Cassie Miles - Midwife Cover

“There’s only one thing this baby needs. His mother.”

The infant she held in her arms had switched on all her protective instincts. She couldn’t just hand him over and walk away. “I’m coming with you.”

“I can’t sanction that,” Brady said.

Still holding the baby, she left the room and went down the hall to one of the desks behind the counter. “What I do is my decision. Not yours.”

She slipped into her lightweight summer hiking shoes and unlocked her bottom desk drawer. In the back of the drawer, she found her Glock automatic, loaded a clip and snapped the gun in a holster onto her belt.

She stood to face him. Brady was over six feet tall, and she was only five feet, seven inches. She had to tilt her chin to look him straight in the eyes. She wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, even if it meant putting up with his arrogance.

And putting up with the way her heart raced in his presence.

Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, USA Today bestselling author CASSIE MILEShas lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post .

After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To the memory of Tony Chesnar, a great guy and

a great friend. And, as always, to Rick.

The sooner this investigation was over with, the better. After eight months in the field, Special Agent Brady Masters had reached the end of his patience. He was more than ready to return to Quantico and had paid extra, out of his own pocket, to hitch a ride on a charter flight from Albuquerque to the Grand County Airport outside Granby, Colorado.

As he disembarked from the small plane onto the tarmac, he kept his head down. The unobstructed view from the unmanned airfield on the Grand Mesa was no doubt spectacular, especially now at sunset with the blood-red skies and the clouds traced with gold, but Brady didn’t give a damn about the landscape.

He’d been here for all four seasons, from winter to spring to summer and now fall. The clear air, rugged plains and distant snow-capped peaks had ceased to astound him; his career path was back east where he was being considered for a profiler position with an elite team in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. All he needed to do right now was tie up one last loose end. Then, it was bye-bye Rocky Mountains.

Waiting outside a hangar at the end of the airstrip was Special Agent Cole McClure. They’d met before, and Brady knew enough about Cole’s background to appreciate the kick-ass skills of the former undercover specialist who now worked in the Denver field office.

“Where are we headed?” Cole asked as they strode side by side toward his black SUV.

Brady handed over a piece of paper on which he’d written the address and directions given to him over the phone by an informant. “If this tip pays off, we’ll need backup from local law enforcement.”

“Not a problem.” Cole opened the car door and got behind the steering wheel. “I know the locals. My wife used to live around here. She delivered a baby for one of the deputies.”

Brady fastened his seat belt. “Is your wife a doctor?”

“A midwife.”

“You have a baby of your own, right?”

“Emily.” As soon as he spoke his daughter’s name, Cole transformed from a hard-edged federal agent into a fuzzy teddy bear with a badge. “She’s ten months old. A beauty like her mom, and she’s almost walking.”

“And talking?”

“She says dada.” He cleared his throat and wiped the goofy grin off his face, returning his focus to FBI business. “What’s our plan here? Brief me.”

“As you know, I’m part of the ITEP task force.”

“Illegal Transport and Exploitation of Persons,” Cole said, spelling out the acronym. “I’ve heard that your team has had some success.”

“Not enough.”

They were investigating an interlinked human trafficking operation that had spread like a virus across the southwestern states from San Diego to Salt Lake City to Dallas. Even though the task force had arrested several individuals, they were playing a game of Whack-a-Mole. Each time they nabbed one, two more popped up.

“How did you get this assignment?” Cole asked.

“I’m a profiler and psychologist, specializing in interrogation. It’s my job to get these guys to talk. The problem is that most of them don’t know much. They’re little more than delivery boys who happen to be transporting human cargo. In their minds, this is just a job.”

Brady was sick of hearing their excuses, disgusted by their unintended cruelty and their indignation when they were arrested. These delivery boys weren’t psychopaths, but they lacked empathy and basic decency. While they did their “jobs,” they managed to ignore the fact that eighty percent of their cargo were women and children who would be processed into lives of forced labor, servitude, prostitution and worse.

“The lead we’re following,” Brady continued, “comes from a guy by the name of Escher who seems to have grown a conscience. He gave me a location that’s used as a dropoff point—an abandoned house with a three-car garage. The property belongs to his eighty-nine-year-old grandma who doesn’t live there anymore.”

Cole steered the SUV onto a two-lane road leading into the hills covered with pine forests and gold-leafed aspen. “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go.”

“Spoken like the father of a ten-month-old.”

“What about you, Brady? Married?”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re looking?”

He shrugged. He didn’t like to think of himself as a stubborn bachelor who was wedded to his career, but with each passing year, that identity was becoming more solidly fixed. “My twin sister says that if I don’t get married soon, I’ll turn into an obsessive-compulsive old fart who spends his days organizing his sock drawer and alphabetizing his canned goods.”

Her analysis wasn’t all that far-fetched. He had, on occasion, wondered if pinto beans should be filed under P for pinto or B for bean.

“You’re a twin?”

“My sister is an agent, too. Based in Manhattan, married with one kid. She works cybercrimes.”

“Do you look alike?”

“You tell me.”