Kansas City Cop Read online

  She smoothed the fluttering hair behind her ear and held it in place there. “What about the yoga stretches?”

  “Lower half of your body? Sure. But nothing that could create a balance issue. If you fall and catch yourself with that arm, you’ll set your recovery back another two weeks, if not permanently.”

  “Understood.” She stepped off the sidewalk and headed across the parking lot.

  “Really?” he challenged. Promising to obey his directives was different from hearing the words and understanding them.

  Her sigh was audible as she turned back to face him. “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “You bring it out in me.”

  “I won’t apologize for being a strong woman.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to.” However, that acceptance and respect needed to go both ways. “I won’t apologize for being a nice guy.”

  “Who says you’re—?”

  “‘Choir Boy’?”

  She snapped her lips shut on the next retort, perhaps conceding that he knew exactly what the reverse prejudice of that nickname meant to her. Nice guys didn’t cut it in her world. Too bad she hadn’t known him back in the day. Of course, teenage bad-boy reputation aside, if he hadn’t gotten his act together, he might still be in a wheelchair or even dead. He sure wouldn’t have sobriety, a college degree, his own business, nor would he be in a position to help her.

  He watched the debate on what she should say next play over her features. That’s right, sweetheart. There’s a difference between nice and naive. “My apologies, Mr. Cutler.”

  Without so much as a smile, she turned and walked out to the street, where she changed direction to follow traffic along the sidewalk toward the lights and crosswalk at the corner. Fine. So friendship wasn’t going to happen between them anytime soon. And those curious, lustful urges she triggered in him were never going to be assuaged. But maybe, just maybe, they could learn how to get along.

  Mike tucked his hands into the pockets of his gray nylon running pants. He mentally calculated how many blocks she’d have to walk and how many busy streets she’d have to cross before she got home. He’d cover two or three times that distance on his morning runs. But he didn’t have two recent gunshot wounds or the muscle fatigue of a therapy session to slow him down. She’d be on her feet for another thirty minutes before she got the chance to rest.

  Maybe he should have insisted on driving her home. He fingered the keys in his pocket, wondering how much Gina would protest if he pulled up beside her and...

  That was weird.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed as Gina’s steps stuttered and she suddenly darted toward the curb. She pulled up sharply, swiveling her gaze, looking everywhere except straight back at him. Mike’s balance shifted to the balls of his feet. Had she seen or heard something that had alarmed her? Maybe she’d simply recognized a familiar face driving past.

  Gina dodged a pair of businesswomen hurrying by in their suits and walking shoes, clearly unaware of whatever had caught her attention. Three more pedestrians passed her before she shook her head, as if dismissing what she’d seen or heard, and turned toward the intersection again.

  By that time, Mike was already across the parking lot, jogging toward her. He fell into step about a half block behind her, following her through the intersection before the traffic light changed. Although the number of pedestrians heading to work or running to the periodic transit stops to catch the next city bus filled the sidewalk between them, he had no problem keeping Gina in sight, simply because of his height.

  Her posture had subtly changed after that original reaction. There was less of the defiance she’d shown him at the clinic and more of a wary alertness. Judging by the occasional glimpses of either cheekbone, he could see she was scanning from side to side as she walked. Who was she looking for? What had she seen or heard that put her on guard like that?

  She pulled out her cell phone, glancing over her left shoulder at the traffic as she placed a call, before Mike noticed what might have gotten her attention. A tan luxury sedan zipped across two lanes before it slowed dramatically, pulling even with Gina and matching her pace. He moved toward the curb, trying to read the license plate of the car. Other vehicles ran up behind the car, then swerved around it. He quickened his own pace to see the silhouette of a ball cap above the driver’s seat headrest. That wasn’t any little old lady driving it, poking along at her own pace. Was that car following Gina?

  And then Mike saw something that hastened his feet into a dead run. The driver raised his arm over the passenger seat, his fingers holding a gun. “Gina!”

  She spun around. The instant he shouted her name, the driver floored it, swinging into the next lane, darting around a bus and speeding through a yellow light. Horns honked, brakes screeched.

  Mike snaked his arm around Gina’s waist, lifting her off her feet and hauling her away from the car. At the last second, he could see the driver hadn’t held a weapon, after all, but had made that crass gesture with two outstretched fingers and a flick of his thumb, imitating firing a gun.

  “What the hell, Choir Boy?” Gina’s phone flew from her grasp, skittering across the sidewalk and getting kicked once before a helpful soul picked it up.

  Mike set her down in front of the yellow brick facade of a bail bondsman’s office, keeping his body between her and the street. The other man handed Gina her cell phone, pausing to eye Mike suspiciously, as if the guy thought he was assaulting her. Mike’s hand was still at Gina’s waist, the adrenaline of taking instinctive action to protect her still vibrating through his grip. He nearly bit out a warning for the other guy to move on when Gina smiled and waved him on his way.

  Interesting how she managed a polite thank you and a reassurance that she was all right for the young man, but she’d cursed at Mike. Even more interesting how quickly the mix of concern and the remembered sensation of her body snugged against his made him vividly aware of every tight curve of her petite frame. He was so not thinking of her as a patient right now. But the sexual awareness burned through him as quickly as the shove against his chest separated them again. “Let go of me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you following me?” Her question overlapped his.

  “Somebody is.” Mike splayed his fingers apart, releasing his grip without giving her space to move away from the wall. Those fractious nerves from his teenage injury tingled through his hips and the small of his back, protesting the abrupt movements and tension running through him. But he ignored the familiar shards of pain. “What the hell is going on?”

  Although the casing on her phone was scratched, he could see on the screen between them that her call was still connected. Her focus was there instead of answering his questions. “I’m fine. Just let me do my job.” She put the phone back to her ear, reporting a license plate number. “I didn’t get the last two digits.”

  “Thirty-six,” Mike answered, reciting the number he’d seen.

  Her dark eyes tilted up to his. “Tan Mercedes?” He nodded. “Three six, Derek,” she reported into the phone, holding Mike’s gaze while she talked. “Yeah, it circled around the block. Let me know what you find out. Thanks.” She disconnected the call and tucked the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “What are you doing here? And don’t you ever pick me up like that again.”

  “I want to know why that guy threatened you.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed as she studied his face. “Are you hurt?”

  Yeah, a sharp twist of a pinched nerve had just made his left thigh go numb, so she must have noticed the tight clench of his jaw. But that injury was old news. He needed to understand what was going on now. “Answer the question.”

  Dismissing her concern because he had dismissed it, she glanced around him at the next stream of pedestrians getting off the bus and dropped her voice to a terse whisper. “I’m a cop.”

  Shifting to the side, Mike braced one hand on the bricks beside her head and created a barrier between Gina and anyone who might accidently bump into her shoulder. “You’re not in uniform. Either we have some random whack-job roaming the streets of Kansas City or that was personal. Did you recognize him? Is he the man who shot you?”

  She put her hand in the middle of his chest to hush him when a couple of people turned their heads and slowed, catching wind of the conversation. “You saw it. The driver was acting suspiciously. I was doing my duty by calling it in.” When she tried to dismiss the conversation and move around him, Mike dropped his hand back to the cinch of her waist, refusing to budge. She muttered something in Spanish, then tipped her face up to his. “I was probably staring at him too long, and he mimicked shooting me instead of flipping me off. Thought he was being funny.”

  Mike wasn’t laughing. “Okay, so you’re a tough chick. I get that. Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to answer a polite question? I grew up around cops—I know the signs of somebody going into alert mode. You’re not armed. You’re injured. You don’t have backup. I’m not going to think any less of you if you tell me that guy spooked you.”

  Her pinpoint gaze dodged his for an instant, revealing a chink in her armor. Mike summoned every bit of his patience to wait her out before she finally told him something that wasn’t a flippant excuse, meant to dismiss his concern. “I’ve seen that car before—driving by my house at night the past couple of weeks. And now...” She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him half a step closer as a group of pedestrians strolled behind him. Sure, she was avoiding foot traffic, but she’d also moved him closer to whisper, “Do you remember the vehicle from the shooting?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t a car. Certainly not anyth
ing top-of-the-line like that. Did you recognize the driver? He could have ditched the truck I saw.” Although he doubted the man who owned that piece of junk would also own a Mercedes.

  “The man who shot me—I never saw his face.” Mike dipped his head to hear her over the noise of the crowd and traffic. “I thought it might be someone else I’d recognize.”

  “Like who?”

  “My sister’s boyfriend. He doesn’t like me, and the feeling’s mutual. Or one of a group of bikers I ticked off a few weeks back...the day I got shot. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?” One thing he had to give Gina credit for—whether she was venting her temper, discussing a case or admitting her fear—she looked him straight in the eye. He had to admire a woman with that kind of confidence. But it also gave Mike a chance to read the real emotions behind her words. “I couldn’t see this guy’s face, either. He had dark glasses on and a ball cap pulled low over his forehead. I couldn’t even give you a hair color or age. I don’t suppose you got a description of him?”

  She was afraid, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that fear wasn’t an emotion she was used to feeling. Mike moved his fingers from her waist to stroke the sleek muscles of her arm, wanting to reassure her somehow. But he had an idea she wasn’t used to accepting comfort, either. “No. But you think that car has been following you? Is that why you’re running the plate number?”

  “My partner is. Technically, I’m on medical leave. He’s doing me a favor.”

  Knowing the shooter was still out there, and that she wouldn’t be able to identify the man if he came back to finish the job until she saw a gun pointed at her would rattle anybody. Even an experienced cop like Gina. “Come back to the clinic. I’ll drive you home.”

  “No.” She started to push him away, but the tips of her fingers curled into the cotton knit of his polo, lightly clinging to the skin and muscle underneath. “No, thank you,” she added, apologizing for the abruptness of her answer. “It’s probably someone who lives or works in the neighborhood. There are gangbangers in my part of town. They know I’m a cop. Maybe one of them recognized me. And maybe it was nothing. After the shooting, I’m overly suspicious of any vehicle that slows down or stops when it shouldn’t.”

  He was surprised to feel her reaching out to him, even more surprised to realize how every cell leaped beneath her touch, even one as casual as her hold on him now. This wild attraction he was feeling was unexpected—and most likely unreciprocated, if his track record for following his hormones and heart was any indication. Gina had had her entire life turned upside down, and she was learning how to cope with the changes. All she needed from him right now was a steady presence she could hold on to for a few seconds while she regrouped. He could give her that. “I wouldn’t rationalize away your suspicions, Gina. Sounds to me like survival skills, not paranoia.”

  Her gaze finally dropped from his to study the line of his jaw. She smiled when she murmured, “Physical therapist, not counselor. Not bodyguard.”

  “How about friend?” he offered. Because this pseudo embrace against the brick wall was starting to feel a lot like something more than a therapist–patient relationship was happening between them.

  “Maybe it is a little far to walk.” But she wasn’t asking for a ride. Another bus pulled up behind him, her phone rang and she pulled away to take out her cell and join the line waiting to board the bus. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning...Mike.”

  She paused before his name, as if it was hard to pronounce.

  Maybe it was just hard to accept his offer. “Do you need me to pick you up?”

  “Not my chauffeur.” She raised her voice to be heard above the bus’s idling engine.

  He raised his, too. “I’m not being nice. I’m being practical.”

  But she was already climbing on, taking her call. Mike backed away as the bus door closed and the big vehicle hissed and growled, spewing fumes that blocked out the spicy scent he was learning to identify as Gina’s.

  Mike watched the bus chug up to speed and sail through the intersection before he turned back toward the PT clinic. He scanned the traffic as he walked, trying to spot the car again. Maybe the driver had circled around the block a third time. Maybe the tan sedan was long gone. Maybe it had nothing to do with Gina or the shooting.

  Erring on the side of caution, he pulled out his own phone and texted himself the license plate number before he forgot it. He’d ask his dad or one of his buddies at the police department to see what they could find out about the car and its owner.

  He hadn’t gotten a look at the shooter who’d sped away that day, either. He’d been too focused on helping the cops who’d been wounded. Had the car triggered a memory in Gina’s subconscious mind, reminding her of something she’d seen? Or was all that bravado she spouted the protective armor of a woman who’d had her confidence ripped out from under her feet?

  Mike wasn’t a cop. But he was thinking like one, and he needed answers.

  Was the shooter tracking her down, learning her routine so he could come back and finish the job? If so, did that mean the shooting was personal? Not a random attack on cops?

  Was Gina still in danger?

  What kind of backup did a cop on medical leave have? Maybe she didn’t need Mike to protect her. But, injured as she was, without the ability to use her gun, how would the woman protect herself?

  Chapter Five

  “Not my chauffeur, Choir Boy,” Gina insisted, catching the towel Mike tossed her way with her left hand. Slightly breathless after a duel on side-by-side treadmills that she suspected he’d let her win, she dabbed at the perspiration at her neck and at the cleavage of the gray tank top she wore. “I can get to KCPD headquarters on my own.”

  After a week of physical therapy sessions with Mike Cutler, she had to give him grief, or else he might begin to think his jokes amused her—and that his efforts to be a gentleman and push her toward recovery with the same mix of authority and restraint his dad used at KCPD might result in her actually liking the guy.

  At least he had the sense to respect her fitness level. He allowed her to push hard with her legs and left arm, in addition to the far gentler stretches and coordination exercises he did with her right hand and arm. “I suspect your legs are like jelly, so you’re not walking. And I can’t wait for you to get there by bus. How much time do you think I can spare for you out of my busy day?” he teased. He picked up his own towel to wipe his face. “I’m driving.”

  Busy day? Gina picked up the sling he’d let her remove before that last running challenge and swung her gaze over to where Troy was working with a retired firefighter with knee issues. She hadn’t seen many other patients. And she’d overheard a conversation between Mike and Frannie on Monday about moving money from his personal account to make a payment on an expensive piece of equipment.

  They might come from two different worlds, but growing up in suburbia hadn’t guaranteed that a person could make ends meet. Still, the fact that he drove into this part of the city from somewhere else and probably lived in a house big enough to stretch out those long, muscular legs of his made her a little jealous. Heck, he no doubt had more bathrooms in that house than any one man could use, while she intended to take a quick shower here so that she wouldn’t have to let her workout scent marinate while she waited in line to use the bathtub at home.

  His tone grew serious as he sat down on the bench, facing her. “Are you worried about going back to Precinct headquarters? I’d rather evaluate the status of your grip at the shooting range than bring a gun here.”

  “No. That’s fine. While we’re there I can check in with my partner—see if there are any developments in the shooting investigation. Not that I can do anything about it officially, but...” Maybe she should take Mike up on his offer of a ride, in case being back in the building where she could no longer work stirred up her frustrations again—or embarrassment if she discovered she was no better at handling a firearm today than she’d been seven weeks ago. She’d hate to be waiting for the bus if she wanted to make a quick escape.

  Those piercing blue eyes studied every nuance of her expression, trying to read her thoughts. “But you want to regain a little control over what you’re going through?”