Julie Miller - One Good Man

A woman’s breast.

“Ma’am?”

The lights flashed on again, giving Mitch a glimpse of the woman’s pale, terror-stricken face. Wild, smoky gray eyes glared at him with flash-fire intensity.

The impression was fleeting, distracting. Vanishing when the light did. Too late, he realized he’d underestimated her. Something swift and solid with four hard knots slammed into his left temple. Bright spots swam before his eyes in counterpoint to the blinking security lights.

Mitch caught her fist when she swung at him a second time. He swallowed her hand in his grasp and stretched her arm up over her head. The action flattened his body on top of hers, reaffirming his discovery that this was no intruder, but the person he’d been sent to check on.

The girl in the photograph.

Very much a woman now.

“Dammit, lady! I said I’m a cop. I’m not here to hurt you.”

She writhed beneath him, her fear or fury so intense that Mitch didn’t dare let go. If she harnessed the adrenaline pumping through her, she could knock him out cold.

While the dizziness behind his eyes abated, he protected himself by trapping her beneath him until her energy was spent. Mitch cursed the unprofessional torture to which he’d subjected himself. The woman’s firm breasts pushed against his chest, leaving the imprint of graceful curves through the layers of clothing between them.

And her hips—full, wide, womanly—cradled the lower half of his torso. Rocking against him in her struggle. Teasing him. Taunting him with an awareness of needs he had buried long ago.

Damn, he was a sorry, lustful excuse for a man to find his body so tempted by the struggles of a frightened woman he was trying to subdue.

He pinned her for over a minute before her thrashing ceased abruptly. She lay perfectly still for a second, then groaned, deep in her throat. Her face contorted in the next flash of light, and Mitch watched her grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut. Darkness returned, hiding her expression, but he felt the muscles in her arms and body clench to the point that she started shaking.

“You’re hurting me.” Her husky voice caught and rasped into a sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Mitch scrambled off her and rocked back on his heels, berating himself for botching this “routine” visit beyond excuse. “I’m sorry.”

His apology fell on deaf ears. She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position, hauling in deep gulps of air that racked her body.

He reached for her arm. She tried to pull away from his touch, but her muscles wouldn’t respond. Mortified to know he had truly hurt her, Mitch obliged her by letting go. “I was only defending myself. I haven’t been in a brawl like this since I made detective. You don’t know your own strength.”

He thought that might elicit a laugh, break the tension, but she didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t call the cops,” she whispered between breaths. “Why are you here?”

In the shadows of his jumbled vision, he watched her prop herself up to a sitting position, then scoot away on her bottom until she leaned up against a desk. She dug her fingers into her right thigh and kneaded her leg through her jeans.

Mitch curled his fingers into his palms, squelching the urge to help her. He had inflicted whatever pain she was suffering. He doubted she’d appreciate any attempt to touch her again, no matter how altruistic his intentions.

Instead, he called upon his years of experience. This woman was a victim. Of his own carelessness, if nothing else. She might be frightened or confused. He gave her the space she needed to feel safe again, backing away even farther. He lowered his voice to its gentlest pitch and spoke quietly. “Are you Cassandra Maynard?”

The commissioner had only supplied a name and address.

“I don’t remember your name.” Her clipped response sounded like an accusation.

He refused the bait and stayed calm. “Mitch Taylor.”

Automatically, he reached for his breast pocket. He patted the empty space where the brass shield should be and glanced around quickly. Unable to see well for any distance, he apologized. “I lost my ID in our little tumble.”

Her gaze filled with the same intensity she had trained on him earlier. “A badge doesn’t prove anything.”

Her chest rose with a huge sigh before she sagged back against the sturdy oak desk. Physical distress seemed to finally be conquering her indomitable will. “I’m Casey Maynard.”

Flattening one palm against the rug, she pushed herself upright and gingerly adjusted to a more comfortable position. Mitch wondered if the tight white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth were a trick of the illumination or a grimace of pain.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked.

“No. It’ll pass.” She breathed in deeply through her nose and released the air gently across the generous curve of her bottom lip.

Hell. What was wrong with him? He was here as a cop, not a blind date, but he seemed to be going out of his way to notice her striking features, from the unusual shade of her French-braided hair to the delicate bone structure of her cheeks and pointed chin. Though delicate seemed an odd impression since she had almost bested him in their fight.

“Why did you attack me?” he asked, forcing himself away from unprofessional concerns. “Who did you think I was?”

Casey shook her head. “I get to ask questions first. How the hell did you get up to the house? What do you want?”

The whole evening took on a surreal quality. Lights flashed on and off at regular intervals. An alarm blared in the background. They sat on a patterned Persian rug. The victim questioned the cop.

Mitch needed his world back in order. He stood up and straightened his clothes, taking his time before answering her. “Police Commissioner James Reed called me this evening and asked me to check on your family and the house. He gave me his key to bypass the security gate. He said he was watching the property for a friend. He thought there might be some trouble.”

“Uncle Jimmy always was a worrywart.”

Uncle Jimmy?

Casey twisted her body, grabbed the top of the desk and hauled herself to her feet. Bracing her weight against the solid oak top, she hobbled around the desk. Her full mouth narrowed into a grim line with each step. Had she dislocated something? Twisted her knee?

In two steps, Mitch was at her side, cupping her elbow and waist and taking her weight into his hands.

She stiffened when he pulled her against his side. “Don’t.”

He’d never met such a stubborn woman. Mitch tightened his grip, but his voice was gentle. “I’m going to help you, no matter what, so shut up.”

She didn’t exactly relax, but some of the tension eased from her. She inclined her head toward the swivel chair overturned on its side behind the desk. “I just need to sit down.”

Though she continued to favor her right leg, he noticed how she carried her shoulders and chin with grace and determination. Mitch righted the chair and steadied it when she turned to sit. The crown of her hair brushed along his jaw, and the faint scent of vanilla filled his senses.

She might pretend to be one tough cookie, but her ladylike femininity was hard to hide.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

If he expected to be rewarded with a smile or thank-you, he was destined for disappointment. She twisted the chair away from him and pulled out a sliding keyboard tray. The computer monitor on her desk blinked on, and she pulled up a series of screen commands. She selected one with her mouse, then clicked.

The lights in the house flooded on, and stayed on. Just as abruptly, the alarm stopped.

“There’s no problem here, Captain.”