Kansas City Cop Read online

  But Derek had it handled. After sliding Gina an apologetic look, he pulled his father around the corner of the desk. “Why are you here, anyway? What do you need?”

  “A place we can talk in private? Family business.” Derek seemed relieved to usher his father toward an interview room. “I’ve been talkin’ to a lawyer...”

  That’s when she discovered she’d latched on to the back of Mike’s shirt. Tightly enough to feel the flex of muscle through the cotton knit. Had she really thought Mr. Nice Guy was going after Harold and she’d have to stop him? Or had she subconsciously realized she needed the anchor of his solid presence to get through this difficult visit to Precinct headquarters after all?

  She quickly released him and tilted her face to meet Mike’s sharp blue gaze when he turned. “You ready to go?”

  Gina patted her pocket with the folded notes. “I got enough information that I can follow up a few leads myself.”

  He arched an eyebrow that was as sleekly handsome as Harold’s had been a bushy mess. “Need I remind you that you’re on medical leave?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to make a few phone calls.”

  “What if you stir up the wrong kind of interest—like that driver who threatened you last week? What if he’s the shooter, trying to figure out whether you recognize him? If you start poking the bear, he might stop the next time and finish what he started. You don’t have a gun or a badge right now.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of that,” she snapped, turning toward the elevators. He followed in that long, loose stride that forced her to take two steps for every one of his to beat him to the elevator’s call button. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I can at least make a pest of myself with the detectives investigating the shooting.”

  They had to wait long enough that logic had the chance to sneak past Gina’s flare of temper. Mike was right about starting something she couldn’t finish. What if she did manage to identify the man who’d shot her? She wouldn’t be able to do anything more than call someone else at KCPD to make the arrest. If she confronted him herself, she’d be at a disadvantage. She hadn’t been able to protect her partner back when she’d been at 100 percent. What did she think she could do now? Not only could he hurt her again, he could hurt the people around her—her family, innocent bystanders, this tall drink of annoyingly right catnip standing beside her—and she couldn’t do anything to stop him.

  She was worse than useless as a cop right now. She might well be a danger to everyone around her.

  The elevators were busy enough that Gina and Mike were standing there when Derek came around the corner of the last cubicle wall, pulling his father by the arm, hurrying him toward the exit. Whatever family business Harold had wanted to discuss, it wasn’t going over well with Derek. Words like lawsuit and easy money popped out of the hushed argument. Was he suggesting that Derek sue the department? The city? Her? To make a profit off getting shot?

  Although she was getting used to Mike positioning himself between her and anyone who might accidentally bump into her arm, his protective stance couldn’t stop Harold from tugging free of his son’s grip and addressing her. “Talk some sense into my boy, chica. Do the right thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Leave her out of this, Dad. You’ve embarrassed me enough with your get-rich quick schemes. I’m sorry, G. Are we good?”

  Gina nodded. Derek was her partner and a friend. He needed her support—not someone grilling him for answers or blaming him for whatever nutso scheme his dad had come up with.

  “Come on.” Derek snatched Harold by the shoulder of his jacket and pushed him toward the stairwell door. He shoved the door open and pulled his father inside, for privacy to continue the argument as much as the apparent need for speed in making an exit.

  She was still staring after them when the elevator arrived and Mike’s hand at the small of her back nudged her inside. She crossed to the back of the car and leaned against it, feeling her energy ebbing from the unexpected emotional onslaught of this morning’s visit to the Precinct building. “That man is stuck in the Dark Ages. I suspect feminism and ethnic equality aren’t part of his vocabulary.”

  “Derek’s dad?”

  “The only other Hispanic woman he knows is a bartender from a cantina during his army days? That’s how he thinks of me? He blames me for Derek getting shot. No way could a little woman, much less one from my part of town, be a good cop and a good partner who could protect his son.”

  Mike pushed the button for the basement level before resting his hip against the back railing beside her. “He got to you. You don’t blame yourself for getting shot, do you?”

  Did she? Gina shook off the misguided guilt. “No. I know there’s only one person to blame—a wannabe cop killer I can’t identify.”

  “But Johnson made you feel guilty.” The elevator lurched as it began its descent. “From the way that conversation started, I assumed he must always be a jerk and you were accustomed to blowing him off.”

  “Usually, I do. But...” Her mood descended right along with the elevator. “I feel out of step here today. Like I don’t belong anymore. I don’t know the facts of the most important cases. I can’t maintain a conversation with people I’ve worked with for six years. Harold is always going to say something that gets under my skin, but I try to be civil about correcting him for Derek’s sake. Yet today, I let him get to me. For a few seconds there, I thought you were going to do what I wanted to.”

  “Punch him in the mouth?” Gina groaned at his deadpan response. Besides lifting her spirits, the heat of his body standing close to hers was comforting, even though she hated to admit it. She watched as he slid his finger across the brass railing until his pinkie was brushing against hers. She couldn’t feel that lightest of touches with her fingertip, but she felt the connection deeper inside. She felt his strength, his easy confidence, his caring. “Have you been back to HQ since the shooting?” he asked.

  “Only to sign my incident report and fill out some insurance forms in the administrative offices. A few of the guys stopped by the hospital to see how I was doing. But I haven’t done much to keep in touch since then. I’ve just been so focused...” She looked down at their hands, studying the differences in size and strength, the contrasts of male and female, the olive sheen of her skin next to his paler color. Mike Cutler was different from any man she’d ever taken the time to get to know. Not just on the outside. Somehow, her physical therapist had become her friend. A good friend. Her savior had become a trusted confidant who’d seen her at her worst and motivated her to be her best. He was honest and funny and strong in ways that went beyond his obvious athleticism. “I used to go toe-to-toe with those guys. Today, I feel like a rookie. Like I have to prove myself all over again just to keep my badge.”

  His pinkie brushed over the top of hers and hooked between her fingers, holding on in the subtlest of ways and deepening the connection she felt. “I bet there’s not a one of those guys who could handle what you’ve been through and come back the way you are.”

  “They’re KCPD’s best.”

  “They’re men. Men are terrible patients.”

  “I’m a terrible patient,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, but you’re cute.” Mike’s voice had dropped to a husky timbre that skittered along her spine.

  “Cute? No one has ever called me cute. Except maybe Harold Johnson.” Although she’d never developed her flirting skills the way her sister had, Gina could hear the huskier notes in her own voice. “Strong. Stubborn. Temperamental. But not cute.”

  “I figured you’d punch me if I called you sexy or built like a fine piece of art. And I don’t want you to injure that arm.”

  Gina felt herself blushing for the second time that day. But with an infusion of Mike’s humor and compassion and that delicious heat she craved, she could also feel her strength coming back. “Stick with cute, Choir Boy. That may be the best I can do for a while.”

  “I’ll take that bet.” Mike slipped his broad hand beneath her smaller one, turning his palm up to meet hers. “Squeeze my hand. Hard as you can.”

  Gina straightened at the challenge. “Another exercise?”

  “I’m warming you up for the shooting range. Just hold on to me.” Her thumb and forefinger easily latched on, but she had to concentrate to move the other fingers. She wasn’t sure if it was simple gravity or her own effort, but the last three fingers trembled into place, curling against the side of his hand. When she would have pulled away, he tightened his hand around hers. “Do you feel that?”

  “I feel the heat coming off your skin.” His grip pulsed around hers. Gina straightened as a renewed sense of hope surged through her. “I felt that.” His deep blue eyes were watching her excitement, smiling. So was she. “Does that mean I’m getting the sensation back in my fingers? Am I improving?”

  He squeezed her hand again. “Baby steps, Gina. I saw you writing with that pen. Picked it up without hesitation. That’s definite improvement.”

  A dose of reality tempered her enthusiasm. “A gun is going to be a lot heavier than a pen. Losing control of a weapon is far more serious than making a scribble on a page.”

  One by one, Mike laced his fingers between hers. “My money’s on you, Tiger.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She gasped at the surprising tickle of his beard stubble brushing across her skin. Were her nerves finding new pathways to bring sensation back to her hand? Or was that flush of warmth heating her blood a sign that Mike was starting to mean more to her than just a friend?

  Gina knew the strangest urge to stretch up on h
er tiptoes and feel the ticklish sensation of his lips on her own. The elevator jostled them as it slowed its descent, and the tiny shake reminded Gina that this man was all kinds of wrong for her. Any relationship was, at this point in her life. But she could appreciate his friendship and support. “You didn’t have to defend me against Derek’s dad.”

  “Maybe I was protecting him from you.”

  A long-absent smile relaxed her lips as she leaned back, letting her shoulder rest against his arm. “You’re a good man, Mike Cutler.”

  He shrugged. “It’s what nice guys do.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following Monday afternoon, Gina was back in training. After her regular session at the CAPT clinic, Mike took her back to the Precinct offices for another round at the shooting range. He was a taskmaster, and she loved the challenges he set up for her. Running. Light weights. Flexibility. Although she still didn’t believe they had much in common beyond these sessions, she enjoyed the time they were spending together—Mike the physical therapist putting her through her paces, Mike the friend making her laugh, Mike the protector watching her every move to make sure she didn’t injure herself, even as he pushed her to do more.

  Today, her hard work and his patience were going to pay off. She was going to shoot her gun, instead of merely manipulating the weapon as she had during last week’s session. This time Mike was giving her a baseline test to see how much progress she was making toward returning to active duty.

  Other than the officer manning the door to the shooting range, she and Mike were alone and could take their time going through the dexterity exercises they’d practiced last week. She cleared and unloaded, then reloaded her gun twice—once using both hands, and a second time that took several frustrating minutes, while Mike held her left hand down on the counter, forcing her to do more of the work with her right. Now, with their noise-cancelling headphones hanging around their necks, Mike picked up her service weapon.

  “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked. “It’s loaded today.”

  With an efficiency she envied and respected, he demonstrated that he knew exactly what to do with a Glock 9 mil. “I’m the son of a cop and grew up with guns in the house. Dad always made sure my brother and I knew gun safety and how to handle a weapon.”

  She put on her ear protection when he did and stepped to the side of the booth as he fired off five rounds. And, if she wasn’t mistaken at this distance, he placed all but one of the bullets center mass of the target.

  “Show-off,” she teased, when he caught her staring in openmouthed admiration.

  He grinned, unloading the Glock and setting the gun and magazine on the counter. “Your turn.”

  He pulled her in front of him, in that protective stance that surrounded her with his warmth. But this wasn’t an embrace. It was a physical therapist supporting his patient. She needed to focus on her physical training.

  Still, it was hard to miss the intimacy of their positions when her hip brushed against his thigh and his arm reached around her to tap the weapon. “I don’t want you to fire any rounds yet. Let’s practice raising and aiming the weapon.”

  Before last week, Gina hadn’t handled her weapon since an embarrassing fiasco shortly after she returned home from the hospital. She’d thought she could suit up like any ordinary day and resume the chaos of her life without missing another step. But the heavy Glock had slipped from her grip and bounced across her bedroom floor. Thank goodness the safety had been on. That humbling morning when she realized that all of her cop armor, both figurative and literal, had been stripped away from her by a gunshot was the day she started her determined journey to return to the job and to the protector and provider her family needed her to be.

  Realizing the extent of her impediment had been a shock to her sense of self that morning. Today, she knew better than to expect a miracle. But she didn’t intend to humiliate herself, either.

  She’d ask for a little backup before she put her hand on that weapon again. Crossing her fingers, she raised them to her lips before brushing them across her heart.

  “You superstitious?” Mike asked.

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask for a little luck before doing something new or difficult.” She closed her thumb and finger around the grip of the gun before wrapping her left hand around that to seal her grip.

  Feeling a gentle pressure at the crown of her hair, Gina paused before lifting the weapon.

  “For luck.” Mike’s gentle kiss and the husky tremor of his deep voice vibrated across her skin and eardrums, seeping inside her like the warmth of his body. Any trepidation she felt was under control, thanks to the support of this unexpected ally. “Let’s do this.”

  She raised the weapon, tilting her head slightly to line up the sight and aim it at the paper target at the end of the firing lane. The gun dipped slightly when she moved her finger to the trigger guard, but she stabilized it with her left hand. The gun clicked when she pulled the trigger.

  “Again,” Mike instructed, sliding his hand beneath her elbow to steady her arm.

  Gina aimed the empty weapon. Click.

  “Again. Control it.”

  Click.

  “Now use your left hand just to steady it, not to keep your fingers on the grip.” Her right hand shook as she made the adjustment. Mike’s fingers stroked along her arm as he pulled away. “This one’s all you.”

  Gina pressed her lips together, willing her grip to remain fixed as she took the whole weight of the weapon on her own. “Bang.”

  Steady. Her strength hadn’t flagged.

  “There you go.” Mike praised her, setting the new clip of bullets on the counter. “Clear it and load it while I bring up a new target.”

  With Mike’s hand at her shoulder to support the extra kickback of firing real ammo, Gina took aim at the target and fired off six shots. By the fourth bullet, she could feel the strain in her shoulder. By the sixth one, her hands were shaking.

  “Easy,” Mike warned, catching her right arm beneath the elbow to control the weapon as her hands slumped down to the counter.

  But she kept hold of the gun, kept it pointed safely away from them. She batted his helpful fingers away to expel the magazine and clear the firing chamber herself before setting the gun aside. Gina exhaled an elated sigh as she pulled off her earphones. “I did it.”

  “That you did.” Mike’s hand settled at her hip, his long fingers slipping beneath her jacket, spanning her waist with a familiar ease while he nudged her to one side to secure the Glock. Whether casually or with a purpose, he touched her often, as if he had the right to do so, and she wasn’t complaining. “Have you considered using a lighter weapon?”

  She shook her head as she removed her goggles and set them on the shelf beneath the counter. “I need one with stopping power.” When she straightened, she asked, “So how did I do? I was six for six, center mass before I was injured.”

  Mike laughed as he pushed the button to bring the target up to the counter. “Give me a minute to check, Annie Oakley.”

  “I could learn to shoot left-handed if I have to.”

  But Mike pointed out the challenge in that solution. “How would you steady your grip and secure your aim? It’s smarter for the strong to support the weak.”

  Was that supposed to be a metaphor? That he was strong and she was weak? Or that he believed she had the strength to overcome this setback? Mike was too nice a guy to give her a veiled put-down, so she chose to believe the latter.

  Mike stowed his earphones, his body brushing against hers in the tight quarters of the booth. This was crazy, this distracted feeling she got whenever Mike was around. From the first moment she’d seen his long, powerful stride eating up the sidewalk on his afternoon run, there’d been something about him that pulled her attention away from the laser-sharp focus that had ruled most of her life. He was still a little too Dudley Do-Right compared to her streetwise bad girl persona for her to think they’d have any chance at making a relationship work—or even surviving a regular date. But she couldn’t deny that he’d been a solid and dependable teammate since he’d taken over her recovery program. And for a woman who’d had very little solid and dependable in her life, Mike Cutler seemed an awful lot like that dream of peace and space and security she’d been chasing for so long.