The Officer's Girl (6 page)

“I’m sorry?” Did he mean here, at Space Tech? Or, here, at this desk? If his glare was any indication, she wouldn’t be at either long.

“Why is my director of human resources sitting at her secretary’s desk and not in her office?”

Stephanie practically heard the soft chime of the elevator descending all the way to the basement. She consid
ered making something up, something practical, something straight out of an economics textbook, but she knew it wouldn’t be the truth. If her career was going to go splat, she owed herself that much. The truth.

“I never made it that far. We had a lot of calls, and the phone in my office doesn’t have enough lines to handle them.”

“That’s because your predecessor avoided such work. He felt direct communication with our employees was better left to their managers.”

Her predecessor. One day the man had been sitting in this office. The next, all trace of him had vanished. His abrupt departure had triggered her promotion, one she had hoped to keep.

“My philosophy is more…hands-on. I could have ignored the phones, but our employees needed reassurance. Giving it to them made all of us feel better.” Hearing herself, Stephanie thought she might gag. She’d been around long enough to realize that
touchy-feely
didn’t earn any Brownie points with the corporate mucky-mucks.

“I take it some of our employees required a bit of hand-holding?”

Had she really seen his lips curve? Everyone knew John Sanders never smiled, but for a second there she would have sworn…

“You could say that. I think I spoke with every one of them. Some of them twice.”

The harsh lines around the founder’s face dissolved. “As well you should, my dear. As well you should. Never lose sight of the fact that our employees are people and people have problems. When we can, we want to help them.”

Stephanie blinked to hide her shock. If she wasn’t
mistaken, John Sanders had just applied the brakes to her free-falling career.

“Now, did you consider a fundraiser?” he continued. “Perhaps an old-fashioned carnival?”

Thinking Corporate would consider the idea too “girly,” she hadn’t suggested it. She had, however, calculated the risks. Any number of factors—inclement weather, poor turnout, insurance rates—could cause such an event to lose money. “If we don’t deplete the emergency fund, we’ll throw a back-to-normal barbecue in a month or two.”

Nodding, John Sanders scanned the surface of the desk where her laptop sat open. “And I suppose George wants a million and one reports? Don’t stay here until they’re done tonight.”

That sounded an awful lot like an order. “No?” she asked.

“There will be enough chaos tomorrow without adding an exhausted HR director into the mix. Go home. Have a nice dinner. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Since arguing with the company founder wouldn’t enhance her career, she clamped her mouth shut before it could disagree. The reports couldn’t be ignored altogether, but a laptop made the work portable.

“I’ll walk out with you,” she said.

A nice, long break was just what the doctor, er, company founder, had ordered. The warm fuzzies were all her own. She gathered up her things.

The sun was a huge orange ball sinking behind streaks of gold cloud when she pulled out of the parking lot at Petty’s. Like many businesses on the mainland, the upscale butcher shop was back in business, and a sampling of gourmet takeout now rested in a heavy paper bag on the floorboard beside her. Driving across the causeway, Stephanie inhaled deeply. The buttery smell of garlic rolls
competed with the briny tang of the ocean. Both were so appealing she couldn’t decide which one she liked best.

All in all, it had been a good day. Hard work, but no more than she’d expected. She had been able to help several Space Tech employees. And any day you made friends with the company founder, that was a good day, indeed.

With the power still out for most of the barrier islands, intersections had become four-way stops. As she slowed to wait her turn at one, Stephanie eyed a tall drift of wind-blown sand that narrowed the road. Traffic cleared, and she was halfway through the intersection when another car barreled up behind her.

“Hey! Watch out!” she protested as a fast-moving, black convertible drew even. The drift was right in front of her. With a split second to choose between getting sideswiped or plowing into sand, she chose the sand.

Mired to its hubcaps, her car rocked to an immediate stop.

B
RETT WATCHED
the traffic move in an orderly fashion through the intersection until he realized his heart wasn’t in the job.

Normally, he loved the first few days after a big blow. Residents of the small town banded together. They held neighborhood cookouts so the meat in their freezers would not go to waste. They broke out their chain saws and cleared debris from each other’s driveways. They cut “the other guy” some slack. Yes, there were a few losers, such as Dick and his pal Sam, con artists who tried to take advantage. But they were easy to spot, and nearly as easy to deal with. And sure, later—by week’s end if Florida Power and Light didn’t get the electric restored—all that newfound camaraderie would fray. But the first few days
after a hurricane were all wine and roses. Sort of like a honeymoon.

Wine and roses and…who? He pictured a woman dressed in a long white gown, dark curls spilling over bare shoulders as she reclined against a thousand pillows on a wide canopied bed. The image stirred a yearning so deep and unexpected it rattled him.

What the…? He didn’t think about honeymoons. Or getting married, for that matter. Certainly not to someone he’d barely met, even if the mere sight of her stirred him to pick up a sword and shield and slay all her dragons. Brett slugged back coffee and forced himself into an upright and uncomfortable position. He was suffering from sleep deprivation, that had to be the problem. Show him a guy whose thoughts didn’t wander after seventy-two hours of round-the-clock duty, and he’d show you a guy who…

His head and his focus snapped to attention when a black convertible sped past his patrol car in a horn-blowing blare. Spewing sand and grit, the car made the turn off the causeway onto the main beachside road without even slowing down. Brett studied the intersection. No collisions. No cars off the road. Everyone startled, but okay. He hit his lights and siren, speaking into his mike, his car in motion before the sand settled back onto the asphalt.

“Dispatch, this is Lincoln. In pursuit of a black Mustang convertible, license unknown. Southbound from State Road 520 on A1A.”

Doris’s voice was all business. “Lincoln, this is Dispatch. Break off at Cocoa Isles Boulevard. I say again. Break off pursuit of black Mustang at Cocoa Isles. Hand off to Davis and Smith.”

“Roger that, Dispatch.” He was no slouch, but Jake Davis was the finest police officer on the force. He’d have
the reckless driver tested for alcohol and spread-eagled before his tires quit spinning.

Brett allowed himself a tight smile. One more block, and he’d relinquish the chase into Jake’s good hands.

It was one too many.

The Mustang blasted through another crossroad. This time cars careened out of its path. One—a familiar navy sedan—swung to the side, throwing up a plume of sand as it went. The car rocked to a stop, its nose buried in a drifting dune.

Recognition and denial warred within him as Brett’s heart did a slow roll. The one person he wanted to protect above all others was in that car.

“It can’t be,” he whispered.

He was out of his unit, his feet pounding against the pavement. At least, he thought his feet were pounding. Something was, but he wasn’t making any progress in his race to the sedan. It took an eternity to cover the fifty feet from his car to hers. Through a side window he saw a spill of dark curls. He wrenched the door open, his eyes assessing the scene, his thoughts rushing.

Stephanie slumped, motionless, across the steering wheel. Brett froze, unable to breathe, until her hand moved. He heard a soft moan escape her lips.

“Alive,” he whispered. “Thank heaven.”

He took a half sip of air when Stephanie pushed away from the steering wheel and struggled to straighten herself. She tipped to one side, taking his heart right along with her. Frightening possibilities—seizure, whiplash, internal bleeding—filled his head.

Before he could help her, she sat up, dragging a bag with a familiar logo out of the footwell on the passenger side. She peered into the sack.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she exclaimed. “Nothing’s broken.”

Nothing but my head, Brett thought.
I should have it examined.

His heart slowly slipped down his throat and back into his chest where it belonged. It pumped hard enough to make his breath sound harsh as he stared down at Stephanie. “You all right?” he asked.

She looked…fine. The large paper bag blocked his view of her waist and hips but, judging from the way she swung her feet from the car, all working parts were in good order.

“Don’t worry about me.”

She sounded a little out of breath. That could be the excitement or she could be injured. She could have banged into the steering wheel and hurt…something. Brett zeroed in on her chest.

“The guy who ran me off the road. He’s the one you need to worry about.”

He jerked his focus up where it belonged before he got caught staring and spoke. “He kept on going. Didn’t stop.”

Communication chattered through his earpiece. Jake had pulled the Mustang over and was even now reading the driver his rights. Joining them made no sense and, besides, he had something more important to tend to. Brett switched his radio off.

“Are you just going to let him speed on down the road until somebody gets hurt? Go after him. I’m fine.”

She was fine? Irritated was more like it. Maybe she
had
banged her head.

“Let’s just make sure you’re all right first,” he said. “Any pain? Did you black out? Lose consciousness?” It was hard to tell if a person’s pupils were dilated when eyes narrowed the way Stephanie’s did.

“I told you, I’m not hurt. I wasn’t going that fast. Look,” she gestured. “The air bag didn’t even deploy.”

Brett checked the dashboard for damage and saw none. No drape of white plastic over the steering wheel. No cracks in the windshield. Nothing.

Maybe he was overreacting a bit. Like he had the time one of Tom’s girls had tangled with a jellyfish at the beach. The toddler’s tears had brought him to his knees, and he had practically dialed 911 before Mary doused the tiny welt with meat tenderizer. The baby’s tears had dried in an instant. Not so Tom and Mary’s teasing—that had gone on for months. He knew he had overreacted then because the girls meant so much to him. But why was his normally unflappable heart chugging along like a runaway train now? The reason frowned up at him.

“Do you think you can stand?” he asked her.

“Of course.”

Wanting, needing to help, he reached for her arm, but ended up holding the sack Stephanie thrust into his outstretched hand.

“I can manage,” she proclaimed.

Her narrow skirt would make maneuvering a struggle under normal circumstances. Toss in a pair of shoes better designed for a runway in Paris than the beach, and her balance was bound to be skewed. But Brett had surfed often enough to get out of the water when the sharks were biting. He stepped back to give her room, easing into a crouch as he freed his hands of her grocery bag.

To her credit, she made it practically upright before pencil-thin heels tunneled into the loose sand. With an unladylike, “Awk!” she tumbled backward. Brett lunged, managing to wrap his arms around her before she hit the car. He tugged her to him just as his own feet found the
edge of the roadway and slipped off. If he’d been any shorter or less solid, they both might have spilled onto the ground, but he regained his footing quickly. It would take a lot more than ninety pounds of girl and a little crumbled asphalt to bring him down.

Or maybe not…

His arms filled with warm, breathing Stephanie Bryant. The heady scent of her perfume found its way straight into his brain where it purged all thoughts except how much he wanted her in his life. As he realized he had her right where he’d wanted her since the moment she’d opened her front door, need tugged across his hips, surged into his center and headed south.

His reaction was so immediate and so startlingly obvious that he reared back. His hands skimmed upward over soft curves to her shoulders and he forced his elbows straight until he held her at arm’s length. He searched her face, hoping he hadn’t scared her to death. As for himself, he was already halfway there.

Stephanie felt herself falling backward, and just had time to realize her head was inches from a nasty blow when Brett’s strong arms swept her away from harm.

Thank goodness he’d caught her in time. This rescue—unlike some of the others—was real enough. So why did she suspect she had merely traded one danger for another? She didn’t have an answer for that question, but she knew what she wanted. She wanted to rest her cheek against Brett’s crisp khaki shirt and press her head to his wide chest. She wanted to listen to the steady beat of his heart. She’d grabbed for him as she fell, and now her hands seemed reluctant to leave his narrow hips while his fingers firmly gripped her waist. He held her as if he would never let her go and she leaned into him, daring herself to want the same thing. A world of possibilities was just opening up when he jerked back as if she was kryptonite.

“Jeez. Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to crush you like that.”

If she could have, she would have scratched her head where confusion had moved in and set up housekeeping. Instead, she sought firmer footing on the pavement and reached for his hand.

“Thanks,” she said. “I mean it.”

“Just doing my job.”

Warmth radiated from him, sending a delicious shiver through her as his large hand engulfed her smaller one. Her thoughts evaporated like morning dew when the sun came up. The urge to move into his arms again was strong but she resisted, struggling to remember something that was just out of her grasp. She knew it was something important, but she couldn’t quite…

She retrieved her hand and took a step back.

Oh, yeah. It was a bad idea to start a relationship the same week she started her dream job. Though at the moment, it was difficult to remember why.

She’d have to think about that later, after her hand stopped tingling.

“So, what about the other guy?” she asked. “The one who ran me off the road. Did he get away?”

Brett angled his chin to a spot farther down the beach where blue lights flashed brightly against the dark sky. His voice did not invite discussion when he said, “They got him. He’s earned a night’s stay in lockup.”

“Guess I’ll be going, then. Think I can get my car back on the road?” She slipped her feet free of the infernal sandals and bent down to pick them up. When he didn’t answer, she shot the tall cop a questioning glance that caught him staring into the darkness where waves crashed on the shore behind the dunes.

“Brett?”

He blinked, coming back from wherever he’d gone. His attention shifted to her car. Sand just reached the front hubcaps. The back wheels were still angled out onto the shoulder. As she imagined, the front end barely touched the encroaching dune. Brett slipped behind the
wheel and backed the car onto the pavement with apparent ease.

“I’d have someone look it over, especially that air bag, if it were mine. But the brakes feel okay. Steering, too. I can follow you home if you’d like. Make sure you get there safely.”

Now that they weren’t touching, she could almost think rationally again. Brett Lincoln made a great knight on a white horse, but she didn’t want a man in her life. Not even one who rode to her rescue at the slightest provocation.

She moved her head firmly from side to side. “I’m sure that’s not necessary. Like you said, everything is working. And it’s only a short way home.”

She stepped toward the car where he held the door while she pulled her shoes back on. As she swung into the seat, he lingered at her window.

“How’s the house? You get enough air with the shutters off?”

The question brought her head around. “How did you know about the shutters?” He refused to meet her eyes as she frowned up at him. “You took them down?”

When he nodded, her confusion unpacked its bags and settled in for a long stay. “I thought Dick and his buddy came back and finished the job.”

Brett made a chuffing noise. “The only job those jokers were interested in was how much money they could take you for. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the way these guys work.”

“So, why did you…”

“Dispatch wanted me to keep an eye out for them in case they circled around after you left. I figured I might as well make myself useful.”

Useful, indeed. The work must have taken hours and it
was so far beyond the call of duty she couldn’t let it go unchallenged. “It’s too much, Brett. I can’t accept—”

Despite the darkness, she saw his blue eyes sparkle. “You want me to rehang your shutters?”

“Well, no…” she began. The closed-up house would be an oven until the power came back on.

“Consider it a welcome gift, then. I—Hey. Hold on.”

He ducked away from her window before her protests continued. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he trudged through the sand to retrieve something from the ground.

“We nearly forgot your bag,” he said.

The sack of groceries he settled on her backseat offered a tangible way to say thanks. “What time does your shift end?” she asked.

“We’re on 24/7 till all the hurricane mess gets sorted out, but I have a dinner break coming up. Do you need something?”

She laughed. “You absolutely, positively cannot do one more thing for me. I’ll never be able to repay you as it is.” Not wanting to mislead him, she added, “And I’m not going to try.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” he grumbled with a smile that let her know he was joking.

“I’ll never eat all the food I bought at the market. It seems a shame to let an excellent meal go to waste. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have supper.”

As Stephanie pulled onto the road, she told herself not to read too much into Brett’s ready acceptance. Supper, that’s all it was. Supper and a chance to throw some roadblocks in the path of what she could not deny was a growing attraction. So far, it was mostly physical, and she needed to keep it that way. If they spent some time
together, she was certain their sexual attraction would fade in the face of all their differences. After all, he was a macho cop, determined to argue with practically every word that came out of her mouth, while she was all about cooperation and her career.

Her job might not keep her warm at night, but heat wasn’t exactly a problem in Florida…in the summer…with no air-conditioning. The sky glowed over the distant mainland where electricity was quickly being restored. Not so in Cocoa Beach or the rest of the barrier islands. From Cape Canaveral to the Sebastian Inlet,
When do we get power?
was the question on the lips of everyone from the gas station attendant who could not pump gas to the convenience store owner who gave away the contents of his freezers rather than see the food go to waste.

Stephanie wanted the miracle of electricity as much as anybody else. She especially longed to hear the soothing crash of waves on the beach again. From her driveway, she listened to machines that whined like a hundred airplanes revving for takeoff. The generators belonging to her more hurricane-savvy neighbors drowned out all other sound.

She still had the sky, though. A crescent moon and a billion stars normally hidden by the glare of city lights lit her way to the front door where she fumbled her key into the lock. Inside, black heat ruled.

She lugged her bags, briefcase and laptop to the kitchen counter. The rustle of plastic and paper bags seemed unnaturally loud without the usual dampening effect of electric appliances. Feeling for the flashlight and portable radio, she kicked off her heels and listened to them skid into a corner before she raced through the house, throwing open all the windows. A cool ocean breeze rushed through
the screens. It was exactly what she had asked for, though it threatened to snuff out the thick, white candles she lit in place of lamps.

Inviting Brett to dinner already had her in a sweat, but the addition of heat and humidity drove her into the shower. With the only choice being cold water or more cold water, she was under the spray and out again almost before the chill bumps formed.

“What to Wear When Serving Post-Hurricane Takeout” might make a nice addition to her evacuation class, she decided as she shifted impatiently in front of her closet. Her flashlight played over a dizzying array of clothes designed to fit the Florida lifestyle. In her mind they clung too tightly, plunged too low or didn’t cover enough of her midsection. They would do nothing for the roadblocks she intended to erect between her and a certain cop. With a sigh, she chose a flippy print, hoping the stretchy yellow crop top she wore with it turned the sheer blouse into something halfway decent. Drab Bermuda shorts and scuffs completed her outfit without adding to its allure.

She pushed damp curls from her face and decided to forego her usual makeup, as well. The sticky heat would only make it run, but lipstick was another matter. Lipstick was like underwear. It didn’t take much—just a little dab—but you didn’t walk around without it. She had just finished gliding the merest shimmer around her mouth when she heard a knock at the front door. Her hand tightened on the small tube.

What had she been thinking, inviting a Greek god to dinner?

Maybe she hadn’t been thinking. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to rush around in air as thick and hot as a sauna’s. That was how people got heatstroke, wasn’t it? She paused,
thinking of all the ways and places she’d like Brett to stroke until a second rap on the door interrupted a very pleasant daydream. She shook her head.

There would be no hanky-panky with Brett Lincoln. He was physically attractive, no doubt, and he had this noble habit of being Johnny-on-the-spot at the first sign of trouble. Problem was, she didn’t need Johnny, or his spot—thank you very much. Not when her goal was to prove how well she could manage herself, her people and her company on her own. No, she wanted Brett in her world as much as she wanted a rash.

But like it or not, he
was
in her world. And he made her itch all over.

B
RETT’S HEAD
dipped forward just as his dream started to get interesting. He jolted awake.

“Only a dream,” he muttered.

He was alone in his squad car, just as he had been ten minutes earlier when he turned off the ignition key. Endless back-to-back shifts were having their way with him and the catnap had crept up unannounced. If there was one good thing about not having his way with Stephanie tonight, that was it—he would probably fall asleep and miss all the fun. Before he could drift off again and miss the evening altogether, Brett levered himself from the car and made his way to the front door.

At first glance, the outfit she wore to greet him was disappointingly modest, but Brett quickly reminded himself that he wasn’t there to check her out. He already knew the sassy brunette turned him on. What he needed now was to find out more about the girl who owned the phenomenal bod before his libido drove him into a wall.

As he followed her to the kitchen, his fog-shrouded
brain stirred with an altogether different kind of hunger. He breathed in the smoky scent of grilled chicken, the tang of citrus. Pineapple tickled his nose with its tart smell. There were sharp spices nearby, and a whiff of garlic floated in the air. He darted a look from Stephanie to the heaping dish she set before him. Three days of vending machine fare left him uncertain which to devour first, so he took his cue from the petite brunette. His fork plunged to the plate.

“So, Brett, how long have you lived here?” Stephanie asked a short while later.

“I’m a Florida cracker,” he answered between bites. “That’s what they call us natives. Except for a stint in the Marines and college, I’ve lived here all my life.”

“You didn’t want to travel, see the world?” Her brows, which hiked whenever something confused or upset her, rose a tad.

“I saw enough of it in the Marines to know people are pretty much the same no matter where you go. Good guys are good. Bad guys are bad. The rest is just window dressing.”

“Officer Lincoln!” Stephanie grabbed her heart and leaned back, laughing. “Do I detect a touch of cynicism?”

He ignored the playful sparkle in her eyes to shrug an answer. “I fight it every day,” he said. “Usually, it wins.” His image of public service had tarnished faster than his shiny gold badge.

Instantly, she sobered. “I’ve heard that policemen make great cynics. You think it’s part of the job?”

He shoveled in a forkful of pasta salad and bit into something that filled his mouth with a burst of sharp flavor. The taste brought him all the way awake as he studied the figure seated across the table. There was nothing judgmental in the even tone, or in the way she cocked her head to
one side. Brett catalogued the kindness and sympathy that darkened Stephanie’s eyes. They might wind up in bed together—would, if the choice were his to make—but she wasn’t part of his world. Not yet. He had nothing to lose by being honest.

“It’s a lot more common than you think,” he said.

“It is? Tell me, what made you choose law enforcement in the first place?”

“The same things as the rest of the force. Most of us go into police work thinking we’ll make a difference. We’re going to help Joe Citizen and get the bad guys off the street. But you rarely see Joe Citizen. Unless you write him a speeding ticket—which he does not appreciate—or someone robs him, he doesn’t need your help, and he doesn’t want you dropping in for a friendly chat in case you discover the marijuana growing in his backyard. So, instead, you spend all your time chasing the bad guys. And when you catch them, they’re back on the streets doing whatever got them in trouble to begin with before you finish the paperwork.”

He stopped to take a breath. What had gotten into him? He never talked about this kind of stuff, had never discussed it with anyone he’d dated. Yet here he was, confessing his deepest secrets to a girl he barely knew well enough to give his name, rank and serial number. What would it be like to have someone he could share such feelings with every day?

At that scary thought, he ordered his mouth closed and told it not to say another word.

“Yeah, I’m cynical. A lot of the guys on the force are. People on the outside don’t understand that, so we stick together.”