Michael would keep Annie safe at all costs. He just hoped she wouldn’t shoot him for what he was about to do…

Michael placed himself between Annie and the other police officers. “Annie is seeing me. She’s my fiancée.”

Annie gasped and jabbed him in the back.

“Really? When’s the wedding?” another officer asked.

“Maybe the fall.” Michael turned Annie’s flushed face to his. “Maybe Christmastime.”

Annie clenched her jaw. “If you think I’m going to stand here and—”

Michael silenced her with a kiss.

Though only intended to keep her quiet, his kiss became real when Annie’s initial struggle calmed. Her arms encircled and embraced him. Her lips were sweet and soft. Her supple curves molded to him, and the fire of her anger took on a passion of its own.

Reluctantly, he broke away.

“Guess that settles it,” the police chief said. “If you two aren’t engaged, you should be. Congratulations.”

Annie’s blue eyes were dazed. Her full lips parted, but no words came out.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Harlequin Intrigue has such an amazing selection this month, you won’t be able to choose—so indulge and buy all four titles!

We’re proud to present an exciting new multi-author miniseries, TEXAS CONFIDENTIAL. By day they’re cowboys; by night they’re specialized government operatives. Men bound by love, loyalty and the law—they’ve vowed to keep their missions and identities confidential.…Amanda Stevens kicks off the series with The Bodyguard’s Assignment (#581).

Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York has added another outstanding 43 LIGHT STREET story to her credits with Amanda’s Child (#582). When sexy Matt Forester kidnapped Amanda Barnwell from her Wyoming ranch, he swore he was only protecting her. But with her unborn baby’s life at stake, could Amanda trust her alluring captor?

We’re thrilled to bring you Safe By His Side (#583) by brand-new author Debra Webb. This SECRET IDENTITY story is her first ever Intrigue and we’re sure you’ll love it and her as much as we do. Debra has created The Colby Agency—for the most private of investigations—and agent Jack Raine—a man to die for!

In Undercover Protector (#584) by Cassie Miles, policewoman Annie Callahan’s engagement to Michael Slade wasn’t going to lead to the altar. Michael’s job was to protect Annie from a deadly stalker. But nothing would protect Michael from heartbreak if he failed.…

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Undercover Protector

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Cassie Miles has written thirty-five novels of romance and suspense. She grew up in southern Illinois and Los Angeles, California, and spent enough time in Chicago to become a lifelong Cubs fan before making her permanent home in Colorado, where she raised two daughters. Before she started writing full-time, she held many positions, including personnel secretary, kiddy photographer, waitress, shipping clerk and reporter for a mountain newspaper. Her favorite things are long walks on rocky beaches or in the mountains, reading, Impressionist art, slot machines, sailboats, Elvis and falling in love the second time around.

Books by Cassie Miles

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

122—HIDE AND SEEK

150—HANDLE WITH CARE

237—HEARTBREAK HOTEL

269—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?

285—DON'T BE CRUEL

320—MYSTERIOUS VOWS

332—THE SUSPECT GROOM

363—THE IMPOSTOR

381—RULE BREAKER

391—GUARDED MOMENTS

402—A NEW YEAR’S CONVICTION

443—A REAL ANGEL

449—FORGET ME NOT

521—FATHER, LOVER, BODYGUARD

529—THE SAFE HOSTAGE

584—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

567—BUFFALO MCCLOUD

574—BORROWED TIME

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

61—ACTS OF MAGIC

104—IT’S ONLY NATURAL

170—SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES

235—MONKEY BUSINESS

305—UNDER LOCK AND KEY

394—A RISKY PROPOSITION

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Annie Callahan—The cool policewoman devoted her life to protecting others—and forgot to protect herself.

Michael Slade—Bridgeport’s infamous bad boy is back in town, more protective—and secretive—than ever.

Lionel Callahan—Has Annie’s grandfather known where to find Michael all this time?

Drew Bateman—Eleven years in prison gave him time to plot the ultimate revenge.

Derek Engstrom—The Bridgeport police chief has more to solve than local crimes.

Jake Stillwell—The richest man in town is going broke—what might he do to save himself?

Bobby Janowski—The former bully is now a cop, with the law standing behind him.

Marie Cartier—She touched many lives in Bridgeport before her untimely death.

To Jerry and Jean, Oregonians.

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

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The gusting spring rain shimmered in her headlights and reflected off the slick asphalt in the parking lot outside the gray three-story apartment building where Annie Callahan lived. She swerved into the only available space, at the far end, then cut the engine and turned off the lights. The wet heavy darkness descended like the final curtain of a very long play.

But there would be no applause. Annie’s only performance was everyday common-sense living. She peered through the windshield, wishing there had been a closer parking space. She’d be drenched before she reached the front vestibule.

“Might as well get it over with.” She shoved open the car door and stepped outside. Long strands of blond hair escaped her ponytail and were plastered to her cheeks by the wind. Shivering, she splashed through little puddles on her way to the trunk. It had been a long day.

After she’d completed her regular eight-hour shift on the Salem police force, she’d visited her grandpa at the hospital, where he was recovering from a stroke. In just a few days Grandpa Callahan would be Annie’s full-time job. She’d taken a month’s leave of absence so she could move back home to Bridgeport and take care of him. He was the only family she had left.

Faraway lightning cracked the black skies as she popped the trunk and grabbed a paper sack of toiletries, which she balanced on her hip next to the holster on her police utility belt. There hadn’t been time to change out of her uniform. The sopping wet navy blue fabric clung to her arms and legs. If her captain could see her now, she’d get a serious reprimand. Where’s your slicker, Callahan? She’d forgotten it. This morning had been cloudless and sunny, and she hadn’t been thinking about rainwear. Just because this was Oregon didn’t mean it had to rain every single day. No excuses, Callahan. You’re a cop. You’re supposed to be prepared for anything.

Muttering to herself, she slammed the trunk and turned.

A dark solid form loomed in front of her. The rain splattered on his black poncho and dripped off the bill of his baseball cap. The streetlights outlined his powerful shoulders. He was at least as tall as Annie, and her height in shoes was six feet.

When he took a step in her direction, her instincts warned her that his intentions might not be friendly. She would’ve felt a whole lot safer if she could reach her gun, but the shopping bag was in the way and her piece was holstered. Warning herself not to overreact, she asked, “Can I help you?”

“You’re late tonight, Annie.” He knew her. He’d been waiting for her. His ominous whisper confirmed her sense of danger. “Very late.”

His arm raised. He’d been hiding a baseball bat under the poncho. He gripped the handle with both hands as if he was stepping up to the plate. “This is nothing personal.”

Her self-defense training at the police academy should have prepared her to face him, but she’d been caught unawares. She’d never expected to be accosted in her own parking lot. That kind of thing happened to other women. Annie wasn’t a victim. She was a cop. “Hey!” she shouted at him. “Back off!”

The tip of his bat quivered. He lifted his chin and she saw the face under the cap. His features were distorted by a nylon stocking pulled over his head.

He took a swing. She dodged. The bat slammed against the left rear fender of her car with a sharp metallic crunch.

She dropped the sack. Plastic bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion bounced and scattered across the asphalt. Annie went for her gun.

Before she could aim, the assailant struck again. His bat connected with her right forearm. Pain flashed through her like the strike of a lightning bolt. She dropped the Glock automatic and protectively pulled her injured arm close to her torso. This shouldn’t be happening. She was supposed to be prepared for anything.

Again he raised the bat and she whirled away from him. She wanted to fight back, but she couldn’t get close enough to grapple with him. She was injured, unarmed, helpless. Her only defense was to run. She hurled herself into the downpour.

The hardwood bat swished past her shoulder, missing her by centimeters.

She looked back and saw him take another one-handed swat.

The bat struck a glancing blow to her skull and at the same time she heard a shout. “What’s going on over there?”

“Help me!” Her scream intensified the pain inside her head. Oh God, it hurt. She couldn’t think. Her brain was numb. The lights in the parking lot blurred in the rain, the endless rain. Stunned, she dropped to her knees.

The assailant was right on top of her, but he didn’t touch her again. He was running, fleeing the scene.

The cop in her wanted to apprehend him, but she couldn’t move. She fell forward onto the wet asphalt. A chill sank into her body. The rain tugged like damp tendrils of seaweed in an undertow, pulling her down into a fathomless dark.

Almost unconscious, she felt someone holding her, cradling her. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got a cell phone. I called an ambulance.”

There was something reassuring and familiar about his voice. She wanted to look up and see the face of her rescuer, but her eyelids wouldn’t open.

Gently he murmured, “You’re going to be all right.”

The night washed over her in dark waves. She had to be all right. If she died, who would take care of her grandpa?

“G’night,” she said. And sank into unconsciousness.

Chapter One

“I know you. You’re Lionel Callahan’s granddaughter.” The checkout clerk at the Bridgeport Mini-Mart peeped over her half glasses. “It’s Annie, right?”

“That’s right.” Though she recognized the round face and tiny pug nose of the gray-haired woman, Annie had to read the name tag pinned above the breast pocket of the orange smock. “Edna.”

“So, Annie. How long have you been back in town?”

“A couple of days.”

“What did you do to your arm?”

Annie glanced down at the adjustable cast. She’d been lucky to escape from the parking-lot assault with only a hairline fracture and a mild concussion. The bruising was worse than the break.

“It’s nothing,” she said. News traveled quickly in a small town like Bridgeport, and Annie preferred not to spread this story. It was more than a little embarrassing for a cop to get mugged. “Could you sack my groceries in this canvas pouch? Then I can carry the handle over my left arm.”

“Sure thing,” Edna said. “And how’s Lionel doing?”

“As well as can be expected after a stroke.”

She wasn’t happy with her grandpa’s progress. Though he seemed to be resting comfortably, his attitude bordered on depression. He wouldn’t talk on the telephone, wouldn’t get out of bed and refused to see visitors because he didn’t want people to see him at less than one hundred percent.

Her grandpa had always been an important man in this town. He was the former high-school football coach, and he’d served for two decades as the municipal judge—an elected part-time position for handling minor violations, like breaking curfew or failure to pay parking tickets. Everybody in Bridgeport respected Lionel Callahan, and he didn’t want his status to change.

“Poor Lionel,” Edna said as she slipped a bag of Hershey’s Kisses into the pouch. “I’ll drop by tomorrow with some of my special homemade chicken soup.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Annie said. The freezer was already crammed full of casseroles from friends and well-wishers. They had enough frozen pasta to feed Italy.

“Tell me, Annie.” Edna’s button nose twitched, sniffing out fresh gossip. “Are you married yet?”

“Not yet.” Annie forced a smile.

“A career woman, huh? I heard you were a policewoman. Ever kill anybody?”

“No.” Other people seemed to think her life was one big action-adventure movie.

“But I’ll bet you’ve shot somebody.”

“No again.” Annie shoved a loaf of bread on top of her other groceries, slung the canvas pouch over her shoulder and headed for the door. “See you around, Edna.”

At the corner she turned. It was four blocks from the mini-mart back to her grandpa’s house on Myrtlewood Lane.

Had she ever killed anybody? What a question! Her job was mostly paperwork and common sense. She seldom unholstered her gun and had never purposefully intended to shoot another human being—with the notable exception of the man who’d assaulted her in the parking lot four days ago. If she’d reached her gun in time, she would have fired. That incident, however, was more about self-preservation than policework. Or was it?

For a couple of weeks she’d been on the receiving end of some very strange harassment. Some unknown person had been leaving cheap porcelain figurines where she’d be sure to find them. It started with a skunk on her desk at work. Then there was a ballet dancer on the hood of her car. In the hall outside her apartment she’d found a chipmunk with a chipped ear.

These odd gifts, unaccompanied by a note or any type of explanation, didn’t make sense. At the time she hadn’t thought they were meant as threats.

She rounded the corner onto Myrtlewood Lane, enjoying the comfort of wearing khaki walking shorts and a red T-shirt, instead of a police uniform with a utility belt that weighed thirteen pounds. Her long straight blond hair was free from the regulation ponytail or bun that went with her uniform. In spite of the slight residual headache from her concussion, she felt good.

Here at home, the air always smelled fresher. The red-and-gold sky before dusk shone with more brilliance. Her ears resonated with normally unheard sounds, like the whirr of a hummingbird’s wings.

Though Bridgeport lay only fifteen miles from the coast on the Yaquina River, it was nothing like the bustling touristy seaside towns. Instead, the profound stillness—so different from the city—gave an illusion of security, as if they were sheltered by the old-growth forests that Bridgeport, being a logging town, had done its best to destroy.

The screech of brakes interrupted her reverie, and she watched a dusty beat-up black pickup park at the curb. The guy who climbed out from behind the steering wheel stared directly at her. Was he somebody she knew? Or was he a threat?

Warily Annie halted as he came toward her. He wore work boots, worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed—a typical logger outfit. He was solidly built, probably six feet tall and two hundred pounds. “You’re Annie.”

“That’s right.” She couldn’t place him, and hoped this was an innocent encounter. Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

“On account of we never met.” Up close there was no other word for him but ugly. Limp strands of yellow hair dangled across his narrow forehead. His mouth twitched. The scent of fruit-flavored chewing gum mingled with the acrid smell of his sweat. “Ain’t this a pretty sunset. I always missed the sunsets when I was in prison.”

Prison? A shudder went through her. This meeting felt horribly familiar to the one in the parking lot. He’d come out of nowhere. She was carrying groceries. “Wh-who are you?”

“You’re a cop, right?”

She nodded, not wanting to speak because he’d hear the tremble in her voice. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so easily spooked.

“Some ex-cons don’t cotton to lady cops. But me?” He thumped his chest and chewed his gum faster. “I like a woman in uniform.”

Was he the assailant? Had he followed her to Bridgeport? She tried to picture him in a black poncho and baseball cap. Her mind flashed back to that chilly rainy night. She saw the baseball bat. Her arm twitched with remembered agony. Icy fear crept up and ambushed her.

Her ears drummed with the remembered sounds of pelting rain and thunder. Darkness danced behind her eyelids. She wanted to run. Her grandpa’s house was less than fifty yards away. But her muscles froze, and she was unable to move.

“The name is Drew Bateman,” he said.

She blurted, “What do you want?”

“I’m just hanging around.” He stared so hard that his head came forward like a snake. “But I ain’t going away. Every time you look around, I’ll be there. Tell your grandpa.”

Was he threatening her grandpa? Oh, God. She had to pull herself together. For Lionel’s sake, she had to be strong.

Bateman continued, “Me and Lionel go way back. Every time I came up for parole, they checked with Lionel Callahan, the municipal judge. He never once spoke up for me.”

Her eyes darted. There was no one else on the street. It was dinner hour. Everyone must be inside around the table, saying grace, unaware of the danger. If she screamed—

“Your grandpa kept me in jail.”

He took a step toward her. She’d been caught unprepared. Again. Helpless. Again. “Stay away from me.”

“I won’t touch you. I’m no fool. I won’t get busted for assault and go back to jail like your grandpa wants.”

“Leave him out of this!”

She heard the door slam and glanced toward the sound. From her grandpa’s house, a dark handsome man emerged. Even before he was near enough for her to clearly see his features, she recognized his stride. She would never forget the way he moved.

His thick black hair glistened in the last glow of sunlight. His dark tan contrasted the white of his button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

“Michael.” His name choked in her throat. She was blinded by a brilliant flash of memory. He was her first love, her deepest love. Michael. She never thought she’d see him again. Against her will, a smile cut through her fear. He was still strong and unbelievably handsome. Michael Slade. Eleven years ago he had broken her heart.

He approached quickly. His jaw was set, hard as stone. His dark eyes stared past her at Bateman. Hatred simmered between the two men. A harsh tension charged the atmosphere with the impending danger of a lit fuse.

Michael said, “Move along, Bateman.”

“I got a right to be here. It’s a public sidewalk. I’m not breaking any laws.”

“You’re loitering.”

Michael hadn’t even looked at Annie, hadn’t acknowledged her presence in any way. His behavior seemed rude. He could’ve patted her shoulder or at least given her a nod. It was as if she didn’t even exist. Anger cut sharply through Annie’s fear. Damn you, Michael Slade.

“Loitering is bull,” Bateman said, snapping his chewing gum. “You ain’t got nothing on me.”

“You were harassing this lady.”

This lady? Was that her only significance to him? After all these years, after the way he’d left her without a word, she deserved name recognition at the very least. “This lady can take care of herself.”

“I’m not talking to you, Annie.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll handle this.”

A moment ago she’d been frightened, ready to scream and run away. Now, Michael, whom she hadn’t seen or heard from in years, had come to her rescue and she was absolutely furious. Irrational? Maybe, but Annie didn’t care. Stiffly she said, “When I need your help, Michael Slade, I’ll ask for it.”

Bateman hooted. “She doesn’t like you.”

“You shut up,” Michael snarled.

“Make me. If you throw the first punch, I can fight back. It’s self-defense. Annie is a witness.”

“Not for long,” she said. “Much as I’d love to stick around and watch this spitting contest, I’ve got things to do.”

She pushed past Michael and proceeded down the sidewalk toward her grandpa’s house. Though she wasn’t scared anymore, this emotional roller-coaster ride unnerved her. Slightly disoriented and dizzy, she had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other.

At the wide veranda that wrapped around her grandpa’s two-story wood-frame house, she climbed the three steps, went inside and slammed the screen door behind her. Why was Michael here? Her grandpa must have invited him.

But Michael had vanished without a trace. If her grandpa had known how to contact Michael, why hadn’t he told Annie? She didn’t like secrets, and she hated lies.

“Lionel,” she yelled as she passed the old oak staircase leading up to her grandpa’s bedroom, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Down the hall in the kitchen she dropped the canvas pouch on the table. Bracing herself against the countertop, she exhaled in a whoosh. The terrifying flashback had been erased from her mind, but she was still trembling. The pent-up fury of eleven years shivered through her. How could Michael ignore her? How could he be so indifferent?

He was the first man she’d ever loved and the last person she ever wanted to see again. Raising her left palm to her face, she felt the hot flush of her cheek.

Even after all these years, he had the power to spark her emotions. He had faded safely into her past, an unsolved mystery who she would never see again except in dreams. Now, he was here in the flesh. His unexpected return was nearly as puzzling as his disappearance. Eleven long years ago, she’d trusted him with her first fragile love, and he’d betrayed her. Oh, Michael, why did you leave me?

She glanced toward the hallway leading to the front door, pulling herself back to the present. Why hadn’t he yet returned to the house? Her policewoman’s instincts kicked in. She really hoped he hadn’t been fool enough to get into a fistfight with Bateman. Though she didn’t want to care about Michael, she’d hate herself if he got hurt and she did nothing to stop it.

Her gun was all the way upstairs in her bedroom, and her injured arm was too weak to aim and fire, but Bateman didn’t know that. Just showing her Glock automatic ought to be enough to chase him away.

She dashed down the hallway toward the staircase. Before ascending, she looked out and saw Michael step onto the veranda. Equal parts of anger and relief flooded through her.

He grinned at her through the screen door. “May I come in?”

Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, he was even handsomer now than when he was a teenager. The years had chiseled away any hint of youthful softness, leaving well-honed strong masculine features. He looked hard, dangerous and amazingly sexy. “Give me one good reason why I should open this door.”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

If she invited him inside, the old wounds would rip open, exposing her heart to more devastating hurt. “We have nothing to say.”

“Fine.” He gave a quick nod. “I’ll wait out here until you’ve spoken to Lionel.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“Ask him.”

“Damn it, I’m asking you.” She had a million questions for him. Why did you leave me? Why did you shred my heart like a paper valentine? Unprepared to talk about his long ago betrayal and her pain, Annie decided to leave the past untouched. It was ages ago, and she didn’t know the man Michael had become. “Why are you here? Did Lionel invite you?”

“May I come in?” he repeated.

“Why should I trust you? You might be as dangerous as that creep out on the street.”

“Will you open the door?”

“Fine.” She shoved open the screen door. Immediately she realized that she’d used too much force. The door was going to smash into Michael and probably break his perfect straight nose. She made a frantic grab for the handle.

Michael stepped aside as the door hurtled past. He caught the edge and entered the foyer.

Suddenly they were standing less than a foot apart—near enough to touch. When she looked up into his coffee-brown eyes, she catapulted back in time, remembering his caresses, his strength, his warmth. He was the first man she’d ever really kissed. That long hot tantalizing kiss had transformed her from a sixteen-year-old tomboy into a woman. The memory of sweetly awakening passion spun through her like a cyclone, lifting her off the ground into clear blue skies.

Michael cleared his throat. “How have you been?”

“Fine.” She thudded back to earth. Both feet on the ground, she hardened herself, sealed off her emotions. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. He’d get nothing else from her. Nothing. Coldly, she asked, “And you? Are you well?”

“I’m okay.”

“How nice.”

“I guess so.” Michael’s smile felt rigid as a death mask. He hated the stiff formality of their conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Annie.”

“I’m surprised you even recognize me.”

He could never forget her. His gaze lingered on her. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her lips were full and pink, untouched by lipstick. Light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need makeup to highlight blue eyes that shone with honesty and, at the moment, hostility.

He’d always thought she was incredible. In all the years they’d been apart, he’d never stopped wondering about Annie, about the budding love he’d sacrificed. Regret burned within him. He still carried a battered photo of a sixteen-year-old Annie in his wallet. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared.” Briskly she walked away from him, heading into the front parlor, where she turned on a brass table lamp. Apparently, she wasn’t going to bring up the past.

Following her, he was amazed by how little the room had changed. The claw-foot brown velvet sofa was in the same place. The same framed photographs hung on the wall. The only difference was an air of neglect. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the hardwood floors could use a buffing. When Annie yanked the drapes closed, a cloud of dust escaped.

“The old place is looking a little…”

“Shabby?” she snapped. “You’ll have to pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

On the opposite side of the room, she turned to face him. “You’re right, Michael. Lionel hasn’t been keeping up with repairs. But I’m going to be here for a month, and I’ll get everything shipshape again.”

He wanted to help. He’d always liked this pleasant old house on Myrtlewood Lane. For the first seventeen years of his life he’d ached to live in an orderly neighborhood like this one—a safe haven where nobody drank too much or yelled all the time.

“It’s been eleven years,” Annie said as she came toward him. “I believe this is the first time you’ve come home.”

“Bridgeport was never my home. I just lived here.”

She stopped a few feet away from him. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded. “Who is Drew Bateman? What does he have to do with my grandpa?”

“What did he say to you?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question. You knew him right away. Who is he?”

“Somebody who used to live around here.”

“A logger?”

“I don’t think he ever worked at the mills.” Bateman had probably never worked at all. His profession was criminal.

Curtly she nodded encouragement. “What’s with the chewing gum?”

“He has a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“That’s good to know.” In spite of her visible anger, she eased into an interrogation mode. Like a good cop she used the slight information she’d garnered to push him toward more revelations. “And why was Bateman in prison?”

“Aggravated assault on a police officer. He shot a cop.” Though Michael didn’t want to scare her, she needed to understand that Bateman was a serious criminal, not just a small-town bully. “Annie, I think Lionel should be a part of this conversation.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to upset him.”

“He has a right to know.”

When Michael had arrived at the house half an hour ago, he’d been shocked by Lionel’s frail emaciated appearance—so different from the gruff invulnerable man who’d coached him in football and taught him the meaning of honor that went deeper than sportsmanship. It hadn’t taken long for Michael to realize that Lionel’s willpower and dignity were still there, stronger than ever. A lesser man would’ve given up and died. Lionel was alert enough to know he needed help, wise enough to call on Michael.

Michael turned to Annie and said, “You can’t treat your grandpa like a helpless invalid.”

“Excuse me.” Her voice turned hard and brittle. “You know nothing about what’s gone on here. You’ve been gone for eleven years, Michael. Why now? Why are you here?”

“Because your grandpa needs me.”

“Are you telling me what Lionel needs? Are you suggesting that you know how to take care of my grandpa?”

“I guess I am.” Giving orders came naturally to him, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women. He probably needed to be more careful about how he phrased things. “Let’s go see Lionel.”

“Just a minute.” She dug in her heels. Though she wanted to resist anything Michael suggested, Annie knew he was right about her grandpa. She had to protect him without smothering him. Still, she didn’t want him to worry. He needed to concentrate on getting better. “Lionel has been hurt enough.”

“He’s still a man.”

“Don’t I know that,” she said. “An ornery old buzzard, if you ask me. When he was in the hospital, he refused to take his medicine. And he bribed one of the orderlies to bring him one of those big stinky cigars he loves so much.”

Actually it had done her heart good to walk into his sterile white hospital room and see Lionel with a naughty grin on his face, puffing away like a chimney. “He’s a man, all right. Grumpy. Inconsiderate. Stubborn.”

“That’s exactly what he needs to make him well.” Michael gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”

“I suppose. If that’s the only way I’ll get straight answers.” She crossed the foyer and automatically reached for the railing with her right hand. When she bumped the splint, she winced.

“Looks like you’ve been hurt, too,” he said.

“I got mugged.”

“I know. A mild concussion and hairline fracture.”

She figured Lionel had told him. “It could’ve been a lot worse. I was lucky that a good Samaritan stopped to help me.”

“Lucky? I don’t think so. This so-called Samaritan didn’t come fast enough.”

“He saved my life. And I never had a chance to thank him. He took off when the paramedics arrived.”

She didn’t expect him to understand, didn’t expect anything from Michael Slade but lies and a tendency to run away when the going got tough. Turning her back on him, she hiked up the stairs and crossed the upstairs landing to her grandpa’s bedroom.

In the doorway she stopped in her tracks and stared. Then she beamed a wide grin, delighted by what she saw. Lionel was out of bed. He was sitting in the easy chair by the bay window. Though the weakened left side of his body slumped, he looked like his old self. “Grandpa, how did you—”

“Mikey helped me get over here. You two want to tell me what the hell was going on outside?”

Her anger was completely disarmed. Having Michael pay a visit might be sheer agony for her, but his presence seemed to have had a positive effect on her grandpa. It had gotten him moving. “Grandpa, what is Michael doing here?”

“First things first,” Lionel said. “Who was that guy on the street?”

“Drew Bateman,” she said.

Lionel exchanged a meaningful glance with Michael. “I haven’t heard that name in a while.”

“He’s an ex-convict,” Annie said, “and he seems to blame you for keeping him in jail.”

“Well, he’s right about that. If it was up to me, I’d lock him up and throw away the key.”

“I didn’t recognize him.” And she surely would’ve remembered somebody so ugly. “Is he from Bridgeport?”

“He’s from Wayside, over on the coast.”

“Why does he blame you?”

“I helped get him convicted.”

That didn’t make sense. As municipal judge, her grandpa hadn’t dealt with felony crime. A serious criminal like Bateman wouldn’t have been arraigned in Lionel’s makeshift courtroom at the back of the police station. So how was he involved with a case that included aggravated assault on a cop? She drew the obvious conclusion. “You were a witness at his trial. You testified against him.”

“That’s right.” He held out his right hand toward her. “Come here, honey.”

She went to him and perched on the arm of his chair, gazing fondly at him. Though his cheeks were sunken and his body ravaged from the stroke, she still saw him as the strong kind man who’d taken her in and raised her after her parents were killed in a boating accident. She’d been only ten years old. If it hadn’t been for Lionel, Annie didn’t know what would have become of her. He’d been her solace and her inspiration. Everything she was she owed to him.

He gently patted her arm. “Did he scare you, Annie?”

“Grandpa, I’m a cop.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She wouldn’t tell him about the flashback of rain and fear. Annie didn’t understand the sudden panic attack herself, and she surely didn’t want to worry her grandpa. “I’m all right.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“He did the opposite. He said he wouldn’t touch me because that might get him arrested. At the same time he promised to always be around, watching.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. Bateman is my problem.”

Once upon a time she would’ve left all the worry to him. She’d believed her grandpa could do anything. He could chase away the monsters under the bed and keep her safe. But it was her turn now. She was the caretaker.

“Bateman is our problem.” She lifted his hand to her lips and planted a little kiss on the knuckles. “Tomorrow morning I’ll stop by the police station and take out a restraining order. Is Derek Engstrom still running things?”

“For the past six years,” he said. “You’re a good kid, Annie.”

“So are you.”

“By the way,” her grandpa said, “Michael is going to be staying with us for a couple of days.”

“What?” She bounced to her feet.

“Or maybe a week,” her grandpa said.

A week? She couldn’t stand to have Michael here for a week. It would be too strange. Though she didn’t want to push Lionel or dampen his positive mood, Annie had to be direct. “Since you’ve mentioned Michael, I’d like very much to know how you happened to get in touch with him.”

“Well, that’s an easy question. We talked on the telephone.”

“Just like that? After all these years?”

“I’ve kept track of Michael,” her grandpa admitted.

If Annie had heard those words eleven years ago, possibly even eight or seven years ago, she would have been devastated. Michael had meant so much to her. He was the only person, other than Lionel, she’d trusted after the death of her parents. When Michael had abandoned her without a word, she’d lost her first true love and her best friend.

But she’d made her peace with the past and had moved on with her life. If her grandpa and Michael had been pen-pals, and kept it from her, she wouldn’t let it matter. But she still didn’t want him staying at the house, raking up old memories. “Grandpa, this isn’t a real convenient time for Michael to visit.”

“You misunderstand, Annie. He’s not here for a visit. Michael came here to help take care of me. Just until I get rid of this dang clumsy walker and can stand on my own two feet.”

She glanced at Michael, who stood with infuriating calm, observing their conversation. Annie tried to equal his cool detachment. She knew nothing about him. They’d been apart far longer than they’d been together. “Are you some kind of medical professional?”

“No,” he said.

“Not a doctor or a male nurse?”

“No.”

She turned back to Lionel. “We don’t need Michael. You have a physical therapist coming by three times a week, and I’m here. Grandpa, that’s why I took a leave of absence. To help you.”

“Well, honey, I’m just not comfortable with you doing some things for me. It needs to be another man. I got to have help getting dressed. Getting in and out of the bathtub.”

“I can do those things,” she protested. “My arm is going to be healed in no time, and I’m plenty strong.”

“That’s not the point, Annie.”

It sure as heck was! “We don’t need—”

“I want Michael to stay.”

Too agitated to stand still, she crossed the room to his rumpled bed and began pulling the covers together. “If you really need a man to help, we can hire somebody. Maybe one of the football players from the high school.”

“No,” Lionel said firmly. “That’s not who I am in this town. I can’t have folks thinking of me as a helpless old codger. I got plans for the future, and they don’t include being tended to by some teenager I don’t even know.”

“I won’t get in the way,” Michael said smoothly. “Lionel says you have a guest bedroom downstairs.”

Viciously she plumped the pillows on his bed. Their plans were made. She had no choice but to accept Michael’s presence, but she didn’t have to like it.

The telephone on the bedside table rang, and Annie snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Annie. I heard you were back in town. This is Jake Stillwell. Remember me?”

“Of course I do.” She could hardly forget Jake Stillwell. Not only was he blond and good-looking, but he was the only son of the richest family in Bridgeport, the owners of the last remaining lumber mill.

“I’d like to get together while you’re in town. Maybe tomorrow night?”

But he was married to Candace Grabow, the most popular girl in school and the bounciest cheerleader in the history of the Bridgeport Badgers. And, Annie remembered belatedly, Candace was the daughter of Edna who ran the local minimart. “You’re married, Jake.”

“Divorced,” he said. “How about it, Annie? We can have dinner. I know a nice little place on the coast.”

“Sounds lovely, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Until my grandpa is settled in, I don’t want to be away from the house for too long.”

“I understand,” he said. “Give me a call when you’re ready to go out.”

“Sure thing.”

She hung up the receiver. Both Lionel and Michael stared at her with wary eyes.

“Jake,” Michael said disgustedly. “Was that Jake Stillwell?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You can’t go out with him, Annie.”

She gaped, unable to comprehend his colossal arrogance. “Are you presuming to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

“All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t date any of the guys in town until we know what’s going on with Bateman.”

“Get real! There’s no way scum like Bateman is somehow involved with the Stillwell family.”

“We don’t know,” Michael said. “You were attacked four days ago in Salem. Was it Bateman?”

That thought had been gradually forming in the back of her mind. Her confrontation with Bateman on the street had been very similar to the mugging. It felt the same. But the shapeless poncho had disguised her assailant’s girth, and his face was distorted by the nylon stocking. “I can’t make a positive identification.”

“Could it have been someone else?”

“Yes,” she conceded. “But it seems unlikely, especially since Bateman has a history of attacking police officers.”

Lionel said, “Bateman might be working with somebody else. A long time ago, when he was arrested, he was part of a gang. Michael is right. Until we know what’s going on, you should be very careful about who you spend time with.”

Once again the two of them had united against her with an outrageous plan. She glanced between them. “Well, boys, if Bateman is part of some sort of conspiracy, I suggest you leave the detective work to me. After all, I am a trained policewoman. You, Lionel, are a retired football coach, and you…” She focused on Michael. “I don’t know what you are.”

“I captain a charter vessel based in Seattle.”

“So, you’re not a professional detective.” She made a slashing motion with her good hand. “End of story. If anybody is going to be investigating around here, it’s me.”

“You and Mikey could work together,” Lionel said. “Like partners.”

“I don’t think so.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. “I’ll be in my bedroom.”

“What about dinner?” Lionel asked.

“Michael wants to be your little helper. Let him cook.”

Head held high, she crossed the upstairs landing to her bedroom, closed the door and fell backward across the hand-stitched blue-and-white quilt. She stared up at the ceiling. Less than an hour ago she’d seen Bridgeport as a peaceful sanctuary with sheltering forests and hummingbirds sipping nectar. Now it was chaos. Her inner turmoil twirled like a kaleidoscope centered on the flower-patterned light fixture.

She closed her eyes, settled down and almost immediately realized she was hungry. Unfortunately, after her high-handed exit, she didn’t feel ready for another encounter. She’d wait to eat until after Lionel and Michael had gone to bed.

She checked her wristwatch. It was only half-past seven. How late would they stay up?

After taking a shower, washing her hair, adjusting the splintlike cast on her arm and dressing for bed in a satin pastel nightgown, which was—as she readily admitted—an overly feminine reaction to her daytime uniform, she could still hear the rumble of male voices from the bedroom across the hall. There was also laughter. Her grandpa and Michael were sharing a joke. No matter what else she thought about Michael Slade, he was good for Lionel.

There had always been a bond between the two males. Annie remembered teen-aged Michael, tall and lithe, with his untrimmed black hair flopping across his forehead and his eyes squinted in concentration as he ran patterns across the backyard while her grandpa threw spiral football passes. Though Michael had a reputation as a tough kid, he’d followed all of her grandpa’s team rules and restrictions. Except for one. Keep away from my granddaughter. Lionel had warned all the guys on the team. Only Michael had disobeyed.

Their stolen moments together were poignant and sweet. She’d been touched that he would risk his position on the team in order to spend time with her.

Was he still a rebel? He was certainly more solidly built, more manly. His appearance impressed her. And he seemed to have done well for himself, becoming the captain of a charter vessel in Seattle.

But she didn’t like his arrogance. Ordering her not to date anybody in town? Ridiculous! If Michael thought he could swagger in here like the prodigal hero and expect her to salute, he had another think coming.

His suggestion that Bateman wasn’t acting alone was fairly ludicrous. Unless…

The man who attacked her in the parking lot had said it was “nothing personal.” Bateman might have hired him. Newly released from prison, he had the necessary criminal contacts to locate a hitman.

But why would Michael leap to that conclusion? Maybe it was because he knew more than he was telling. The more Annie thought about it, the more certain she was that Michael had inside information about Bateman. But what? And why?

She slipped between the sheets and turned off the light. The clock beside the bed read nine-thirty-three. It was past time for Lionel to be asleep.

In the dark she listened. The voices from across the hall went quiet. She’d give it a few more minutes, then sneak downstairs for a snack.

As she eased one toe out of the bed, her door opened a crack. “Michael?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was checking to make sure you were all right before I went to sleep. Do you need anything?”

The sound of his deep voice was pleasantly reassuring. She lay back on the pillows. “I’m fine.”

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

His voice…

“Good night, Annie.”

“G’night.”

The bedroom door swung closed with a click.

Her mind was racing toward a conclusion, but she didn’t know what it was. All thought of food vanished as she concentrated with all her might, reaching for an answer that was just beyond her grasp. What was it?

Moments passed as she searched the corners of her mind. What had he said?

Annie bolted upright on the bed. His voice! She’d heard his voice in the rainy darkness four days ago.

Michael had been the good Samaritan.

Chapter Two

Michael descended the staircase, thoughts of Annie lingering in his mind. He tried to match his memory of a sweet, spunky sixteen year old to the reality of a competent, strong woman. Though now a cop, her gentleness and vulnerability were still there. And she was still beautiful, naturally lovely.

He turned out the lights as he went through the house to the guest bedroom at the rear. When he’d left Bridgeport, he never expected to see Annie again, never hoped she would forgive him for abandoning her. And now? He wondered if she would ever be able to trust him again.

In the guest room, he tossed his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. His hanging clothes were already in the closet. From the moment he’d arrived, there’d been no question about whether or not he would stay. Annie and Lionel were in danger, and it was Michael’s fault. He would not leave them here unprotected.

He stretched, yawned and unbuttoned his white shirt as the stillness of a Bridgeport night settled around him. The deceptive quiet masked dark motives and old hatreds.

Michael heard a sudden crash.

Unlike the clean snap of gunfire, the noise resonated with a faint tinkling aftermath. A smashed window. A break-in.

Automatically he responded to the threat. From his open suitcase, he grabbed his Smith and Wesson automatic and snapped the 10-mm clip into the magazine. He turned off the overhead light in the guest bedroom and slipped into the unlit kitchen.

Above the half curtains, moonlight spilled across the countertops, the table and tile floor. With eyes unaccustomed to the dark, Michael scanned. He expected to find an intruder, and he hoped it was Bateman. Caught red-handed, Drew Bateman would be sent back to jail where he belonged.

There was nothing unusual in the kitchen. No movement except for the shifting shadows of wind-tossed tree branches outside the windows.

He moved on, swiftly and silently. This house was a security man’s nightmare. There were too many windows, some of them open to the fresh spring air with nothing but a mesh screen protecting the people inside. The door locks were a joke. There weren’t even dead bolts. Tomorrow he’d get this place wired with burglar alarms and sensors. He couldn’t have Annie and her grandfather living in a fish-bowl.

Bracing his gun in both hands, Michael listened for betraying noises. A cough. A creaking floorboard.

From overhead, on the second floor, he heard the alarming shuffle of someone moving around. Damn it! The crash had come from the front of the house. Most likely the intruder would go upstairs first—to the bedrooms where Annie and her grandpa slept.

If he’d failed her again…Michael hurried toward the staircase. Flattened against a wall in the hallway, he saw the front entry. Two etched-glass windows, twelve inches wide and three feet tall, bordered the carved oak door, which was still closed and apparently locked. The window on the right side of the door, nearest the handle, had been broken. Porchlight shone through the jagged shards still clinging to the frame. On the floor lay a good chunk of brick and more shattered glinting glass.

“Annie!” he called out. “Annie, are you all right?”

He waited. Seconds dragged into an eternity of apprehension as he imagined Bateman standing over her, threatening her, touching her with his filthy hands. Michael prepared himself to charge up the stairs.

Finally he heard her clear voice from the landing. “We’re okay.”

Thank God! “Stay up there.”

She peeked over the railing. A small cry escaped her. “They broke Grandma’s roses.”

“What?”

“Those decorative windows were one of my grandma’s last projects. Grandpa is going to be really furious when he finds out that—”

“Annie! Listen to me! Go into Lionel’s room and lock the door.”

“I’m the professional here,” she responded. “We need to secure the first floor and the basement, and two sets of eyes are better than one. You need backup.”

She was correct of course. But her security intelligence bothered him. He didn’t like to think of sweet beautiful Annie in danger. Being careful not to silhouette himself in front of the two windows flanking the front door, Michael ducked down and approached the front-porch light switch. From a crouched position he looked up the staircase.

Annie stepped down from the second-floor landing. Her sleeveless pink satin gown fell past her knees, outlining every graceful curve of her long lean body. Her sleek blond hair splayed out on her shoulders. In her left hand she held a black police-issue nightstick. In her right hand—in spite of the splint—she aimed a can of pepper spray.

The incongruous combination of sexy, slithering satin and dangerous weapons was appropriate for her. She was half “Come hither,” half “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Turn off the light.”

He flipped the switch, and shadows consumed the foyer.

In her white running shoes, she darted across the glassstrewn floor and crouched beside him. “There’s nobody upstairs, and Grandpa is still snoring. His nighttime medication is heavy-duty stuff.”

He gave a brief nod.

“I guess we should assume this isn’t an act of random vandalism. It was Bateman. But why?”

“He wanted to get inside,” Michael said. “After he broke the window, he could reach inside and open the door.”

“But there are a lot more subtle ways to break into this house. We’re not exactly Fort Knox.” She looked up at the shattered window and frowned. “I don’t understand this. He didn’t have to ruin Grandma’s roses.”

“Maybe he did it to lure us to the front of the house,” Michael said.

“For what purpose?”

“A sniper. That’s why I’m crawling around on the floor. I don’t want to stand up and be a target.”

“Or a distraction,” she said. “He might have broken the front window as a distraction so he could come in through the back. Or through the root cellar.”

“Or he might have just wanted to scare you.”

“Well, that didn’t work. I’m a whole lot more fired up than frightened. What a creep! I’ll never find another window to match the one that’s broken.”

“We should secure the downstairs,” he said.

“Right.” She glanced at his Smith and Wesson. “Is that standard equipment for captains on fishing vessels?”

“It’s handier than a harpoon.”

Her gaze lifted. In the faint reflection of moonlight through the windows, she stared straight into his eyes, and he knew she was looking for answers, trying to penetrate secrets he had no intention of revealing to her. He’d never been completely honest with her. Not eleven years ago. And not now. There were some things she didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know.

He returned her scrutiny. Though Michael was trained to notice signs of tension and deception, he was distracted by the sweet shush of her breathing and the clean fragrance of her fresh-washed hair. If he tangled his fingers in that straight blond mane, he knew the texture would be as fine as silk.

In her eyes, he glimpsed a brief reflection of his own desire. He was suddenly aware of her maturity and the adult passions that burned within her. But there was also a warning. She didn’t trust him.

“Michael,” she said, “how well did you know Bateman? Were you friends?”

“Briefly. He was older than me. I thought he was cool. But that was a long time ago.”

“Eleven years ago. I haven’t forgotten.”

Nor had he. Every detail of what had happened was tattooed indelibly in his brain. It was a grotesque picture, his private hell, colored in rage, regret and shame. Bateman had destroyed everything that was good in his life.

“Michael, tell me.”

This wasn’t a peppy little bedtime story with a happy ending. He didn’t want to share the details with Annie. Eleven years ago he’d been unable to face her, and it wasn’t any easier tonight.

Michael looked away, but he could still feel her gaze weighing on him. If he told her everything, her curiosity might turn to disgust. Brusquely he repeated, “We need to secure the downstairs.”

“I’ll go first,” she said. “You back me up.”

“I should be in the lead. You don’t even have your gun.”

“My injured wrist isn’t strong enough to hold it, much less aim with any accuracy. But don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

That hadn’t been the case in the parking lot outside her apartment. She’d been surprised and easily incapacitated by the assailant with the baseball bat.

Michael knew he hadn’t reacted fast enough to protect her in that situation. Every time he saw the adjustable cast on her arm, he felt guilty. Her injury was his fault. “Listen to me, Annie. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“You just don’t want me to be in control,” she said. “Just like when we were kids. But things are different now. I’m in charge.”

When she headed toward the front parlor, his only option was to follow. Muttering to himself about headstrong women, Michael took the backup position.

She moved cautiously, never stepping directly into the light, protecting her back, allowing her eyes to scan her surroundings before she proceeded. Though her nightstick and pepper spray were absurd weapons, she brandished them with confidence. It was obvious she’d done this kind of search before. She was a cop—cool under pressure, efficient, one hundred percent professional.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

“By what?”

“You really know how to do this—when to stay low and when to move fast. You’re good.”

“I’m not a rookie, Michael. This is my job.” They’d reached the guest bedroom. “Um, why don’t you button up that shirt. It’s chilly.”

His gaze focused on the V-neckline of her satin gown, which showed a hint of cleavage. Her nipples peaked against the satin fabric. “Are you cold?”

“Just—button up and let’s get this over with.”

Annie turned away from him. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and was glad for the semidarkness that hid her embarrassed blush. Her body temperature had begun to elevate when she’d crouched beside him in the foyer and he’d stared into her eyes with such intensity. Now she was flaming hot, and she wished he’d button that shirt. The quick glimpses of his crisp black chest hair and darkly tanned flesh were driving her crazy.

She faced the uncomfortable fact that he aroused her. Oh my, this was so different from when she’d known him before and had been too inexperienced to understand her own sexuality. Eleven years ago, her attraction to him had been like a dreamy fantasy, a girl’s imaginings of what it would be like to make love. When she looked at him now, her dreams were x-rated.

It was wrong for her to want him. Why had he come back after eleven years? There was more to Michael’s presence than the mere intrusion of an unwanted houseguest. He might also be a threat. He had been at her apartment the night she was attacked. Now, she discovered, he was in possession of a handgun. She felt sure that his presence in her grandpa’s house had far more significance than a simple urge to help out in a crisis.

She left him in the bedroom and went into the kitchen, where she took two flashlights from a drawer near the back laundry room. She checked them both. Only one was working. “I’ll take this and go into the cellar alone. I know my way around well enough that I won’t have to turn on the lights.”

“Wrong,” he said. “I’ll go into the cellar alone. I have the gun.”

“It’s a mess down there. You’ll never find anything.”

“At least I can protect myself. What are you going to do if there’s an armed intruder?”

She pantomimed whacking him with the flashlight and held the pepper spray up to his face.

Gently he caught hold of her wrist above the splint. His fingers encircled her arm. His grasp electrified her. Though he was careful not to hold too tightly, she could feel his hot steely strength.

“Annie, I’m sorry about this. About all of this.”

“What do you mean? What—”

“Stay here.” He yanked the handle of the cellar door and pulled it open. “I’ll be right back.”

He was halfway down the stairs before she could object, and it was just as well she didn’t attempt to speak coherently. Her brain seemed muddied, drowning her common sense. Every fiber of her body was pleasantly numbed. With one touch Michael had turned her into a trembling blob of vanilla pudding.

This had to stop! She sank into a straight-back chair and rested both hands flat on the kitchen table. Moonlight shone through the upper half of the windows between the gingham café curtains and the matching valance. Crickets chirped outside the windows. If she stepped outside, Annie would be gently bathed in starlight. If she stepped outside with Michael, if he took her in his arms…

The fingers of her left hand curled into a fist and she lightly pounded the oak tabletop. Why couldn’t she control her emotions? She shouldn’t care about him. When he ran away and left her, he’d branded himself a liar, someone who couldn’t be trusted. Michael wasn’t her lover or her boyfriend. If anything, he was a suspect.

When he emerged from the basement, his white shirt was streaked with grime. “Nothing down there,” he said. “The door leading to the outside was still barred shut.”

She remained seated, struggling to gather her senses. She had to find out why he had been at her apartment. “I don’t think we should search outside by ourselves. We should follow proper procedures.”

“Right,” he said. “We’ll call 911.”

“Why don’t you use your cell phone?” She rose and approached him so she could see his reaction in the dim light. “I know you have one.”

“Do you?”

“You used it four nights ago, remember? In the parking lot outside my apartment building.”

His dark-eyed gaze betrayed a total lack of emotion—a characteristic typical of a born liar. Calmly he asked, “How long have you known?”

“Why were you there, Michael?”

“I promise to explain.” He went to the wall phone in the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “First I’ll call the police station.”

“No,” she said. Her voice sounded firm in spite of the fluttering of her heart. She really wanted to believe in him, wanted him to offer a rational excuse. “I need an answer, an honest answer. If you’re going to stay here, there can’t be any more lies.”

“Lies? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A long time ago you promised you’d never leave me. Then you were gone. You betrayed me.” And it still hurt. “Now, after eleven years, you come back in the middle of another strange situation. You weren’t a good Samaritan, just a stranger passing by. You were in my parking lot for a reason. What was it?”

A stillness fell between them, separating them. The gentle sounds of night—the crickets and the groans of the old house settling on its foundation—seemed deafening. Annie could almost hear the seconds ticking, widening the gulf that divided her from Michael. If he lied to her now, she could never trust him again.

“I was following you,” he admitted.

He’d been watching her, and she hadn’t even known. Annie felt violated and strangely excited at the same time. “Why?”

“Off and on, I’d been tailing you for almost a couple of weeks—ever since Bateman got out on parole. I knew he had a vendetta against your grandfather. Since Lionel was relatively safe in the hospital, I decided I’d better keep an eye on you.”

“The standard procedure in such a situation is to follow the suspect—not the victim.”

He raised one eyebrow and a slow grin curved his lips. “I figured it’d be more fun to watch you.”

“Jeez, Michael. You sound like a weirdo stalker.”

“I learned a lot about you.”

“Like what?”

“A lot,” he said. Once he’d gotten over his initial reticence about invading her privacy, Michael had enjoyed watching her. Annie had turned into the kind of woman he’d expected her to be. She had a healthy lifestyle and went jogging almost every morning. But she also had a taste for junk food. There was no special man in her life, and her partner on the Salem police force was happily married. Though her car radio was tuned to a classical station, she occasionally listened to and sang along with country-western songs.

“You could’ve picked up a phone and called me,” she said. “All I needed was a simple warning that I was in danger.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. I expected you to hate me after the way I left.”

“Ancient history.” But her sudden frown told him that he’d guessed correctly. He wasn’t her favorite person.

“Did you manage to uncover any useful information?” she asked. “Was it Bateman who attacked me in the parking lot?”

“I’m not sure.” He hadn’t expected the assault. Not in the rain. “After the paramedics took you to the hospital, I went looking and found Bateman at his favorite tavern in Salem. The bartender said he’d been there all night.”

“Is that a solid alibi?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Michael, I wish you’d left this to a professional investigator. What else do you know about Bateman?”

“He had a reputation in prison as a ringleader with a lot of connections.” Like a poisonous spider in the center of his web, Bateman knew how to pull strings and get other people to do his dirty work. He was surprisingly intelligent and had a natural slyness that made him adept at playing manipulative games. “He’s a true sociopath, completely without conscience or any sense of right or wrong.”

“I’m familiar with the profile,” she said. “It explains something to me.”

“What’s that?”

“When I first encountered him on the street, he scared me. I don’t usually get rattled, but there was something about him that triggered my fears.” She hesitated. “Even though he didn’t actually threaten me, my gut instinct was warning me to be careful.”

“I don’t know how far his influence reaches, Annie. But we can’t be too cautious. That’s why I don’t want you going out alone on dates that might be a trap. It’s best if you stay away from Jake Stillwell or anybody else.”

“I’ll think about it.” She nodded toward the phone. “Go ahead and call the police. Please tell them not to use the siren. I’d prefer if Grandpa slept through the night.”

Picking her way through the dark house, she went upstairs to change clothes before the Bridgeport police officers arrived. If the gossips in town heard she’d been wearing a slinky nightie and sleeping under the same roof as an unmarried man, they’d assume the worst, even with her grandpa there as chaperone. She had no intention of being paired up with Michael Slade again.

Before returning downstairs in her jeans and baggy gray sweatshirt, she tiptoed to her grandpa’s bedroom door, intending to close it tightly. There was no need to disturb him. He needed his rest.

“Annie?” he called from the bed. “What’s going on?”

Her hand rested on the doorknob. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A police siren screamed along Myrtlewood Lane.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” Lionel said.

She explained, “Somebody threw a brick through the window by the front door. We called 911.”

“The window with roses? Your grandma’s window?”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

“Can’t be helped.” He stretched out his long scrawny arm and turned on the lamp beside the bed. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position. “Hand me a bathrobe. I won’t have the local police thinking I’m an invalid.”

Resigned to her grandpa’s concern with his reputation, she plumped the pillows and helped him comb his hair. In spite of his emaciated body, he donned an attitude of dignity. He wasn’t about to lie back quietly and accept anybody’s pity.

And she was glad for his change in attitude. Pride was a whole lot better than depression. Fondly she patted his bony shoulder. “You’re a stubborn old buzzard, Lionel Callahan.”

“Well, I can’t rest easy while you’re still running around getting yourself into trouble.”

Neither the attack in the parking lot nor the brick through the window were her fault. However, if it made Grandpa feel better to believe she needed his protection, Annie wouldn’t disillusion him. “I guess trouble is my middle name.”

“Always has been.”

“By the way,” she said, remembering Michael’s statement that he’d come here to protect her and Lionel from possible retribution from Bateman. “Did you telephone Michael? Or was it the other way around?”

“Can’t say that I recall.” His expression was too innocent to be believed. “I was a little hazy after the stroke.”

Hazy like a fox, she thought. Grandpa had his own special reasons for wanting Michael to stay at the house. “I hope you’re not playing matchmaker.”

“Between you and Michael?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “The idea might have crossed my mind. I’m not getting any younger, Annie. I wouldn’t mind having some youngsters around the neighborhood.”

“Great-grandchildren.” She didn’t like being manipulated. “Don’t push me, Lionel.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Downstairs she confronted Police Chief Derek Engstrom himself. Though he was out of uniform, his beige trousers were sharply creased. The plaid shirt under his green Bridgeport Badgers windbreaker was starched and ironed. Engstrom was a tidy person in his early forties, and he was in good physical condition. There was only a touch of gray in his thinning brown hair. As far as she knew, he’d been living alone since his mother died. “I’m surprised to see you, Chief Engstrom. I didn’t think you’d be on duty this late.”

“I had just stopped by the station when your call came through.” He nodded to the uniformed officer. “Bobby, you remember little Annie Callahan.”

“Annie was never little.” Officer Bobby Janowski smirked as he eyeballed her from toe to head. “She always was the tallest girl at Bridgeport High.”

And Bobby had always been the most obnoxious bully. It annoyed her that he’d chosen a career in law enforcement. “Hi, Bobby.”

“Heard you’re a cop in Salem.” He hitched up his uniform trousers and stood straighter, as if trying to match her height. He was only five foot nine. “That’s a tough job for a woman.”

“I guess I’m big enough to handle the work. Now, I suggest we go outside and have a look around.”

“Agreed,” Michael said.

Engstrom squinted in his direction. His upper lip curled in a disdainful smirk. “I remember you, Michael Slade.”

Michael didn’t need to verbally respond; his body language said it all. His eyes became cold and hooded, his chin hardened, and he thrust out his chest. He was transformed into an archetypal tough guy, a hoodlum.

“You were a troublemaker in high school,” Engstrom accused. “A real punk, weren’t you? You got picked up for reckless driving and curfew violations, right?”

Still Michael said nothing.

As a fellow law-enforcement officer, Annie should have taken Engstrom’s side. But there was a dignity in Michael’s silence. He didn’t deny his past. Nor did he try to defend it.

“And drinking,” Engstrom continued with the long-ago rap sheet, “underage possession and consumption of alcohol. Or maybe that was your father.”

“That’s right,” Bobby put in. “Old man Slade was one mean son of a gun when he got drunk.”

Annie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Chief Engstrom, we have a problem here. An act of vandalism.”

But Engstrom was on a roll. He put himself right into Michael’s face. “I’m surprised to see Michael Slade in one piece. With the way he started out, I would’ve thought he’d be dead or in jail by the time he was twenty-five.”

“Disappointed?” Michael asked.

“You only had one thing going for you, Slade. You were the finest wide receiver who ever played for Bridgeport Badgers. I still remember that game against the Cougars.” Engstrom stepped back to pantomime throwing a football. “Jake Stillwell was quarterback. You caught four touch-down passes. Stillwell to Slade. It was a thing of beauty.”

This little trot down memory lane annoyed Annie even more than Engstrom’s former hostility. “If you don’t mind, Chief, we should check the yard for—”

“It’s okay, Annie,” he said condescendingly. “We’re here now, and we’ll protect you. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Her muscles tensed with the effort of holding back a frustrated scream. “You can’t imagine how that makes me feel.”

“Besides, if anyone was outside, they probably left when we pulled up.”

“There might be clues,” she said. “Like footprints. Or a cigarette butt. Maybe a chewing-gum wrapper. Something.”

“We won’t find anything in the dark,” Engstrom said. “With the shadows a flashlight casts, we might miss important evidence, might accidentally destroy something.”

“Hey!” came Lionel’s shout from upstairs. “Is that Derek Engstrom?”

“Yes, sir,” Engstrom called back. “Come upstairs with me, Bobby. Let’s see how Lionel is doing.”

“Wait!” Annie pointed to the chunk of brick on the floor. “This is a big fat piece of evidence. Aren’t you going to do anything about it? Take it back to the station and check for fingerprints?”

“Why don’t you put that brick in a grocery bag for me,” Engstrom said. “We’ll grab it on our way out.”

Stunned by their complete lack of professionalism, Annie glared at the retreating backsides of the Bridgeport police as they ascended the stairs. To Michael she said, “I don’t believe this. If I treated a crime scene this way, I’d be booted off the force.”

“We’re in Bridgeport,” he reminded her. “The idiots are running things.”

Though she wanted to speak up for her hometown, the police chief’s behavior was indefensible. “Why does Engstrom have it in for you?”

He shrugged. “In his narrow mind, I’ll always be Michael Slade, teenage troublemaker.”

“And a damn good wide receiver.”

“My only saving grace,” he said. “I could hang on to Jake Stillwell’s wobbly passes.”

She stared down at the piece of brick. “I guess I should go to the kitchen and get a bag for this. It’s probably too porous for decent fingerprints, but you never know.”

“I’ll wait here,” Michael said.

Facing Engstrom had awakened bad memories of his small-town identity as a bad boy. The bitter ache still lingered. No matter where he went or what he did, when he came here, he was still a punk. He couldn’t change that. He was still the son of an abusive drunk who couldn’t hang on to his job at the lumber mill and then deserted the family for good.

Even though Michael had grown up only eight miles from here, his world had been far different from Annie’s. She was a Callahan. Her grandpa was a respected man in town, and they lived in a nice house with rose-patterned windows by the door.

Eleven years ago he’d tried to be worthy of her. He’d backed away from his hoodlum friends, quit smoking and drinking. He even read a book of poetry she’d given him. He tried to be a better person, deserving of Annie’s attention. And he failed.

She returned from the kitchen with a plastic grocery bag and two foil-wrapped chocolates, which she held out toward him and he declined. “More for me,” she said.

She unwrapped them and popped one into each cheek, like a chipmunk. Then she picked up the brick chunk with two fingers. “Nothing remarkable about this piece of concrete.”

When she turned it over, he saw markings on the bottom side. “What’s that?”

Annie studied it. “Black marker. It’s numbers—six, one, three—and there’s a space between the six and the one.”

“Six, thirteen.”

“What do you think it means? A code? An address?”

“Maybe a date,” he said. “June thirteenth.”

It was the anniversary of the worst day of his life, the day his future died. Michael knew exactly why Bateman had thrown a brick through the window. It wasn’t to signal a break-in or to offer an opportunity for a sniper.

The brick was a reminder and a threat. Six. Thirteen. June thirteenth.

Annie placed the brick in a plastic grocery sack. “What does the date mean, Michael?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to explain to her, but there seemed no way around it. It wasn’t fair to withhold information. “We’ll talk later.”

“Today’s the seventh. June thirteenth is less than a week away,” she said. “Should I be concerned?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. June thirteenth might be the date when Bateman intended to take his final revenge.

She eyed him curiously. “Well?”

“Not now,” he said. “Not with Engstrom upstairs.”

“Fine, we’ll get rid of him. And Bobby. They’re not acting like police, anyway.”

Michael followed her up the staircase to Lionel’s bedroom, where the old man was finishing a harangue about the spread of vandalism in small towns. “…the teenagers don’t respect private property because nobody bothers to teach them about right and wrong.”

Engstrom nodded. “You think teenagers broke your front-door window?”

“I’m not pointing any fingers,” Lionel said. “But Drew Bateman was hanging around earlier.”

“Bateman? I thought he was in jail.”

“He’s out on parole and he’s got some kind of grudge.”

Annie said, “I want to take out a restraining order against Bateman.”

Bobby edged closer to her. “Don’t you worry, Annie. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

“No trouble at all,” Bobby said. “I’ll make a point of patrolling your block.”

A growl rose in the back of Michael’s throat. He was here to protect Annie and he didn’t want interference. He didn’t want anybody else to be close to her. Not Bobby. Not Jake Stillwell. Nobody.

And that wasn’t because he was jealous, damn it. He had solid reasons, in addition to the wrenching in his gut, and the unreasonable urge to give Bobby two black eyes so he’d never look at Annie again.

Bobby said, “I’d be happy to protect you, Annie. Day and night.”

“Not necessary.” Michael stepped forward, placing himself between them.

“Oh, yeah?” Bobby stared up at him. “Why not?”

“I’ll be here to see to Annie. She’s my…fiancée.”

Behind him, he heard her gasp. An instant later she jabbed him in the back with her good left hand.

“How come I don’t see a ring on her finger?” Bobby demanded. “Too cheap to buy a diamond, Slade?”

“She has a beautiful ring,” Lionel boomed from his bed. “These two lovebirds are honoring me by using the engagement ring that belonged to my late wife.”

“You!” Annie gripped the cherry-wood rail at the foot of her grandpa’s bed. She looked ready to leap over it and strangle him. “You set this up!”

“After all,” Lionel continued, drowning out her objection, “you don’t think I’d let a single man stay in the same house with my granddaughter if they weren’t planning to be married, do you?”

“I guess not,” Bobby said. But he was still suspicious. “When’s the wedding?”

“Maybe in the fall.” Michael took her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Maybe at Christmastime.”

Her jaw clenched. Her cheeks flamed with a feverish red flush. “If you think I’m going to stand here and—”

“She wants the wedding sooner.” He talked loudly to cover her words. “And you know how stubborn she can be. She’ll get what she wants.”

“Here’s what I want,” she said. “I want you to get your sorry—”

Michael pulled her close. He silenced her with a kiss.

She twisted in his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. Later she could yell at him, but right now he needed to warn off all the tomcats in town. Whether she liked it or not, he intended to keep her safe, and a fake engagement was a small price to pay.

Though he had only intended to keep her quiet, his kiss became real when her struggle calmed. She wasn’t fighting him anymore. Her arms encircled and embraced him. Her lips were sweet and soft. Her supple curves molded to him, and the fire of her anger took on a passion of its own.

Her tongue flickered across his mouth, and Michael gladly welcomed her probing. He deepened the kiss, and she responded with a moan.

He was stunned by the intensity of her mature passion. Eleven years ago, their kisses had been gentle as a softly played flute. Now, Annie’s kiss was a full-blown symphony.

He wanted more. But not now. Not with three other men watching. Reluctantly he broke away.

“I guess that settles it,” the police chief said. “If you two aren’t engaged, you should be. Congratulations.”

“I’m a lucky man,” Michael said.

Annie’s blue eyes were dazed. Her full lips parted, but no words came out.

Before they left, Chief Engstrom promised to have Bobby and the other officers patrol the neighborhood regularly. “We’ll come back in the morning when there’s some light. Then we’ll see if we can find anything that looks like evidence.”

With Bobby trailing behind, Engstrom left the bedroom. Michael listened as the two men went down the stairs and out the front door.

From the bed Lionel chuckled. “Congratulations.”

“Pretending to be engaged is the best way to keep all these guys away from Annie,” Michael rationalized. “Until we know who Bateman is involved with, we can’t take chances.”

Lionel yawned broadly. “It’s a good plan. To tell you the truth, I was worried about what people would say when they found out you were staying here. I didn’t want Annie’s reputation to be ruined.”

“My reputation?” Annie rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe for one minute that my reputation was your concern, Lionel. You as much as admitted that you wanted me and Michael to get together. You set me up.”

“Someday, Annie, you’ll thank me for this.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I want to thank you both for providing me with the single most humiliating situation in my life. Not only am I the only woman from my high-school graduating class who has never been married, but now I have a phony engagement to add to my record.”

Michael didn’t believe she was all that upset. There was a spark between them that couldn’t be denied. “It’s not so bad to be engaged to me.”

She slapped his face with her left hand. Her aim was accurate and her arm was strong.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.