Tara Taylor Quinn - Her Detective's Secret Intent

He nodded again.

And dinner was served.

* * *

What in the hell was he doing?

Walking the dark streets of Santa Raquel sometime after midnight, hunched in his department-issued coat with the collar turned up, Tad warded off the thirtysomething-degree chill of California ocean air. He’d intended to head over two blocks to the beach, but had only gone one and then turned, choosing sidewalk instead of sand.

If it hadn’t been for dinner arriving, he was pretty sure he would’ve asked out his client’s daughter. The subject of his current job.

If he ever hoped to work in law enforcement in North Carolina again, he couldn’t be pissing off the state’s chief fire marshal—a man with more connections, both law enforcement and political, than Tad could ever hope to have.

Did he hope to go back to some form of law enforcement work?

He’d quit his job.

The department had refused to accept his resignation, so officially, he was on administrative leave for the year they’d agreed upon.

Time for the department to fully investigate, review and further discuss his last case or, more accurately, the one really bad decision he’d made in a career of relatively great ones. His solved-cases record was better than that of anyone in the department.

They wanted to keep him on.

They also wanted him to take some time to get his head on straight. To show them that he’d be able to regain any trust he’d lost with his peers.

But...did he hope to go back?

Noting that he’d crossed the fourth block with at least two largely cracked cement pieces, he thought about Santa Raquel’s finances. Figured fixing cracks in the sidewalk of a seasonal tourist town should be on the radar. Someone could trip. Fall. Sue the municipal government.

The town, which was more resort-like than not, didn’t seem to be hurting for money. Based on the number of large, well-maintained homes in the area, he supposed the town was doing just fine. Sidewalks didn’t last forever. They cracked.

And a detective was bound to make one bad decision in his lifetime.

But what if he made two?

What if he asked out the daughter of his client? A woman he’d been hired to find? And keep watch over?

In his line of work, there’d been more than one occasion when the means justified the end.

Would that be the case here? Could he convince the chief that dating his daughter, casually, of course, was the best way to stick close to her? To spend time with her son?

And what about Miranda? What right did he have to mess with her life? As if she hadn’t already been through enough?

She knew he was only in town for a matter of months. Their conversation that evening had gone in an unexpected—and much more personal—direction. Thanks to Ethan, who’d put the simmering tension between him and Miranda right out there.

So...if she was potentially interested in spending more time with him, say, one-on-one, knowing that it couldn’t last long, would he be wrong to give it to her?

The thin line he walked was going to trip him up. He knew it.

Just as he’d known, when he made the choice to barge into that back office without waiting for SWAT and the hostage negotiators to arrive, assess the situation and do their jobs, that he was crossing a line.

He’d practically gotten himself killed. Had put every other officer on the scene at risk.

But he’d saved the girl.

It always came back to that for him.

He’d saved the girl.

Could he help save Miranda and Ethan, too?

The thing about having a kid was that you couldn’t just make up your mind about something and count on having it happen. When Ethan was a baby, Miranda was in charge. Or at least she’d felt she was. From the twos on, though, he’d been pretty adamant about having his own say in anything and everything, and she’d had to rethink her approach. A process that seemed to happen every day since. She had to foster his independence. And above all, keep him safe. So her mantra had become that if it didn’t involve his safety or health, he could decide—which, in their world, meant he could have his way.

If it did have any kind of impact on his well-being, they did it her way. The line used to be clearly delineated. At least in her mind. And her boy had been good about accepting her decisions once she explained them to him.

That Saturday after dinner with Tad, Ethan woke up talking about Zoo Attack , about a new animal kingdom he was going to create and then show Tad. He’d said he’d come to their house and so, to Ethan, that meant he was coming.

Her moment to object to that idea had already gone.

Tad’s, too, apparently, at least according to her son.

And Miranda was left with the task of explaining to her son that sometimes adults said things they didn’t really mean.

A concept he wasn’t willing to accept.

“Call him, Mom, he’ll come, you’ll see,” Ethan said for the umpteenth time that morning. Standing in a pile of dark clothes on the kitchen floor by the laundry room, he kicked up a sock to emphasize his point.

She threw the last pair of white underwear in the dryer and bent to pick up their darks before he kicked them any farther.

“He’s a grown man, Ethan,” she told her son. “I’m sure he’s got more important things to do than play video games this weekend.”

As soon as she heard the words, she wanted to retract them. Implying that her son’s engagements weren’t important wasn’t what she’d intended to say.

“He said he wanted to,” Ethan insisted.

But she didn’t want him in her home. Hadn’t let any man visit since she’d made the first home for her and Ethan.

Their little rented cottage was her haven. She didn’t have to be as careful there to hide her secrets. Or to worry that someone might be watching her. Looking for her. Or him. Keeping their home private was paramount to her peace of mind, to her belief that she could keep them safe.

None of which she could explain to her son.

“Call him, Mom, please? You’ll see, he’ll come.”

She took her time loading the washing machine. Pouring the soap. Filling the little ball dispenser with fabric softener and dropping that in. What should she tell Ethan?

She’d promised herself that Ethan wasn’t going to grow up in fear. Jeff had trusted her with his son.

Turning, she saw him still standing there, his big blue eyes imploring her.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “You go put the clean sheets on your bed like I showed you, and I’ll call him.”

“Yes!” Ethan jumped up in the air and he was off.

Miranda had a knot in her gut as she pulled her cell out of her pocket. Tad was in her contacts, as were all the High Risk Team members.

She’d told Ethan she’d call.

“Miranda?” He picked up on the first ring. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” she lied, listening to the washer fill with water, the clinking of a metal button on a pair of white pants in the dryer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just making sure.” He didn’t really sound worried and she figured he was merely being polite—not reading her mind.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I told Ethan I’d call. He hasn’t let up on me all morning about that Attack game.”

“He’s going to give me my key to the animals.”

“You were being nice to him, and I appreciate that, but I’ll get you out of it. The thing is, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer until I called.” So she did. Because she didn’t have a logical reason to give Ethan that he’d understand.

“I don’t want out of it.” His response sent her heart thudding. “I meant to solidify something before we split up last night and forgot.”