Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles
Less than an hour ago she’d seen Bridgeport as a peaceful sanctuary with sheltering forests and hummingbirds sipping nectar. Now it was chaos. Her inner turmoil twirled like a kaleidoscope centered on the flower-patterned light fixture.
She closed her eyes, settled down and almost immediately realized she was hungry. Unfortunately, after her high-handed exit, she didn’t feel ready for another encounter. She’d wait to eat until after Lionel and Michael had gone to bed.
She checked her wristwatch. It was only half-past seven. How late would they stay up?
After taking a shower, washing her hair, adjusting the splintlike cast on her arm and dressing for bed in a satin pastel nightgown, which was—as she readily admitted—an overly feminine reaction to her daytime uniform, she could still hear the rumble of male voices from the bedroom across the hall. There was also laughter. Her grandpa and Michael were sharing a joke. No matter what else she thought about Michael Slade, he was good for Lionel.
There had always been a bond between the two males. Annie remembered teen-aged Michael, tall and lithe, with his untrimmed black hair flopping across his forehead and his eyes squinted in concentration as he ran patterns across the backyard while her grandpa threw spiral football passes. Though Michael had a reputation as a tough kid, he’d followed all of her grandpa’s team rules and restrictions. Except for one. Keep away from my granddaughter. Lionel had warned all the guys on the team. Only Michael had disobeyed.
Their stolen moments together were poignant and sweet. She’d been touched that he would risk his position on the team in order to spend time with her.
Was he still a rebel? He was certainly more solidly built, more manly. His appearance impressed her. And he seemed to have done well for himself, becoming the captain of a charter vessel in Seattle.
But she didn’t like his arrogance. Ordering her not to date anybody in town? Ridiculous! If Michael thought he could swagger in here like the prodigal hero and expect her to salute, he had another think coming.
His suggestion that Bateman wasn’t acting alone was fairly ludicrous. Unless…
The man who attacked her in the parking lot had said it was “nothing personal.” Bateman might have hired him. Newly released from prison, he had the necessary criminal contacts to locate a hitman.
But why would Michael leap to that conclusion? Maybe it was because he knew more than he was telling. The more Annie thought about it, the more certain she was that Michael had inside information about Bateman. But what? And why?
She slipped between the sheets and turned off the light. The clock beside the bed read nine-thirty-three. It was past time for Lionel to be asleep.
In the dark she listened. The voices from across the hall went quiet. She’d give it a few more minutes, then sneak downstairs for a snack.
As she eased one toe out of the bed, her door opened a crack. “Michael?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was checking to make sure you were all right before I went to sleep. Do you need anything?”
The sound of his deep voice was pleasantly reassuring. She lay back on the pillows. “I’m fine.”
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
His voice…
“Good night, Annie.”
“G’night.”
The bedroom door swung closed with a click.
Her mind was racing toward a conclusion, but she didn’t know what it was. All thought of food vanished as she concentrated with all her might, reaching for an answer that was just beyond her grasp. What was it?
Moments passed as she searched the corners of her mind. What had he said?
Annie bolted upright on the bed. His voice! She’d heard his voice in the rainy darkness four days ago.
Michael had been the good Samaritan.
Chapter Two
Michael descended the staircase, thoughts of Annie lingering in his mind. He tried to match his memory of a sweet, spunky sixteen year old to the reality of a competent, strong woman. Though now a cop, her gentleness and vulnerability were still there. And she was still beautiful, naturally lovely.
He turned out the lights as he went through the house to the guest bedroom at the rear. When he’d left Bridgeport, he never expected to see Annie again, never hoped she would forgive him for abandoning her. And now? He wondered if she would ever be able to trust him again.
In the guest room, he tossed his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. His hanging clothes were already in the closet. From the moment he’d arrived, there’d been no question about whether or not he would stay. Annie and Lionel were in danger, and it was Michael’s fault. He would not leave them here unprotected.
He stretched, yawned and unbuttoned his white shirt as the stillness of a Bridgeport night settled around him. The deceptive quiet masked dark motives and old hatreds.
Michael heard a sudden crash.
Unlike the clean snap of gunfire, the noise resonated with a faint tinkling aftermath. A smashed window. A break-in.
Automatically he responded to the threat. From his open suitcase, he grabbed his Smith and Wesson automatic and snapped the 10-mm clip into the magazine. He turned off the overhead light in the guest bedroom and slipped into the unlit kitchen.
Above the half curtains, moonlight spilled across the countertops, the table and tile floor. With eyes unaccustomed to the dark, Michael scanned. He expected to find an intruder, and he hoped it was Bateman. Caught red-handed, Drew Bateman would be sent back to jail where he belonged.
There was nothing unusual in the kitchen. No movement except for the shifting shadows of wind-tossed tree branches outside the windows.
He moved on, swiftly and silently. This house was a security man’s nightmare. There were too many windows, some of them open to the fresh spring air with nothing but a mesh screen protecting the people inside. The door locks were a joke. There weren’t even dead bolts. Tomorrow he’d get this place wired with burglar alarms and sensors. He couldn’t have Annie and her grandfather living in a fish-bowl.
Bracing his gun in both hands, Michael listened for betraying noises. A cough. A creaking floorboard.
From overhead, on the second floor, he heard the alarming shuffle of someone moving around. Damn it! The crash had come from the front of the house. Most likely the intruder would go upstairs first—to the bedrooms where Annie and her grandpa slept.
If he’d failed her again…Michael hurried toward the staircase. Flattened against a wall in the hallway, he saw the front entry. Two etched-glass windows, twelve inches wide and three feet tall, bordered the carved oak door, which was still closed and apparently locked. The window on the right side of the door, nearest the handle, had been broken. Porchlight shone through the jagged shards still clinging to the frame. On the floor lay a good chunk of brick and more shattered glinting glass.
“Annie!” he called out. “Annie, are you all right?”
He waited. Seconds dragged into an eternity of apprehension as he imagined Bateman standing over her, threatening her, touching her with his filthy hands. Michael prepared himself to charge up the stairs.
Finally he heard her clear voice from the landing. “We’re okay.”
Thank God! “Stay up there.”
She peeked over the railing. A small cry escaped her. “They broke Grandma’s roses.”
“What?”
“Those decorative windows were one of my grandma’s last projects. Grandpa is going to be really furious when he finds out that—”
“Annie! Listen to me! Go into Lionel’s