Julie Miller - Takedown

Michael Cutler was striding down the hallway. Tall, intent, his black hair rumpled. Wearing his uniform and needing a shave. Walking straight toward her.

She ran right up to him and locked her arms around his waist. “Are you all right? The news about the hostages—”

“Damn it, woman, I’m worried about you.” He pressed his thumb against the swell of her bottom lip. “I don’t scare easily, sweetheart, but your messages…”

“I’m okay. Better, now that you’re here.”

Instead of giving a verbal response, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall. She quickly realized his pent-up desire had been intensified by fear and confusion and want. Because Jillian was feeling it, too.

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For Norbert Wenzl. A true gentleman, a fun guy,

a kind soul. And my friend.

And for Cheryl Schuett. A smart, classy, talented lady.

Thank you for the immeasurable positive influence you had on my son’s life by teaching him to read music.

I’d work on a show with you two any day.

Thanks for reading my books and loving theater.

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

Captain Michael Cutler —Commander of KCPD’s premier SWAT team. A single father and seasoned warrior used to leading men, saving lives and guarding his heart. After burying his wife, he’s not prepared to love again—especially a much younger woman.

Jillian Masterson —This physical therapist has fought hard to become a healthy adult—determined to make amends for the mistakes of her rebellious youth. Falling in love with the father of one of her patients isn’t part of her life plan. Neither is her mysterious “admirer” who seems intent on ruining any chance at a successful life—permanently.

Mike Cutler, Jr. —The captain’s teenage son has an attitude problem.

Troy Anthony —A patient of Jillian’s.

Dylan Smith —A coworker at the hospital physical therapy clinic.

Dr. Wayne Randolph —He helped Jillian turn the corner in rehab.

Blake Rivers —Jillian’s ex-boyfriend.

Isaac Rush —Drug dealer. A so-called friend from Jillian’s former life.

Mr. Lynch —Rush family enforcer. You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.

LaKeytah Anthony —An overworked, overworried grandmother.

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

Jillian—

Your smile and your laugh light up a room even on the darkest of days. The rose I sent made you smile, I know. Perhaps white, the color of purity, would have been a more fitting choice, but I know that red is your favorite color. You look stunning in red.

Sometimes, I don’t know which I love more—your kick-ass body or that sweet personality. You can be one of the guys or the sexiest woman in the room with equal ease, and that always keeps me guessing—and wanting more of you.

Jilly, I know, too, that there’s something deeper inside you that most people don’t notice. Pain. Vulnerability. Need. I notice. I’ve felt those same things, too.

I want you to know just how much I care about you. I know where you’ve been—what you’ve had to overcome—the difficult path that lies ahead. I understand that we can show the world a strength we don’t necessarily feel inside. I admire that about you—how you always keep fighting, even when it’s tough—maybe especially when it’s tough.

I just want you to know that you don’t have to keep fighting alone. I’m here for you. If you need anything, you don’t even have to ask. I won’t let anything—or anyone—hurt you ever again.

My heart will always be true to you.

I am forever,

Yours

While the letter printed off, he picked up the snapshot of her unwrapping the ribbon and plastic from around the flower he’d had delivered, and pressed a kiss to her adorably surprised expression. Then he dug a pin from the desk drawer and gently tacked the photo on the wall above the computer beside the collage of similar images hanging there.

His favorite picture was one in faded black-and-white newsprint, something from a state high school basketball tournament. But he knew Jilly’s colors by heart. Long, dark brown hair. Eyes as bright and verdant as Celtic green.

And she was smiling. Right at him.

He smiled back and pulled the letter from the printer. Then, with clumsy gloved fingers, he pushed aside the gun and plastique, the ammo clips and clockwork devices, and cleared a spot on top of his desk to work. He folded the paper into three neat rectangles and stuffed it inside the matching envelope before rolling his chair away from the desk and heading out to deliver it.

Soon, she would know how much he had done for her, the risks he would take for her—all without complaint.

Soon, she would know how much he loved her.

“Nice shot, Troy!”

Jillian Masterson applauded as the basketball swished through the net.

Her young charge with the neat black braids pumped his fist in the air and whooped in victory. “Oh, yeah. I’m all that!”

“And a bag of chips,” she cheered. He pushed his wheelchair beneath the basket to retrieve the ball while Jillian turned to her other patient and smiled. “Come on, Mike. Your turn.”

“Basketball is lame,” he groused.

Ignoring his ironic choice of words, she let his blue-eyed hatred for the world bounce off her skin and reached for his arms. Clamping one hand firmly around each wrist and bracing her feet in front of his, she pulled him out of his chair and balanced him against her shoulder while his leg braces locked into place. “Well, unless you want to plant some grass and turn this gym into an indoor football field, we’re stuck with a basketball court. Let’s try one from the free throw line.”

“Why? It’s not even a real court. Troy’s baby brother could make a shot from that free throw line.”

“You afraid you can’t match up with an eighth grader?”