Carolyn McSparren - Bachelor Cop

Left jab, right cross. Helena tore into him. The next shot went between Randy’s gloves and landed square on that taut, sweaty six-pack he was so damn proud of.

“Hey, whoa!”

She couldn’t stop. He caught her next punch on his forearms. Why didn’t he fight back? Hit her? She could take it. She had to take it or she’d never win.

She felt herself falling as he cut her legs out from under her with his heel.

They hit the canvas locked together. She struggled against him, felt every inch of him above her, his weight bearing her down. “Hit me! For God’s sake, hit me,” she sobbed. “You have to hit me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

She felt his breath against her lips, his body hot and hard.

Suddenly she wrapped her legs around him, arching her back, no longer struggling, as his mouth came down on hers….

Dear Reader,

When my last book, His Only Defense (December 2008), came out, readers wanted to know more about “Randy” Randy Railsback, the womanizing detective from the Cold Case Squad. He’s a good detective, but a responsible guy—not so much. Randy never dates women with ex-husbands, kids, abusive boyfriends or family…or psychological problems. No baggage. And the minute the word marriage comes up, he’s outta there.

The last woman he needs in his life is English professor Helena Norcross. She has enough baggage to fill a moving van. She’s divorced from a compulsive gambler, has two frighteningly intelligent children, suffers from debilitating anxiety attacks and dangerous rages. She’s fighting to get her life back on track by enrolling in Randy’s self-defense class for women. Two years earlier she was assaulted by a serial rapist who comes back to kill previous victims.

Randy’s breaking his own rules about avoiding responsibility. He’s falling not only for Helena, but for her kids, too. She’s falling for him as well, but believes the only way to be free to love again is to kill the man who raped her, setting herself up as a target.

I love to hear from readers. Write to me at Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ont., M3B 3K9, Canada, or check out my Web site, www.carolynmcsparren.com.

Carolyn McSparren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RITA ®Award nominee and Maggie winner, Carolyn McSparren has lived in Germany, France, Italy and “too many cities in the U.S. to count.” She’s sailed boats, raised horses, rides dressage and drives her Shire cross mare to a carriage. She teaches writing seminars to romance and mystery writers, and writes mystery and women’s fiction as well as Harlequin Superromance books. Carolyn lives in the country outside of Memphis, TN, in an old house with four indoor and six outdoor cats, three horses, seven raccoons, at least two foxes and one husband, not necessarily in order of importance.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“OKAY, STREAK, show me what you got.” Randy Railsback stood relaxed, with an easy grin on his face.

The woman he’d nicknamed Streak came at him across the workout room like a charging rhino. At the last second, he casually moved his hands sideways. Completely off balance, she stumbled past him. He caught her ankle with his instep.

She sprawled on the big mat that covered two-thirds of the floor, and rolled over onto her back awkwardly. The other women gasped. “See, ladies,” he said over his shoulder, “you use their force against them.” He reached down to offer her a hand, and found himself facedown across her body, staring into a pair of brown eyes so enraged they seemed to be entirely black pupil. “Whoa!” he said as he rolled off. “Way to go, Streak. More than just a pretty face.”

He came to his feet in one fluid movement. She scrambled away on the seat of her sweatpants.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said, and rubbed his wrist. “You definitely hurt me.”

The other women tittered. She hadn’t hurt him, but she might have. Out-of-control newbies were always more dangerous than pros who understood how to engage and when to stop. “Friends?” he said, and stuck out his hand. She ignored it and struggled to her feet.

Had to be a reason for all the anger she was carrying. Jessica might have an idea. As manager of a working gym, Strength for Health, Jessica often knew more about her clients than they realized.

He hadn’t planned to take Streak down, but she’d come at him with such force, he’d had no choice. She toted some muscle on that skinny frame, she moved fast and she was only three or four inches shorter than his six feet two. If she learned to channel that anger, she might turn into a formidable opponent. If she didn’t, she was going to get herself or someone else hurt.

“Okay, ladies, gather ’round,” he said. “I’m Randy Railsback. I’m a Shelby County cop and I teach this class several times a year, and I’m afraid you’re stuck with my standard introduction. After that we’ll get to work. During the break, you can all introduce yourselves and tell us why you joined a self-defense class.” He opened his hands. “Okay with you?”

Most of the heads bobbed. Streak’s didn’t.

“A competent big man will almost always beat a competent small man,” he began.

“But we’re not men, Randy,” said the luscious blonde, with a small waggle of her estimable rear.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, and included the whole class in his killer smile. Streak didn’t react. “That’s my point. Women are usually smaller than their assailants. Most men have greater upper-body strength than women, and most women have a glass jaw. A solid right will take you out every time.”

“Then why are we here?” Streak asked. Voice like velvet. Deep, almost baritone, but full of authority. He’d bet she was a doctor or lawyer or top-level manager despite the droopy old sweats. Whatever she was, she sure hadn’t made it on her looks or cheerful nature.

“Excellent question. I’m not about to teach you how to start fights. I’m going to teach you how to finish them.”

“And disable our attackers?” Streak asked.

“If that’s what it takes. We have three objectives.” He counted on his fingers. “First, get free. Second, get away, and third, get safe.” He grinned at her. “And avoid a right cross while you’re about it.”

“Why not just shoot his ass?” asked a plump and cheerful lady who looked like Mrs. Santa Claus. “My husband says shoot until the gun goes click, click, then if you have time, reload and do it again.”

There were nods all around.

“What if you don’t have a gun handy?” Randy said. “How many of you have gun permits and carry a weapon in your car, or have one in your house?”

Every hand went up.

“How many of you feel comfortable shooting it?”

Everyone except Streak raised her hand. A cross section of female West Tennessee America, and every one of them owned a gun. If he were a perp, he’d be terrified. But then, if faced with shooting someone for real, so would they. He didn’t usually do this until later in the course, but after Streak’s little episode, he decided to move up his demonstration. “’Scuse me a second,” he said.