Yuletide Protector. Julie Miller
And I’ll take it all the way to the national market. Neither the D.A.’s stonewalling nor your task force are going to stop me from telling the biggest story of my career.”
“Just make sure you tell the truth.” Spencer turned his face to the side and Bailey gasped when she saw a black-haired man she hadn’t noticed leaning against a concrete pillar. “That goes for you, too, Knight. Whatever gripe you’ve got against KCPD, you’re not going to use Miss Austin to malign us in your editorials again.”
The second reporter, who’d been jotting something on a notepad, straightened. “They’re not editorials. They’re facts.” Even though his blue eyes were focused squarely on the detective, Bailey couldn’t help reaching for the sleeve of Spencer’s coat as the black-haired reporter approached. “How many months did it take your task force to capture Brian Elliott?” He stuffed his notebook and pen into the pockets of his insulated jacket. “And what kind of progress are you making on capturing his accomplice, The Cleaner?”
“Gabriel Knight, Kansas City Journal. I assume you already know Miss Austin, or you wouldn’t be here.” Spencer’s arm eased back against Bailey’s hand as he made the introduction, almost inviting her to hang on to his unflappable strength if she needed to.
Bailey curled her fingers into the wool but fought for a bit of independence by stepping up beside him. “Why aren’t you two with the other reporters?” she asked.
Vanessa Owen answered. “Because the story’s here.”
Gabriel Knight agreed. “I’ve heard all of Elliott’s claims of innocence. I’m more interested in knowing who’s going to finally shut him up.”
“Eloquent as always, Gabe,” Vanessa sneered.
Tension bunched in the muscles beneath Bailey’s hand, but Spencer’s authoritative tone never changed. “If you two want to talk KCPD business, you contact me or the task force press liaison, Kate Kilpatrick. If you want specifics on how Dwight Powers is going to prosecute Elliott, talk to him. Victims have a right to privacy. Leave Bailey Austin out of it.”
Gabriel Knight shook his head. “You’re betting all your cards on the story of a poor little rich girl, Detective?”
“Excuse me?” A story? Did he think for one minute that her words would be any less true than what he wrote in his paper?
“I’m not a gambler, Mr. Knight.” Spencer cut Bailey off before she could organize her thoughts into a protest. He laid his gloved hand over hers where it clung to his arm. “I’m putting all my faith in the truth.”
Spencer’s adamant defense was just as surprising as the insult to her character and reliability had been, catching Bailey off guard. She looked up to gauge the sincerity of his words, the meaning behind his touch. But the profile of his clenched jaw revealed nothing.
The reporter lifted the camera that hung from his neck and snapped a picture. “Can I quote you on that?”
When Spencer refused to answer the taunt, Gabriel Knight nodded, lowering his camera and accepting détente, for now. “I wish you the best of luck next week, Miss Austin. The department could use it.”
Apparently, Vanessa Owen needed to have a last word, too. “We’ll be at the courthouse next week, Detective. You can’t keep your girlfriend away from us forever.”
Girlfriend?
Vanessa’s gaze dropped to the spot where Bailey’s hand nestled beneath Spencer’s, daring him to deny the gossipy enticement. But he didn’t say another word.
“She’s right.” Breaking the tense silence, Gabriel Knight offered Bailey a wink. “I’ll see you at the Christmas Ball this weekend. I get to escort my boss to the event to help cover a feel-good story for the holidays.”
“You’re coming...?” Bailey felt the winter chill seep through her coat.
Of course there’d be reporters at the event. Her mother counted on the publicity to generate more donations after the fact, while the big donors at the ball appreciated the positive press. But she’d foolishly expected them to focus on the needs of the children’s hospital wing or the award-winning holiday decor, evening gowns and tuxedoes. She hadn’t counted on a hard news man like Gabriel Knight to be there.
“See you then.” Knight nodded to his competition. “Vanessa.”
“Gabe.”
Both reporters walked to their cars and drove away before Spencer abruptly released her. Bailey tried to smooth the wrinkles she’d left on his sleeve, but he moved away to open the car door for her. Wondering if she should apologize for clinging to him again, yet worried he’d tell her the needy grabs were proof that she wasn’t emotionally ready to testify, Bailey chose to address the two reporters. “Gabe Knight is an antagonistic, unpleasant man. It almost sounds as if he’s got some beef against the police department.”
“I don’t know what Knight’s problem is. He’s always been critical of the department. And Vanessa Owen’s an ambitious, opportunistic—”
“She’s not a lady?”
“Something like that.” He gestured to the seat behind the wheel and Bailey dutifully climbed inside. “Don’t let him corner you at that ball, all right? You don’t have to talk to him.”
Bailey buckled her seat belt and turned on the heat. “What about the other reporters? At the very least, Mother will want them to take a family picture.”
“Pictures are fine. And you can talk to the other guests. Just don’t say more than ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Where’s your checkbook?’ to anyone.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone as he stepped back. “You’ve got my card, right?”
She flashed it from her coat pocket before tucking it back inside. “Wait a minute.” She could talk to the other guests? Bailey tilted her head up to the detective who was punching a number into his phone. “Mr. Knight’s boss is the editor of the Kansas City Journal. She’ll be there Saturday night. The editor is Brian Elliott’s ex-wife, Mara Boyd.”
“And she posted Elliott’s bail.” Spencer waved his phone, letting her know he’d already made the connection. “If she’s willing to post a half-million-dollar bond for the man she divorced, then she may be willing to do a lot more.”
Was Brian Elliott’s ex-wife The Cleaner? Or was she being blackmailed into helping her ex like so many of The Cleaner’s accomplices had done? And if Mara Boyd-Elliott showed up at her mother’s fund-raiser this weekend, should Bailey avoid the woman or ask what the hell she was thinking by helping such a vile, violent man? Or maybe she could find out if Mara needed some kind of help to get away from him?
“Bailey.” Granite eyes demanded her attention. “Leave the detective work to me,” he warned, as if reading her thoughts. “You just show up at the courthouse Monday morning. Remember the rules and stay safe.” He grabbed the car door as he put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Nick. I need you to run a check on—”
He pushed the door shut and waited for her to lock it before he strode away, turning his attention to his partner on the phone. But when he stopped at the elevator, he faced her again, pulling back his coat to prop a hand at his waist, continuing his conversation—completely impervious to the winter air or sneaky reporters or eyewitnesses who wouldn’t go away.
Do what you’re told. Let someone else handle the tough stuff.
Understanding the unspoken message in his watchful gaze better than she wanted to, Bailey shifted the car into Reverse and backed out of her parking space. Reluctantly, she drove around the pillar and down the ramp to the garage’s lower level, losing sight of that beacon of red-gold hair and the man who’d taken over her life for the past hour or so.
The weather looked far more drab, her world felt far more lonesome, than it had just a few minutes earlier. Spencer Montgomery irritated her with his cool, emotionless obsession with duty.