Tara Taylor Quinn - The Promise He Made Her

“Dr. Freelander...” He stepped off the walk, too.

“I told you,” she said with an easy smile—something she’d been unable to give him when he’d known her. “Call me Bloom. Dr. Freelander is someone else in my mind. My former self. And the nemesis of my former self, too.”

“Did you get your divorce?”

From anyone else the question would have been rude. But Sam Larson had been in every intimate crevice of her life as he’d built the case that had put her diabolically intelligent and demonic husband behind bars.

“I did,” she told him, smiling again. “It was final just last month.” Because Ken had fought it tooth and nail. From the throne he seemed to think he sat on in his prison cell.

Detective Larson’s frown was something she remembered well. It gave her stomach a sexy little jolt to see it now.

Not an altogether comfortable experience. She was healthy. Happy. Just as she was. Without sex. Been there, done that. Didn’t want the complication. The physical experience just wasn’t worth what it put you through, exposed you to, made you vulnerable to...

Besides, she was professional enough to recognize that any feeling she might have for this particular man was transference—a former captive gravitating toward the safety net offered by her rescuer.

“I thought you were going to change your name.”

The fact that he remembered gave her another jolt. Nice to know that of all of his many cases she’d been...memorable.

Or he just had one hell of a memory. Which was impressive, too.

“I was,” she told him. “But it’s on my degree. My doctoral certificate. And on the deed to the house I was just awarded as part of my settlement.”

And that was enough about her. “You look good,” she told him, smiling again.

“Thank you. So do you.” He would know, as closely as he was looking her over.

Just as he’d done in the past. As though he didn’t miss a single freckle. She’d thought the intensity of his regard had been due to the fact that he’d been the detective in charge of investigating her case.

But there it was, two years later, still searching out her secrets...

“I imagine you have an appointment to keep,” she told him, pulling the strap of her black leather satchel more closely to her body. “I just wanted to thank you. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of you since Kenneth went to prison and I could begin to heal, and I wanted to let you know what a difference you’ve made in my life. That you helped. So much. That the work you do...it matters so much...”

It wasn’t like her to babble. Those brooding brown eyes of his, the flop of blond hair that never seemed to be in place, they were...familiar. As though she took them with her everywhere she went.

The idea was shocking, and yet recognizable, too. His calm, his strength, they’d been like examples of a parent to her. Something she’d been emulating as she rebuilt her life.

Rescuer, rescuee. Safety net. Sense of security.

“I don’t have an appointment,” the detective said, rocking back on the heels of the black slip-ons he’d always worn. They looked like the exact same ones from back then. Did he buy several pairs at a time? Were they some kind of detective issue? Uniform to go with the dress slacks and button-down shirts he’d always worn? With a sedate tie in varying shades of blah.

“You’re here on a call?” she asked now, adrenaline rushing to the fore. Knocking out the other...inappropriate emotions his unexpected presence had raised in her. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you.”

Even as she said the words she realized that if he’d been on an emergency call he most likely would have had a partner with him and wouldn’t have stopped to chat.

Which meant he was following up on a lead of some kind. Investigating every angle. Just like always.

“You might say I’m here on a call.”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, he continued to peruse her, an odd glint to his eyes. Sadness?

What? She didn’t look recovered enough to him?

The thought left her wanting to march him straight upstairs to her third-floor office, show him her walls and furniture and big mahogany desk. The drawers of patient files, proof of her success, and the awards that were hanging on the walls of the private bathroom attached to her suite. They were there so she would see them several times a day to remind her who she was. And so only she would see them. She wanted to instill a sense of comfort in her clients. Not intimidate them. Not to spill her ego over onto others.

“I’m here to see you, Bloom. Is there someplace we can go?”

Bloom. She liked the inflection he put on her name. Liked that he’d finally used it. Honoring her request.

Liked the fleeting sense of power that it gave her. But knew it for what it was. A change from her past when he’d insisted that he wasn’t comfortable using her first name. That he needed the distance of formality between them.

Because she’d looked horrible with a broken jaw, drug-blurred eyes and black-and-blue skin?

He’d seen her later, too. Physically healed and pretty enough to turn heads...

“Bloom? Is there someplace we can go?”

She didn’t move. Inside or out. “Why do you need to see me?”

The part of her life where she had a detective in it was done. Forever. No more trouble with the law. Of any kind. She’d promised herself. Never again.

“I just... Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

They could go back up to her office. But she didn’t want him there anymore. Her car? No better.

She took him to a bench out in the yard behind the building. It was in a garden. With several benches. And a winding walkway with trees for shade. She chose to sit in the sun.

“What’s going on?”

Even as she asked the question, she had a flash of the news headline she’d seen less than an hour before.

Trevor Banyon.

Had the jerk said something untoward about her? Released some confidential information pertaining to her case? Were his files being turned over as part of the investigation against him? Was there something incriminating to her reputation there? Something that would embarrass her professionally?

“I assume you’ve heard about Trevor Banyon...”

She started to breathe again. Relaxed against the seat. That was it then. Something from her case was going to be exposed.

She wouldn’t wish for it. But didn’t care all that much, either. In her new life she kept no secrets. So there was nothing to hold over her. And thus, nothing to fear.

Not that he’d know that. The Bloom Freelander he’d known had been afraid of her own shadow. When she was even aware of it following her around.

“I just saw something this morning,” she said, looking him over again, glad to have a few minutes with him now that she knew she had nothing to worry about. He was there as a courtesy. She got that now. And liked him all the more for it. It was so like him to follow up. “Something about him running illegal guns on the side?”

Sam Larson nodded. That flop of blond hair coming down on his forehead. The man had to be nearing forty, but you wouldn’t know it by his hairline.

Maybe the lines at the edges of his mouth gave a hint of experience...

“Do you think he’ll go to jail?” she asked now, trying to keep her mind on topic—something that usually came naturally to her these days. “Locked up with all those people he put away...” She didn’t wish it on him.

The man had done her a great service—putting Ken behind bars. He’d fought hard for her.

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about.”

“What does Trevor Banyon going to jail have to do with me? Do they need me to testify on his behalf? To talk about the good he’s done? The lives he’s saved? Because while I don’t condone anything to do with illegal arms, he really did help save my life...and I’m sure many others. Are they thinking that if they have enough mitigating circumstances he’ll just get probation?”