man?”

“Will he still be out on bail?”

“Did the witness identify him as the Rose Red Rapist?”

“Who is the witness?”

Bailey clutched her stomach as a wave of nausea churned inside her. They were closing in like vultures. “Oh, my.”

Dwight Powers braced his hand beneath her elbow. “Mitch,” he warned.

“I’m on it.” With a curt nod, Mitch stepped into the hallway. With a booming voice that made Bailey tremble, he took charge of the surging crowd. “This is a police station, not gossip central. Kate Kilpatrick, our task force liaison to the press, will answer your questions downstairs.”

“Is that Brian Elliot?” a woman asked. “Could we talk to him?”

“My client is being released on bail, and we’ll be making a formal statement later,” Kenna promised.

“Joe! Sarge!” Bailey ducked behind the D.A.’s broad back as Chief Taylor called for backup. “Get them out of here. I’m not putting on a press conference for that scum. The reporters can talk to Elliott outside, once we get his ankle bracelet back on him.”

“Yes, sir.” A dutiful voice from the hallway hastened to do his chief’s bidding. “Ms. Owen. Mr. Knight. This way, people. I’ll escort you down to the front door.”

As soon as Chief Taylor closed the door behind him, Bailey’s mother, Loretta Austin-Mayweather, spoke from the back of the room. “I don’t like that woman. Do you think Kenna Parker staged that harangue of reporters to frighten Bailey?”

With the reporters’ protesting voices reduced to a murmur, the D.A. released his grip on Bailey. “It’s a possibility. She’ll use every weapon in her arsenal to prove reasonable doubt to the jury. And since a lot of our case rests on your daughter...”

Bailey’s chin popped up when he turned his eyes on her. Forcing herself to take easy, calming breaths, Bailey nodded. She had to do this. “Don’t worry, Mr. Powers. You can count on me.”

Loretta glanced up at the distinguished gentleman standing beside her. Her beautiful features were drawn with worry and fatigue. “Jackson, isn’t there something you can do about Ms. Parker to protect Bailey? I’ve already lost Kyle. I don’t think I could stand to see another child get hurt.”

Too late for that, Bailey thought as a less-than-kind impulse bubbled up. But her sarcasm quickly turned to sympathy. They’d all been devastated by Kyle’s death, her mother to the point that when Bailey had needed her most, Loretta had been incapable of empathizing with her daughter’s pain. Her mother had lost weight from the stress and turned to a nightly glass or two of wine in order to sleep. For months now, Loretta had deflected any conversation more serious than the weather or the family’s social calendar.

They all had their ways of coping. Bailey just hoped her efforts to take charge of her own life and to confront her attacker would lead to her own healing.

“We won’t let that happen,” Harper Pierce assured Loretta. “Will we.” Bailey had to look away from the solicitous expression on the attorney’s handsome face.

He used to look at her that way—before the assault, when they’d been engaged to be married—when she’d been able to tolerate a flirtatious wink or intimate touch, when she would have been satisfied to become his trophy wife and take her place at his side in Kansas City society. Once, that look would have bolstered her courage. Now, that sly wink was just something else she had to deal with.

“You can’t talk me out of this, Harper,” Bailey stated firmly. She was no longer the wide-eyed Pollyanna who’d doted on his needs and shared so many interests with him. Understandably, she had to put herself—and now her mother—first. She crossed the room to give her mother a gentle hug, then pulled away, smiling into the blue eyes that matched her own. “But I promise I’ll be as careful as I can, Mother. Mr. Powers has assured my anonymity for as long as possible. And you know my counseling sessions with Dr. Kilpatrick have included lots of advice on ways a woman can keep herself safe. I’ve been listening. I won’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I wish you hadn’t cut your hair, dear.” Without even acknowledging her daughter’s attempt to reassure her, Loretta reached up to smooth Bailey’s bangs back into the short wisps at her temple. “Those long, blonde waves were so beautiful.”

Yes, but the short haircut was all about being safe, not making the pages of a fashion magazine. Having a man grab her by the hair and sling her to the floor or into the back of a van had a tendency to make a woman want to remove any “handles” that made it easy for an attacker to latch on. “Mother—”

“Jackson?” Loretta clung to her husband’s arm, turning to Bailey’s stepfather for the answers she wanted. “Can’t you make this whole mess go away?”

Bailey’s stepfather wasn’t oblivious to the emotional undercurrents in the room. But his typical response was to try to fix whatever the problem might be. He slid a supportive arm around his wife’s waist. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect this family, dear.” He turned to the D.A. “Do you think Ms. Parker will bring that ugly business with my stepson into the trial?”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Bailey protested. She wasn’t sure when or where her brother had gotten so caught up with greed that his reckless business dealings had made him desperate enough to kidnap and attempt to murder their half sister, Charlotte. But she knew the devious, violent man who’d been arrested, and subsequently murdered in prison, had no resemblance to the brother she’d once loved and admired. A different sort of character ran through her veins. Something smarter. Stronger. She hoped. “What Kyle did has nothing to do with what happened to me.”

But Jackson was looking to the men in the room for a solution, not her. The D.A. understood his concern. “It’s possible she could bring your family history into the courtroom, use it to taint the veracity of Bailey’s testimony. If there’s one liar in the family, why not two? I’d argue irrelevancy, of course.”

“I’m not lying,” Bailey insisted. “And my head wasn’t so scrambled that I’ve forgotten what I heard and saw and went through that night.”

The burly D.A. nodded. “I’m counting on it. The KCPD task force has given me plenty of forensic and circumstantial evidence to make a case. But science and legal jargon can overwhelm a jury. I need you to be the face of all his victims. The jury will sympathize with you and with your eyewitness testimony. They’ll convict him, and the judge will put Elliott away for the rest of his life. Kenna Parker, however, is going to do everything she can to discredit you on the witness stand.”

Chief Taylor, who put together the task force that had finally brought in the Rose Red Rapist, muttered a choice word beneath his breath. “Leave it to Elliott to buy the best. Parker’s already got him out on bail. From what I hear, he got his ex-wife, Mara Boyd-Elliott who runs the Journal, to post it.”

“Sounds like Elliott’s got all kinds of friends we’ll be up against.”

Chief Taylor agreed. “I have somebody watching him around the clock, but he’s running his business and buying Christmas presents, acting like he’s facing traffic court instead of twenty or more years in prison. Kenna’s only been in Kansas City for a year, and she’s already earned a cutthroat reputation by winning cases.” The senior cop pointed a warning finger at the D.A. “My task force worked for more than a year putting this case together and finally bringing him in. It’ll demoralize my team, if not this entire city, if Elliott wins in court. Can you beat her, Dwight?”

“I win cases, too. Against tougher odds than this.” To his credit, Dwight Powers didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by either the reputation of his opposing counsel, pressure from the police department, or the wealth and influence Jackson Mayweather commanded.

Top attorneys. Top cop. Top society movers and shakers. Ex-fiancé. A nervous city. Her own fragile sense of confidence. They were all formidable opponents to stand up against in order to make herself heard. But Bailey finally shut down the memories and fear, and hastened to reassure Dwight Powers that he could rely on her to help send Brian Elliott to prison. “I can talk about the rose he left with me, the van he transported me in, how he dumped me in that alley, and what happened during the assault. Once I came to in that horrible room, I remember everything. He bathed me afterward and disinfected me with vinegar.” She ignored her mother’s pained gasp. “I’m not confused about any of it.”

The burly D.A. pulled a pen from his suit jacket and jotted a note onto the yellow legal pad he held. “You’ll confirm the surgical mask and stocking cap he wore, as well as a description of the construction site where he took you?”

Bailey nodded. She could do this. She had to stand up and face her attacker in the courtroom or she’d never be able to stand up for herself and feel any sense of strength or self-worth again. “I’ll tell everything.”

“Oh, sweetie. Surely not everything.” Loretta crossed the room to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “You were always such a sensitive child. And after this nightmare—”

“Mother.” Just because she’d never been called on to deal with something like this before didn’t mean she couldn’t. Bailey pulled her hand away. “I’m twenty-six years old, not a child. I can do this. I need your support, not a lecture to talk me out of doing it.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward the empty lineup room. “If I don’t stand up against that man now, then I’ll be his victim all over again—and for the rest of my life.” Her hand turned into a fist as angry tears stung her eyes. “And he doesn’t get to win.”

Jackson came up beside Loretta, draping an arm around her as he squeezed Bailey’s shoulder. “We understand that this is part of your recovery, dear. But one of the hardest things in the world is for a parent to see her child suffer. Be patient with us. We’ll support whatever you decide. Just know we love you and that we’ll be here for you.”

As the tears welled up in her mother’s eyes, Bailey sniffed back her own. She nodded her thanks and turned to Dwight. “Anything you ask,” she vowed. “Anything Ms. Parker asks, I’ll answer it. It can’t be any harder than knowing he could go free to do the same thing to another woman. I want to feel safe again. I want him rotting in prison.”

With a curt nod, Dwight packed his briefcase. “So do I.” He latched it shut before shaking Bailey’s hand. “I’ll see you Monday morning at the courthouse when the trial begins, then. With your testimony, I’ll have a guilty verdict by Christmas. And Brian Elliott will never celebrate another New Year’s with his family and friends. Chief Taylor?”

“Thank you, Miss Austin, for being so courageous.” The police chief shook her hand, too, before reaching behind him to open the door. “I’ve got a roll-call meeting to get to. I’ll have an officer walk you out.”

“I’ve got it, sir.” A tall detective with crisp, golden-red hair straightened from the wall across the hallway where he’d been leaning. Without a wasted motion, he buttoned the front of his steel-gray suit jacket over the badge and gun belted at his trim waist. “Miss Austin.”

Bailey halted in the doorway as her eyes locked on to Spencer Montgomery’s cool granite gaze. He was a decade her senior, with nothing boyish about him to soften his chiseled, unreadable face. He was an old family foe who’d investigated her brother’s illegal activities—meaning that most of their past conversations had put one or the other of them on the defensive, as he grilled her with questions or she did what she could to protect her family. But, as leader of the KCPD task force, he’d turned those same dogged, calculating investigative skills to solving the string of crimes committed by the Rose Red Rapist. That made him the one man most responsible for Brian Elliott’s arrest. And for that, he would always be her hero.

Still, Spencer Montgomery was probably here to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake in identifying his suspect, that she hadn’t screwed up his year-long investigation. Despite an innate appreciation for his mature intelligence and faintly military bearing, Bailey’s pulse rate went on wary alert. “Detective Montgomery.”

“If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you.”

Judging by the grim line of his mouth, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like whatever he had to say.

Chapter Two

She’d cut her hair.

Spencer noted the change in Bailey Austin’s appearance—noted that the short, sun-kissed waves made her look a lot more grown-up than he remembered. She’d always been pretty, but the changes he noticed today made her...interesting. But just as quickly as he decided he liked the new look, he dismissed the revelation.

Any latent attraction he had to the woman was irrelevant. The last time he’d seen Bailey, she’d been in a hospital bed, beaten within an inch of her life—the victim of a violent rape by the man his task force had eventually identified and arrested, entrepreneur and real estate developer Brian Elliott. He should be content to see the bruises gone and the vibrancy back in her azure-blue eyes instead of noticing the leaner curves beneath the wool slacks and cashmere sweater she wore and the way those sculpted wisps of hair gleamed like spun gold, even under the fluorescent lights of the precinct hallway.

No, he couldn’t notice those things at all. He was here to do his job. Period. And if that job included babysitting a fragile debutante-in-distress from Kansas City society, then so be it.

Besides, Chief Taylor was clapping him on the shoulder, demanding his attention. “You’re going to see this job through to the bitter end, aren’t you, Spence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I knew there was a reason I made you point man on the task force.” Mitch Taylor might be graying at the temples, but the man was still the powerhouse of the Fourth Precinct. He was the boss whose recommendation could make or break a promotion. Spencer respected the dedicated cop who’d worked his way up the ranks at KCPD. And since his goal was to do the same, getting asked to do a favor for the boss was an opportunity he didn’t intend to squander.

“I appreciate the faith you had in us, sir.”

“Your work isn’t done yet,” the chief reminded him, referring either to the outcome of Brian Elliott’s trial or the task force’s ongoing search for the Rose Red Rapist’s accomplice—a woman they’d dubbed The Cleaner because of her efforts to destroy evidence and take out witnesses to Elliott’s crimes. “You remember our chat yesterday?”

I want you to check in on Miss Austin from time to time. Make yourself available to her in case anything comes up that could spook her out of testifying against Elliott.

“I do.”

Spencer had walked out of Chief Taylor’s office understanding his mission. The Cleaner hadn’t shown up on their radar since they’d made the arrest and the rapes had stopped. But then Elliott had been under KCPD’s watch 24/7 from the moment his ex-wife had posted bail. Their vigilance might have driven the accomplice underground or out of town—or maybe whatever sick relationship the woman shared with a serial rapist had failed now that he was no longer able to commit the crimes that had terrorized Kansas City for several years. Or, as both Mitch Taylor and Spencer suspected, the woman could be biding her time, waiting to make some big move to save her man again.

Until The Cleaner was identified and put out of commission, Spencer intended to keep his task force on full alert. Scoring a few points with the boss along the way couldn’t hurt, either.

The chief gestured to the group filing out of the look-at room behind Bailey. “I take it you know everyone here?”

Spencer nodded. While he couldn’t claim to be friends with anyone in Bailey’s entourage, they were certainly well acquainted. “We’ve met several times. On this investigation and the Rich Girl Killer case.”

“You closed that one for me, too.” Mitch Taylor praised him before winking a brown eye at Bailey. “I leave you in good hands, Miss Austin.” The chief turned and hurried down the hallway after D.A. Powers. “Dwight, wait up.”

While Bailey hugged her purse and coat to her waist, waiting expectantly for him to explain why Chief Taylor had asked him to chat with her, a protective force of allies circled behind her.

Loretta Austin-Mayweather’s disgusted snort was audible, her blue eyes unforgiving. “Jackson, please. I’d like to go home. I have nothing to say to this man. Bailey, come.”

Yes, he’d brought the Rich Girl Killer murder investigation to their home, and had been obligated to interrogate each and every one of them. And though Bailey’s brother, Kyle Austin, hadn’t ultimately been the murderer Spencer had sought, he had been guilty of other crimes, including embezzlement, stalking his own stepsister and kidnapping. And the real killer, who hadn’t appreciated a copycat using his M.O., had ultimately murdered the Austin heir while he’d been in prison.

Since Spencer had no children—no family at all, to speak of—he supposed he couldn’t truly understand a parent’s loss of a child. He could only play whipping boy and hold back the reminder that without KCPD’s intervention, the entire Mayweather family might have fallen victim to Kyle Austin’s desperate actions and the killer who’d threatened them.

“Detective.” Jackson Mayweather’s acknowledgment was more civil, but clearly the man had a meeting to get to, or an eagerness to defuse his wife’s displeasure, because he looped his arm around Loretta’s shoulder and started down the hallway. “Come along, dear. I’ll have the driver meet us at the front door.”

“Bailey.” Loretta practically clicked her tongue, calling her daughter to join them.

Despite a deep sigh that indicated she was schooling her patience, Bailey simply smiled and turned her head. “Detective Montgomery is the leader of the Rose Red Rapist investigation. He probably needs to discuss something with me.”

Harper Pierce, a tall, blond piece-of-work who’d stonewalled more than one KCPD investigation with his legal acrobatics, placed his hand at the small of Bailey’s back. “Then he can make an appointment. Let’s go.”

Before Spencer could evaluate the way his own body braced at the proprietary touch, Bailey arched her back away from the other man’s hand and sent Pierce on his way. “Would you mind looking after Jackson and Mother? I know she’d appreciate the extra arm to lean on.”

“I’m not leaving you with—”

“Please, Harper. Go.” Her melodic voice lost its sweet tone and her body seemed to hug itself around the orange coat she clutched. So she didn’t like to be touched? Was that an aftereffect of the rape? Or was it that she just didn’t want her ex-fiancé putting his hands on her?

Flashing a suspicious eye toward Spencer, as if he was somehow to blame for the dismissal, Harper relented. “I’ll hold the elevator for you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Bails—”

“I’ll walk her to her car,” Spencer volunteered, eager to send the others on their way. That’d give him a few minutes of private time with Bailey to have the conversation Chief Taylor wanted him to have with her. Then he could get back to some real work.

“How did you know I drove myself?” Bailey arched a golden eyebrow as she turned her attention back to him.

Spencer dropped his gaze down to the keys dangling from her fist and grinned. Easy deduction. “I am a detective.”

A responding grin eased the strain on her mouth and relaxed some of the tension from her posture. “So you are.” The gentleness returned to her voice as she spoke to her parents and ex-fiancé again. “You all go ahead. I need to get back to my apartment and organize my portfolio for the job interview I have tomorrow, anyway. It’ll save you a stop.”

“Can’t you put that off until another day?” Loretta sounded more irritated than hurt by her daughter’s excuse to leave them. “The Butler-Smythes are coming to dinner tonight, remember? Their son Cameron is just home from his trip to China. You know he was sweet on you back in school, and I thought—”

“I can’t, Mother.” A rosy hue tinted Bailey’s cheeks, indicating the level of impatience or distress she was keeping in check at her mother’s efforts to plan her evening and her life. “I have errands to run before I go home. And I’m still fixing up my apartment. I want to finish painting the trim around the windows tonight.” Spencer would have stopped with a solid no, but Bailey threw in a bit of logic to salvage her mother’s feelings. “Besides, you know I’m not feeling terribly social right now. If you want me to make an appearance at your holiday gala this weekend, I need to save up my social energy to face all those people. Deal?”

Loretta’s dramatic sigh indicated her daughter had finally come up with an excuse she could accept. “I suppose it’s a fair tradeoff. I do want you at the Christmas ball. I can guarantee yeses to every invitation if our guests know you’ll be there.”

Spencer felt himself bristling on Bailey’s behalf. The young woman was gearing up to testify against her rapist—to face the man who’d nearly killed her—across the short distance of a courtroom. And her mother was worried about matchmaking and society fund-raisers?

Although the tension crept back into her posture, Bailey continued to smile when her mother came to give her a hug. “Please give Cam and his parents my regards, but I won’t be there.”

Loretta’s cutting gaze swept over Spencer as she pulled away. Then she brushed Bailey’s bangs off her forehead and straightened the angel pendant hanging around her neck. “Very well then. I’ll call you tomorrow about the Christmas Ball.”

Bailey nodded. “I’ll talk to you then.”

“Call me if you need an escort to the ball.” Bailey stiffened when Harper leaned in to press a kiss to her temple and Spencer felt a protective urge make him stand straighter. And even though she managed a smile before Pierce followed Loretta and Jackson Mayweather down the hallway, it didn’t last.

“I apologize for my family and...” she thumbed over her shoulder “...my attorney.”

“They’re understandably protective of you.”

“Smothering is more like it.” She unfolded the coat she carried and flipped it around her shoulders. “Happy holidays, Detective. I hope you’re well.”

“What?”

Her mouth relaxed with a soft giggle, probably at catching him off guard with the friendly chitchat. “It’s customary when someone issues you a greeting like that for you say something similar in return.”

“Oh. Right.” When she juggled her keys and purse to shrug into her coat, Spencer decided to test his no-touch theory. He pointed, alerting her to his intent before moving behind her to hold her coat. She paused for a moment before thanking him and sliding her arms into the sleeves. After settling the collar up around her neck, he smoothed his hands across her shoulders and patted her arms. It was Pierce’s touch she hadn’t liked. Or maybe being touched without being asked first. She wasn’t skittish with him standing behind her. She hadn’t frozen up. Maybe she was going to make a calmer, more reliable witness than Chief Taylor thought. “Happy holidays, Bailey.”

What the heck? Spencer popped his grip open and stepped back when he realized he was still holding her shoulders, still breathing in the faint citrusy scent of her hair, still feeling her warmth.

And did she just shiver when he pulled away? Was that a soft gasp he heard? She’d liked his touch. Or, at the very least, she hadn’t minded his hands lingering on her.

There were times when possessing his finely honed eye for detail sucked. Think job, Montgomery. Forget the woman. Forget the attraction.

You know what hell that will lead you to.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his tone more brusque than he’d intended.

“Are you worried I’m going to screw up all your hard work?” Bailey slipped her purse onto her shoulder, inhaling a deep breath before turning to face him. They stood close enough now that she had to tilt her face up to see his. Good grief, her eyes were blue.

A pair of pretty brown eyes, buried deep within his memory, suddenly surfaced in his mind, blurring his vision. Spencer blinked away the vision before the pain could follow. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks and strolled a few steps toward the main room at the end of the hall, pretending he was still on his game. “Chief Taylor wanted me to run through some safety precautions with you—make sure you’re all ready to go for Monday, or whenever you get called to the stand.”

“So you are worried. You don’t think I’ll go through with this, either, do you?”

The accusation stopped him in his tracks and Spencer turned. “This is an important case, Bailey.”

“It’s important to me, too.” She shoved her keys into her pocket and faced off against him. “Everyone thinks I’m going to freak out on the stand or run away and hide somewhere. But I have to do this. There has to be a reason why this happened to me.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed at the emotion staining her cheeks. If she got worked up arguing with him, how was she going to handle it if Kenna Parker tried to rattle her on the witness stand? “That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“Yes. But I can handle it.”

He pulled his hand from his pocket and tapped the fingers fisted around the strap of her purse, silently arguing her cool-under-fire argument. “Have you ever done anything like this before? Have you ever bared your fears and soul and worst nightmare in front of the man who made you afraid?”

“No. Of course not, but...”

He let the reality of what they were asking of her set in, and watched her cheeks pale and her gaze drop to the center of his chest. “This is going to get messy before it gets done. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“You’d think I’d have at least one person cheering me on and bucking up my confidence instead of telling me all the reasons why I can’t or shouldn’t do it.” She tilted her chin up, venting a mixture of temper and frustration. “Since you’ve been so obsessed with catching this guy, I would have thought you’d be in my corner. But you’re as much of a doubting Thomas as anybody else.”

“I’m not the kind of man to give pep talks, Bailey.” As Bailey’s voice grew louder and more animated, Spencer’s hushed, articulating every word as he dipped his head closer to hers. “There’s a lot that can happen between now and when you’re called up to that witness stand. Besides you ‘freaking out’ and deciding not to testify, there’s a possibility Brian Elliott’s accomplice may do something to try to stop you.”

“You’re talking about The Cleaner, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m talking about The Cleaner—and she’s nobody you want to mess with. You need to lock your doors and windows. Don’t go out by yourself at night. Have someone walk you to your car. Hang with people you know and trust. And if something does happen, call me or 911 before it’s too late to do anything about it.”

With every sentence, her eyes widened and her skin cooled to a pale porcelain color. “Too late...?”

“I’m not here to sugarcoat anything. I’m just stating the facts.”

After an endless moment of silence she tore her gaze from his and focused her attention on buttoning her coat. “Don’t worry, detective. No one would ever mistake you for a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.” She tied her orange belt with equal fervor. “Now, was that the lecture you were supposed to give me? Watch my back and don’t be stupid? Or do you have some more doom and gloom you’d like to share? Let’s get it over with because I really do need to get home and hide away in my little ivory tower of naïveté and incompetence.”

“I didn’t call you stupid.”

“No, you’re just intimating that I can’t take care of myself.”

Really? This defiant little show of sarcasm was supposed to convince him to trust her to close his case? Was this an attempt to show her strength? By butting heads with him? And since when did he get in anyone’s face and argue back?

Spencer’s blood was still pumping hard through his veins when he heard a door open in the hallway behind him. He saw the shock register on Bailey’s face and instinctively went on guard against the unseen threat as he spun around.

Two uniformed officers led Brian Elliott out of the nearby interview room. He’d changed into an expensively tailored suit and a smug untouchability that made him look more like a Forbes 500 mogul than the prisoner wearing a pair of handcuffs and ankle-band tracking device he truly was. An entourage of his attorney, Kenna Parker, and Elliott’s ex-wife, Mara Boyd-Elliott, followed behind. One a dark blonde, the other, platinum, both women wore business suits and carried winter coats and attaché cases, looking like they’d all just finished a business meeting instead of a legal debriefing.

Spencer’s arm went out to push Bailey behind him as the group came closer. He felt her fingers curling into the back of his jacket and something inside him shifted, grew wary. When Elliott spotted Spencer, the bastard grinned in recognition. The other man slowed his stride and the soft gasp at Spencer’s back made him reach down to fold his hand around Bailey’s wrist beside him.

“Keep walking, Elliott,” Spencer ordered.

“Now, now, detective. I’ve missed our little chats in the interrogation room” the man taunted. “Arrest any other innocent people lately?”

“Brian.” That was the ex, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t make me regret my investment. I’m willing to support you to a point, but antagonizing the police won’t help your case.”

Elliott shrugged off her touch. “You only posted bail so your paper could report on the trial without it looking like a personal vendetta against me.”

Mara eased a calming sigh behind his back. “Unbiased reporting isn’t the only reason. There’s still a place in my heart for you. And I believe in...your innocence.”

Innocence? The newspaper publisher could barely choke out the word. Spencer wondered how the woman could live with herself, putting Elliott out on the street just so she could sell more papers.

Did he need to remind them about blood matching Elliott’s type being found at the scene of one of the assaults? Had they forgotten his DNA matching the child of a woman who claimed to have been raped by the Rose Red Rapist? Did any of them think Elliott could deny kidnapping a woman and being captured by the K-9 cop and his German Shepherd partner on Spencer’s task force?

Spencer could easily imagine the arguments Elliott’s attorney would bring up. The blood sample had been corrupted and could match any number of suspects. The child’s birth mother, who’d never reported being raped, had had a nervous breakdown and been committed to a mental hospital, so her version of events was suspect. The abduction could be pled down to a lesser crime and argued that it was a solo occurrence, not the culmination of a reign of serial terror through the city.

But there was no arguing away the eyewitness testimony of the courageous woman digging her fingers into his shoulder blade right now. Or Spencer’s driving need to protect the truth she represented.

“Get him out of here, Ms. Parker.” Spencer repeated the command to move the handcuffed man.

But when the uniformed guards urged the prisoner forward, Brian Elliott planted his feet and turned. “Wait. Do I know you, miss?”

Bailey released her death grip on Spencer’s jacket and slid her right hand down his arm. At the brush of her chilled skin against his, he turned his palm into hers, lacing their fingers together, offering his protection and support against the man who’d terrorized her a year earlier. When she latched on to him with both hands, Spencer tightened his hold.

Be tough, Bailey, he wanted to say. He could feel her trembling beside him. Be just as strong as you claim to be.

Kenna Parker nudged aside one of the uniformed officers and moved in front of her client. “You shouldn’t have any contact with the opposing witnesses.”

Damn straight.

But Elliott ignored his attorney’s plea. “You’re Jackson Mayweather’s daughter, er, stepdaughter. I’ve had a few business dealings with Jackson, and I’ve given a lot of money to your mother’s charities. She does good work for local hospitals and children’s groups.” He was making small talk with Bailey? Was he hoping she’d recant her statement because he knew her parents or could pour on the charm? “You’re the woman who thinks I hurt you.”

“Thinks?” The trembling stopped. Was some steel creeping into that delicate backbone of hers? Or was she on the verge of passing out?

“Brian,” Kenna Parker warned. “Don’t say another word.”

Mara Elliott tried to get him moving, too. “Darling, we need to go.”

“Don’t darling me—!” The cuffs that linked Elliott’s wrist jangled as he jerked against them.

Bailey’s hand jerked in Spencer’s grip. Good. Not passing out.

He snapped an order to the two unis. “Get him out of here.”

The brief show of anger quickly passed, and, with the officers grabbing hold of Brian Elliott, the perp raised his hands in calm surrender. “I’m all right, dear,” he apologized to his ex. “I’ve got this, Kenna.” Then he turned his attention back to Spencer. “I’m sorry for what happened to your friend there. Yes, I’ve made some mistakes, but I’m not the monster you think I am. The man you want is still out there, Montgomery, lying in wait to hurt some other helpless woman.” He gestured to the women there to support him, as if their presence was proof of his innocence. “I’m no serial rapist.”

Maybe Spencer’s command hadn’t been clear. “Go. Now.”

A brunette woman, wearing a coat over her suit, and holding a cell phone to her ear, came around the corner and stopped. Her dark eyes widened as she took in the confrontation in the hallway. “Mr. Elliott?” Regina Hollister, Brian Elliott’s executive assistant, paused for a moment, then asked the party on her call to wait while she joined the group. “I have your car waiting for us out front. Is everything all right?”

“Get him out of here.” Or Spencer would do the job himself.

The two officers pulled Elliott into step between them. Kenna Parker hurried ahead to consult with Elliott’s assistant. “Out front where the reporters are?”

Regina nodded and put her cell phone back to her ear. “I’ll ask the driver to meet us someplace else.”

“No.” Kenna stopped her and turned to face her client, walking backward as they continued down the hallway. “Let’s use the press to our advantage. The officers will uncuff you before you leave the building. I don’t want you to make any comment, but let’s show Kansas City that you’re a free man.”

“For now,” Spencer called after them. “Don’t let that ankle bracelet pinch too tight, Elliott.”

When Brian Elliott began a retort, Kenna Parker pressed her finger against his lips to shush him until he smiled and nodded his acquiescence. Spencer didn’t move or look away until Brian Elliott and the others had turned the corner toward the bank of public elevators and disappeared from sight.

Easing out a tense breath as the threat left, Spencer quickly became aware of other sorts of tension humming through his body. Bailey had her left hand curled around his arm now. Her whole body was hugged up against his side, seeking shelter or maybe just something stronger than she was to hold her upright. Several more seconds passed before Spencer acknowledged that he wasn’t moving away from the warmth of her curves pressed against his arm. And that was his thumb stroking across the back of her knuckles, soothing the crushing grip of her hand.

It was happening again. This was getting personal. This was how it had started with Ellen, and he couldn’t go through that again. Move away, Montgomery. Cop. Witness. Keep her safe. Don’t let any feelings get involved with this.

“Do your job,” he mouthed to himself.

“What?” Bailey whispered beside him.

Even worse than feeling the damn emotions was someone else knowing they were there, providing a weapon they could use against him.

So he emptied his lungs on a forceful breath of air and pulled his body away from Bailey’s to face her. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her nod wasn’t all that convincing. She squeezed her eyes shut for second and shook her head, as if clearing some graphic image from her mind. But when they opened again, that azure gaze tilted up and locked on to his. “I smelled that vile cologne he had on. I’m sure it’s something expensive, but...” The strength of her gaze faltered. “He had it on that night, too. I know he’s the man who raped me.”

“I have no doubt,” Spencer agreed. “That’s exactly the kind of detail that will make the D.A.’s case for us.” When the taut line of her mouth softened into a smile, he ignored that little kick of awareness that made him smile in return.

“Thank you for saying that. And thank you for being here when...” She visibly shuddered. “He was close enough he could have touched me.”

“Brian Elliott will never touch you again.” When he heard how vehemently he’d spoken those words, as if he’d just made some kind of promise to Bailey Austin, Spencer released her hand and broke contact entirely. It wasn’t his job to care about the awful turmoil she must go through each time she had to revisit the violence that had been done to her. Maybe she was okay with being touched, or maybe she’d been too scared to realize how hard she’d been holding on to him. Either way was a head game he wasn’t comfortable playing. She needed a sensitive kind of guy or her therapist to walk her through the emotional minefield of taking down the Rose Red Rapist. And he wasn’t that guy.

He needed some distance. This situation was getting inside his head—the woman was getting under his skin. Setting up a safe house and guarding a witness weren’t part of his job description anymore. He was not this woman’s protector. He was seeing his investigation through to the very end, like any good detective would. He was doing a favor for Chief Taylor.

He was not putting himself in a position to lose anyone else who mattered to him.

Ignoring the questioning look in Bailey’s eyes, Spencer inclined his head toward the bullpen—the maze of desks and cubicles in the main room where he and dozens of other detectives worked. “Come on. Let me get my coat and then I’ll walk you to your car.” He moved out without a backward glance, lengthening his stride to put some impersonal space between them. “I’ll give you my card and my partner’s, and, of course, you can call the precinct if you need anything else.”

Her heels clicked on the marble tiles behind him as she hurried to catch up.

All of Bailey’s brave talk about testifying had flown out the window when she’d come face to face with Brian Elliott...right along with Spencer’s resolve not to let things get personal with her.

He wouldn’t let either one happen again.

Chapter Three

Starch.

That was the subtle, clean scent filling the elevator. Bailey clutched the strap of her purse to her stomach, almost smiling beside the jut of Spencer Montgomery’s shoulder as he watched the third-level light come on above the doors of the parking garage elevator.

After traveling down through the bowels of the Fourth Precinct building and out a side entrance, they’d hurried through the bracing air and blowing snow to enter the parking garage a block away from the bright lights and electronic noise of the impromptu press conference on the front steps of the tall granite building across the street. The multistory parking garage might be filled with cars, but with the cold wind blowing through the open levels, chasing the patrons indoors, there’d been no one around when Spencer had bustled her onto the elevator and punched the button. This silent ride up the elevator gave Bailey a calming reprieve from the emotional battles she’d fought all morning with her family, Brian Elliott and within herself.

Not that she’d call her time spent with Spencer Montgomery relaxing, exactly.

Since his promise to walk her to her car, everything had been a rush. Papers neatly stacked on his desk. Chair pushed in. A quick introduction to his partner, Nick Fensom. She’d hurried to keep up with his long strides, been relegated to quick nods in response to his clipped requests and commands. The damp chill in the air outside had nipped at her ears and nose. But now that she had a few moments alone in the elevator with him to catch her breath and thaw out, she had the strangest urge to turn her nose into the nubby wool of his charcoal-gray coat.

Nothing more than starch and soap and cold, crisp air. Emanating from the charcoal-gray coat and crisp white shirt he wore, and maybe from the man himself, Spencer’s scent was as straightforward and masculine as every other detail she’d noticed about the steely-eyed detective.

Unlike the overpowering smell of Brian Elliott’s cologne that triggered nightmares, Spencer’s undoctored scent elicited something feminine and long forgotten inside her. Its simplicity soothed her overwrought senses, yet awakened warm frissons of awareness that she hadn’t been sure she’d ever be able to feel again for a man. It was a gentler, although no less impactful response than what she’d felt outside the look-at room when she’d anchored herself to the unwavering strength of his hand holding hers. Spencer’s unexpected touch had centered her, strengthened her, allowed her to push aside her gut reaction of panicked fear and handle Brian Elliott’s attempt to strike up a conversation and deny what he’d done to her.

Yes, they’d argued. Yes, he’d pushed her to keep up with his long strides. Yes, it irritated her that Detective Montgomery pictured her as some sort of naive girl who couldn’t think or do for herself, and had no idea what she was getting into. But it had felt invigorating for a few moments to have someone actually let her speak her mind and vent her emotions without trying to quickly apologize or change the subject. He hadn’t slowed down and lowered his expectations because he thought she was too fragile to handle any kind of stress. And she definitely wasn’t feeling anything girlish around the man.

Not when he smelled so good.

Not when he’d stood between her and her rapist.

Not when he made her feel, period.

After all this time, sheltered by her family, sheltered by the protective mental and emotional barriers she’d put up around herself since the rape, it was just as unsettling as it was intriguing to realize that the tall, no-nonsense detective could make her feel normal, womanly things again.

The elevator slowed; the signal dinged.

“Straight to your car, then straight home, right?”

Her secret grin faded at Spencer’s brusque reminder. Clearly, whatever crush was forming inside her head wasn’t mutual. She was just another piece of evidence in his case against the Rose Red Rapist he wanted to protect. She’d be wise to remember that, and keep the relationship between them as businesslike as he did. “Yes. I have plenty to do to keep me busy at my apartment tonight.”

The doors slid open and he wound his hand around her upper arm like he had before, pulling her into step beside him as soon as she pointed out her white Lexus. “You’ll check the parking lot before you get out of your car. Lock the—”

“—doors. Have my key card ready to go into the building. Check the doors and windows. Call someone to let them know I’m home.”

“I see you were listening.” For the first time in the last thirty minutes, Spencer shortened his stride to let her walk naturally beside him. Was that a grin?

Bailey wondered what would happen to that stern, angular face if he loosened up enough to smile or laugh. “After hearing the same speech upstairs at your office, on the hike across the street and in the elevator coming up here, I started to pick up on what you were trying to say.”

That snort might be as close to a laugh as she was going to get out of him. And his warm breath formed a cloud in the cold air, masking a glimpse of what, if any, changes might have softened the strong line of his mouth or add warmth to the granite in his eyes.

But the grip on her arm eased as they crossed the concrete platform, heading toward the thick pillar where she’d parked. “Bailey, I don’t think you’re a dumb blonde. If anything, I think you’re a courageous woman. You may have pushed a few of my buttons earlier and I said some things that didn’t come out the way I meant them. I don’t normally lose my cool like that.”

Um, when exactly had he lost his cool? Brian Elliott’s temper had flared briefly in that hallway, throwing Bailey back to that night when he’d ranted at her and punished her for daring to speak her mind or beg for mercy. If Spencer thought he’d come anywhere close to a hotheaded reaction, he was apologizing for nothing. “You were just being a cop. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Yeah, I do. Logically, I think you feel you’re doing the right thing—God knows I and half of Kansas City are glad you’re testifying. But I worry that you may not fully understand the dangers and challenges you’ll have to face when this trial starts. Elliott won’t be in handcuffs in that courtroom. And if The Cleaner shows up—”

Bailey pulled his business card from her pocket and waved it in front of his face. “Then I’ll call you or your partner or 911.”

Another deep breath obscured his reaction. But she might have glimpsed a wry smile. “I guess I need to stop warning you, hmm?”

“You mean treat me like a grown-up?”

“Message received. Got your keys out?”

Bailey swapped the card for the keys in her pocket and pressed the remote, unlocking the car and starting the ignition. “Yes, sir.”

“Bailey—” The grip on her arm suddenly tightened and Spencer pulled her to a stop. “Ah, hell.”

A dark-haired woman climbed out of the car parked across from Bailey’s. The spiky heels of her black leather boots didn’t slow her at all as she crossed to the trunk of Bailey’s car. The striking brunette pulled a microphone from the folds of her coat. “Are you the star witness Dwight Powers keeps bragging about?”

“Bragging?” Hadn’t they escaped the onslaught of reporters?

A second door opened and the reporter waved her camera man forward. “I’m Vanessa Owen, Channel Ten News. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Miss Austin?”

Was the dark-haired woman giving her a choice? Vanessa was pushing for confirmation of her suspicions. But Bailey wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. When the camera pointed her way and the light came on, nearly blinding her in the dimness of the garage, Bailey kept her expression placid despite the clench of her fist. “I’m a witness. I’m sure the D.A. is talking to as many of the Rose Red Rapist’s victims that he can.”

“Don’t you mean alleged victims?” Vanessa Owen’s dark gaze flitted over Bailey’s shoulder to include Spencer in the interrogation. “Has he really been committing these crimes undetected for as many years as the D.A. claims?”

“Your questions are done, Ms. Owen.” Spencer reached around Bailey to push the camera lens toward the ground and warn the camera man to kill the light and stop recording. In a subtle move that wasn’t lost on either woman, he went into detective mode, sliding his shoulder in front of Bailey and blocking her from any attempt to question her again. Then he went on the offensive. “From what I hear, you and Brian Elliott have been pretty chummy. If you want to talk allegations, I have it on good intel that you and Elliott are having an affair.”

“Past tense, Detective...Montgomery, is it? Leader of KCPD’s illustrious task force? Brian and I may have attended a few social events together, but we’re no longer an item. Get your facts straight.” Vanessa’s ruby-tinted lips widened into a smile that never reached her eyes. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

But Spencer didn’t back down from the taunt. “Either way, I’d think your viewers would be alarmed to learn just how biased your reporting on this case has been.” If anything, he leaned in. “Or did you get involved with a rapist just to get the inside scoop on his crimes? If that’s the case, I’d like to talk to you about withholding evidence from the police and abetting a suspected felon.”

With an amused laugh, Vanessa waved her cameraman back to their car. “Nicely played, Detective. I get your message. I’ll back off from Miss Austin. For now.” She tilted her head to acknowledge Bailey with a nod, then took a step closer to Spencer. “But this is the biggest story to hit Kansas City in years. I have a feeling there’s more to it than what KCPD or the D.A.’s office is sharing. And when her testimony becomes public record? Trust me, I’ll get the story. And I’ll take it all the way to the national market. Neither the D.A.’s stonewalling nor your task force are going to stop me from telling the biggest story of my career.”

“Just make sure you tell the truth.” Spencer turned his face to the side and Bailey gasped when she saw a black-haired man she hadn’t noticed leaning against a concrete pillar. “That goes for you, too, Knight. Whatever gripe you’ve got against KCPD, you’re not going to use Miss Austin to malign us in your editorials again.”

The second reporter, who’d been jotting something on a notepad, straightened. “They’re not editorials. They’re facts.” Even though his blue eyes were focused squarely on the detective, Bailey couldn’t help reaching for the sleeve of Spencer’s coat as the black-haired reporter approached. “How many months did it take your task force to capture Brian Elliott?” He stuffed his notebook and pen into the pockets of his insulated jacket. “And what kind of progress are you making on capturing his accomplice, The Cleaner?”

“Gabriel Knight, Kansas City Journal. I assume you already know Miss Austin, or you wouldn’t be here.” Spencer’s arm eased back against Bailey’s hand as he made the introduction, almost inviting her to hang on to his unflappable strength if she needed to.

Bailey curled her fingers into the wool but fought for a bit of independence by stepping up beside him. “Why aren’t you two with the other reporters?” she asked.

Vanessa Owen answered. “Because the story’s here.”

Gabriel Knight agreed. “I’ve heard all of Elliott’s claims of innocence. I’m more interested in knowing who’s going to finally shut him up.”

“Eloquent as always, Gabe,” Vanessa sneered.

Tension bunched in the muscles beneath Bailey’s hand, but Spencer’s authoritative tone never changed. “If you two want to talk KCPD business, you contact me or the task force press liaison, Kate Kilpatrick. If you want specifics on how Dwight Powers is going to prosecute Elliott, talk to him. Victims have a right to privacy. Leave Bailey Austin out of it.”

Gabriel Knight shook his head. “You’re betting all your cards on the story of a poor little rich girl, Detective?”

“Excuse me?” A story? Did he think for one minute that her words would be any less true than what he wrote in his paper?

“I’m not a gambler, Mr. Knight.” Spencer cut Bailey off before she could organize her thoughts into a protest. He laid his gloved hand over hers where it clung to his arm. “I’m putting all my faith in the truth.”

Spencer’s adamant defense was just as surprising as the insult to her character and reliability had been, catching Bailey off guard. She looked up to gauge the sincerity of his words, the meaning behind his touch. But the profile of his clenched jaw revealed nothing.

The reporter lifted the camera that hung from his neck and snapped a picture. “Can I quote you on that?”

When Spencer refused to answer the taunt, Gabriel Knight nodded, lowering his camera and accepting détente, for now. “I wish you the best of luck next week, Miss Austin. The department could use it.”

Apparently, Vanessa Owen needed to have a last word, too. “We’ll be at the courthouse next week, Detective. You can’t keep your girlfriend away from us forever.”

Girlfriend?

Vanessa’s gaze dropped to the spot where Bailey’s hand nestled beneath Spencer’s, daring him to deny the gossipy enticement. But he didn’t say another word.

“She’s right.” Breaking the tense silence, Gabriel Knight offered Bailey a wink. “I’ll see you at the Christmas Ball this weekend. I get to escort my boss to the event to help cover a feel-good story for the holidays.”

“You’re coming...?” Bailey felt the winter chill seep through her coat.

Of course there’d be reporters at the event. Her mother counted on the publicity to generate more donations after the fact, while the big donors at the ball appreciated the positive press. But she’d foolishly expected them to focus on the needs of the children’s hospital wing or the award-winning holiday decor, evening gowns and tuxedoes. She hadn’t counted on a hard news man like Gabriel Knight to be there.

“See you then.” Knight nodded to his competition. “Vanessa.”

“Gabe.”

Both reporters walked to their cars and drove away before Spencer abruptly released her. Bailey tried to smooth the wrinkles she’d left on his sleeve, but he moved away to open the car door for her. Wondering if she should apologize for clinging to him again, yet worried he’d tell her the needy grabs were proof that she wasn’t emotionally ready to testify, Bailey chose to address the two reporters. “Gabe Knight is an antagonistic, unpleasant man. It almost sounds as if he’s got some beef against the police department.”

“I don’t know what Knight’s problem is. He’s always been critical of the department. And Vanessa Owen’s an ambitious, opportunistic—”

“She’s not a lady?”

“Something like that.” He gestured to the seat behind the wheel and Bailey dutifully climbed inside. “Don’t let him corner you at that ball, all right? You don’t have to talk to him.”

Bailey buckled her seat belt and turned on the heat. “What about the other reporters? At the very least, Mother will want them to take a family picture.”

“Pictures are fine. And you can talk to the other guests. Just don’t say more than ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Where’s your checkbook?’ to anyone.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone as he stepped back. “You’ve got my card, right?”

She flashed it from her coat pocket before tucking it back inside. “Wait a minute.” She could talk to the other guests? Bailey tilted her head up to the detective who was punching a number into his phone. “Mr. Knight’s boss is the editor of the Kansas City Journal. She’ll be there Saturday night. The editor is Brian Elliott’s ex-wife, Mara Boyd.”

“And she posted Elliott’s bail.” Spencer waved his phone, letting her know he’d already made the connection. “If she’s willing to post a half-million-dollar bond for the man she divorced, then she may be willing to do a lot more.”

Was Brian Elliott’s ex-wife The Cleaner? Or was she being blackmailed into helping her ex like so many of The Cleaner’s accomplices had done? And if Mara Boyd-Elliott showed up at her mother’s fund-raiser this weekend, should Bailey avoid the woman or ask what the hell she was thinking by helping such a vile, violent man? Or maybe she could find out if Mara needed some kind of help to get away from him?

“Bailey.” Granite eyes demanded her attention. “Leave the detective work to me,” he warned, as if reading her thoughts. “You just show up at the courthouse Monday morning. Remember the rules and stay safe.” He grabbed the car door as he put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Nick. I need you to run a check on—”

He pushed the door shut and waited for her to lock it before he strode away, turning his attention to his partner on the phone. But when he stopped at the elevator, he faced her again, pulling back his coat to prop a hand at his waist, continuing his conversation—completely impervious to the winter air or sneaky reporters or eyewitnesses who wouldn’t go away.

Do what you’re told. Let someone else handle the tough stuff.

Understanding the unspoken message in his watchful gaze better than she wanted to, Bailey shifted the car into Reverse and backed out of her parking space. Reluctantly, she drove around the pillar and down the ramp to the garage’s lower level, losing sight of that beacon of red-gold hair and the man who’d taken over her life for the past hour or so.

The weather looked far more drab, her world felt far more lonesome, than it had just a few minutes earlier. Spencer Montgomery irritated her with his cool, emotionless obsession with duty. But it was that same undeniable strength and grace under pressure that she had clung to when she’d been afraid or unsure of herself this morning.

Bailey braked at the garage’s exit and waited for traffic to pass. She couldn’t help glancing at the stairwell and elevator, wondering if she’d catch another glimpse of the man she found so compelling. But the street cleared and Bailey pulled out, leaving the fireworks of her time spent with Spencer Montgomery behind.

She shook her head at the irony of being attracted to a man who held himself in such control. During the time she’d spent in Spencer’s company, she’d felt anger, security, frustration, strength, uncertainty, excitement and fear. In short, everything a normal woman should feel.

But that was the curse of her life, wasn’t it? Until the trial was finished and Brian Elliott was behind bars permanently, she had no real chance at normal.

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