Читать книгу Bachelor Cop - Gayle Kaye, Gayle Kaye - Страница 8

Officer Whit Tanner aimed his patrol car down the quiet, Kansas City, Missouri, street, thinking about his longtime friend on the force, Ben Jameson. He and Ben were the last two remaining bachelors in the department, but now in a few weeks Ben would be taking the plunge, leaving Whit as the lone holdout in the marriage game. He wished his old friend well, but he knew the statistics for cop marriages—and they weren’t good.

It was why Whit didn’t intend to fall victim to any female with home and hearth on her mind.

He turned up Elm, then onto Holly Lane, scanning the rows of small, well-kept homes. There’d been a rash of petty burglaries in the area lately, but nothing more serious than an occasional stolen ten-speed or lawn ornament, in direct contrast to the inner city where crime continued to flourish.

He usually drew that detail on a Saturday night, but he was luckier this time. His only big problem for the next few hours would be staying awake until his shift was over.

Then just ahead he saw movement, a flash of lightcolored clothing. If someone was bent on thievery, he thought, you’d think they’d wear dark, so they’d be less easily spotted—but then most crooks weren’t exactly noted for their intelligence, or they wouldn’t be doing the crime in the first place.

Whit cruised slowly, trying to get a better look at the figure darting through the yards, seemingly sticking to the shadows.

Then a few houses up he caught a good look at the would-be prowler. He was pajama-clad, about three feet tall and barefoot.

Whit might find some amusement in that, except that it was one o’clock in the morning, and no three- or fouryear-old had any business being out at that hour.

Where were the kid’s parents, anyway? At some damned party, leaving the boy home alone? Whit felt his blood begin to boil. In his job he saw what happened to neglected kids. He arrested them sometime after the age of ten. Occasionally sooner.

At least he didn’t have to call for backup on this one, but when he got the youngster home he intended to give his parents Holy Toledo for negligence. Hell, maybe he’d even run them in.

He stopped the car and got out. “Police officer,” Whit called out. “What’s the trouble, small-fry?”

It was dark, the moon obscured by clouds moving in, and as Whit stepped closer, he felt the first few drops of spring rain begin to pelt. Damn good thing he’d happened along or the kid’s pj’s would soon be soaked.

“What’re you doing out here this time of night?” Whit called again.

Then he saw the boy was crying, the biggest set of crocodile tears he’d ever run across. Something Whit wasn’t equipped to handle. Hell, he didn’t know a thing about kids. He’d had damn little experience in that department.

Another reason he wasn’t cut out for marriage. Marriage usually brought on fatherhood, somewhere around nine months later.

Deciding to let instinct take over and hope for the best, he walked up to the boy and knelt down eye level with him. “Hey, come on, it can’t be all that bad, can it?”

His reply was a snuffle and a sob.

“What’s your name, big guy?” he asked as gently as he could.

“Bro-Bro-Brody,” came a muffled answer.

“Brody.” Well, now they were getting somewhere. The boy was cute, the kind that tore at your heart-with red hair that at the moment was sticking up like a spike and fat freckles that danced across his kid-size nose. “Have you ever seen the inside of a police cruiser, Brody?”

Brody gave a slow shake of his red head. He wouldn’t look at Whit, just down at his bare toes he kept curling into the grass of the greening lawn. “Am…am I ‘rested?”

“Arrested? Did you steal anything?”

“N-no.”

“Shoot somebody?”

That brought a giggle combined with a hiccup.

“Then you’re not under arrest. But I’m getting wet out here in this rain.” The drops were coming down harder. And bigger. “Why don’t we talk in the car?”

He reached for Brody’s hand and felt a tug on his heartstrings as the child placed it in his big palm. When Whit seated him in the cruiser, the kid’s eyes went wide at the sight of the police paraphernalia—the squawking, squalling radio, the gun mounted to the dash—and Whit remembered the first time he’d seen the inside of a squad car.

He’d been nine years old, and his big brother—Officer Steve Tanner—had given him a quick ride down the block. Four years after that, Steve had taken a bullet, tracking down a man who’d been dealing drugs to children in an inner-city housing project. Neither were memories Whit would ever forget.

But right now Whit had a small kid to interrogate. “Okay, Brody, why don’t you tell me what you are doing out in your pajamas at this time of night?”

Though he’d softened his cop-edged voice, he still sounded like he was shaking down some street thug instead of an unarmed three- or four-year-old.

Brody squirmed a little on the seat. “Wolf,” he said, temporarily forgetting his interest in the police car to study his grass-stained toes instead.

For a fast moment Whit wondered what he was getting into here. Had the little guy had a nightmare involving werewolves and other things that go bump in the night? Whit wasn’t good with kids with nightmares.

“He’s my dog,” Brody said in a small, earnest voice. “He cried ‘cause he wanted to go out…so I letted him out, but then he runned away.”

So…the monster dog had hoodwinked his young master into letting him outside to water a bush or two, then split the scene. “And you went after him, am I right?”

“Uh-huh. I hadda ketch him,” he said, eyes wide and solemn.

Whit wondered how he could make a small boy understand just how dangerous a nightly adventure like this could be. He gave it a moment or two of thought, before realizing his small charge was sleepy and no doubt cold, so he decided to save the lecture for the parents. A stiff lecture.

“And where did you last see Wolf?” he asked the boy.

“In my yard.”

Whit glanced around the neighborhood. There wasn’t a porch light on, no one out looking for a child. He turned back to his young friend. “Which yard is yours, Brody? Can you show me?”

The boy turned around in his seat and peered out through the rain-streaked window of the squad car. Whit wasn’t sure just when he realized it, but somehow he knew there wasn’t anything up or down the block that looked familiar to the kid.

Jill Harper pulled her thin robe tighter around her shoulders in a futile effort to ward off the pelting rain and the fear that rose in her throat. Brody was gone from his bed. Wolf was missing, too. That meant the silly dachshund had run away again, this time Brody following him out into the night.

Heart squeezing with dread, Jill peered up the street and down, wondering in which direction her son could have gone. And how far. He was only four. They’d moved to this house less than a month ago, and Brody wasn’t familiar with his street.

Or neighboring streets.

A shiver raced along her spine. She had to find her son, but she wasn’t sure what to do first. Phone for the police. Or drive around and try to find him herself.

If only she could think clearly. Drive, she decided. She could do that faster than the police could get here.

But what if Brody came home in the meantime?

Just then fate solved at least part of the dilemma.

Jill prayed that the police car rounding the corner, its bar of red lights pulsing against the night, was real and not a figment of her fear. As it inched with maddening slowness down the street toward her, she knew it was no hallucination. She waved her arms in a frantic signal, though she doubted anyone could miss a woman in a silky white robe, standing on the curb in a rainstorm.

“Mom…!”

Jill heard the sweet sound of her son’s voice even before the car cruised to a stop.

“Brody!”

She tried to see past the officer, who filled the driverside window, to her small son beyond; needing the reassurance that only the sight of him could give her.

He was safe, wrapped in a large, dark blue blanket and looking very proud of himself as he sat beside the officer.

“Oh, Brody!” She wanted to cry and hug him all at the same time. That went for the man who’d brought him home, as well.

For the first time she glanced at the officer, noting his broad shoulders that looked as if they could take on the world—and the scowl of annoyance on his handsome, well-honed features. Yes, she thought, those dark eyes held censure, and for a moment she couldn’t understand why. Then it hit her like a lightning bolt. He thought her a negligent mother.

Momentary anger stiffened her narrow shoulders. He wouldn’t think that if he knew the bond between her and Brody, a bond strengthened by shared hurt and disillusionment—hurt Jill desperately tried to shield him from.

“Your son is fine, Mrs…” His deep voice paused, waiting for her to supply him with the rest.

She hoped he didn’t want it for a report he intended to file against her.

“It’s Ms…Jill Harper,” she supplied bravely. “And you are?”

“Officer Whit Tanner, and I suggest, Ms. Harper, that in the future you keep a closer eye on your child. I found him three blocks away. Anything could have happened to him.”

“Three…!”

Whit saw the woman’s face blanch as white as the robe she was wearing, a robe he’d been trying not to notice was becoming more and more transparent with each drop of rain. Though her curves were lovely, despite her petite frame, he didn’t want to be picking her up from the pavement.

“Don’t faint on me, lady.” He shoved open the patrol car door and jumped out, ready to assist.

“I-I’m okay,” she replied unsteadily. “This has all been such a scare, that’s all.” She drew a deep breath, her small, but intriguing, breasts rising beneath her raindamp robe. The delicate outline of her nipples puckered visibly against the silky wet fabric, and Whit swallowed a groan.

What a night! He’d rather haul in a half dozen unruly drunks than pull neighborhood duty like this. It was too hard on a man’s body. “Look,” he said around a suddenly dry throat, “I’d better get you and small-fry here into the house. It’s raining out.in case you hadn’t noticed.”

And Whit wasn’t sure she had.

He’d meant to give her what for on the facts of rearing a minor—at least from a police point of view—but her own fear of what could have happened tonight was no doubt worse than any stern lecture from him.

Behind him Brody attempted to clamber out of the car, his short legs tangling in the department-issued blanket Whit had wrapped him in earlier. The boy looked tired and sleepy, a little worse for wear from his night’s escapade, and his mother flashed around Whit like a streaking bullet to reach him. He’d felt the zing from one or two before in his career, and this brush past him was no less charged.

Whit took one lingering moment to admire her pert derriere as she bent to pick up her child, then he remembered his civic duty, as well as his male manners. “Here, allow me.”

He scooped up Brody in his arms and headed for the house with its front door standing open, light pouring out invitingly into the dark night. He didn’t want to think of the woman who lived there, the small sprite of femininity who moved through the rooms, taking care of her son…and whatever else it was she did there.

She’d called herself Ms.—and there was no ring on her finger. To Whit that added up to single, but that didn’t mean she was available. And he had no business being curious.

“What about Wolf?” Brody asked, his soft breath muffled into Whit’s collar. “I gotta find him.”

He carried Brody up the three front steps to the porch. His mother was right behind. Whit could smell her sweet fragrance, and he could feel the heat of her. “Not tonight, pardner. That’s my job. And I promise to do my job if you do yours and go to sleep and don’t give your mom any more trouble, got that?”

“Uh-huh.”

Brody was fading fast, quickly becoming a sleeping weight in his arms.

“I can take him now,” Jill said, opening the screen door and holding out her arms for the boy.

“I’m sure you can, but I’ve already got him. Just point me to his bedroom.”

Jill didn’t need the big cop parading through her house, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. Before she could answer, he’d waltzed past her and stood in the middle of the living room, looking around for a bedroom.

“In there.” Jill pointed down the hall to Brody’s room, then clasped her arms around herself.

For the first time she realized just how wet she was. Her thin robe was sticking to her petite figure in dangerous places, and she only hoped the man in the blue uniform hadn’t noticed. Her red-gold hair was damp, frizzing about her face, and her feet squeaked in her wet pink house shoes.

She had about as much sex appeal as soggy lettuce, while he, on the other hand, had more than should be allowable at this time of night. That was it—it was late—her defenses were down.

If she had her wits about her she’d probably have never noticed the man’s seemlier attributes, those gorgeously broad shoulders, his dark curly hair, damp from the rain, that strong, square chin he kept raised to regulation macho, tough-guy height. So…she’d allow him that one flaw.

On him, it looked good.

So did the uniform, she thought as he came out from the bedroom. She could bounce a quarter off the snug fit of the shirt molded so conformingly across his hard chest. Her gaze trailed down the length of him, then slowly back up—until she met with the small smile hovering at the edges of his hard mouth.

He basked for a moment in her easy perusal—and that, she thought, was his second flaw. He could have been a gentleman about it and pretended not to notice.

Finally he glanced away, centering his attention instead on the front door. “Is this how Brody got out tonight?” he asked, pacing over to it. “Did you forget to set the dead bolt before you went to bed?”

Jill wasn’t sure she liked the man’s tone. In fact, she was certain she didn’t. “I didn’t forget to set it,” she said. “The lock is broken.”

She’d meant to replace it, but there’d been so many things to do to make this small place livable for herself and Brody. Now, it seemed, she’d let one of the most important ones slide.

Jill felt the weight of her errant responsibility settle onto her shoulders like a stone. “Brody’s never done anything like this before,” she tried to explain. “I don’t know why he didn’t come and wake me if his dog needed to go out.”

But Jill was afraid she did know. Ever since her divorce a year ago Brody’s young life had been turned upside down. One minute he was a little boy, the next he tried to be a grown-up four-year-old, the man around the house. His efforts had touched Jill’s heart, but this time those efforts had been far from touching. They’d been foolhardy.

She wasn’t sure her explanation bought her leniency with the officer. He was frowning. “I’d suggest you have a talk with your son,” he said. “And—” he snapped the nonfunctioning dead bolt “—get this lock fixed.”

His tone had all the ring of an order.

“I’ll have a talk with Brody. Tomorrow,” she said. “Little boys don’t always think of consequences, of what might happen,” she added, meeting his dark-eyed gaze.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever been a little boy himself—or had he been born in that uniform, possessing all the answers in life?

“Do you have children?” she couldn’t help but ask.

Her question seemed to surprise him momentarily, but finally he answered. “No—I don’t have children.”

She wondered if that held true for a wife, as well.

Somehow she had the feeling he was unattached—and that he liked it that way.

Too bad, she thought. She’d seen the surprising gentleness he’d shown with Brody, and she suspected he’d make a good father.

He turned to leave. “I’ll see what I can do about finding Wolf.”

It had stopped raining, and the hint of a moon was trying to peek out from behind a bank of clouds. Jill could just glimpse it over the tops of the trees. “I appreciate what you did tonight, but I wouldn’t think finding lost dogs would exactly be in the line of duty.”

He turned back to her. “I promised a little boy,” he said softly.

Jill only stared at him. Brody had had more than his share of broken promises lately. From his father. And for a moment Jill didn’t know what to say to this man. “Thank you,” she finally managed to say.

He shrugged off her thanks and started down the porch steps. At the bottom he stopped and glanced back at her. “Wolf—just what kind of a dog are we talking here?” he asked.

He made a gesture with his hands, approximating the height of a Great Dane or maybe a boxer.

Jill shook her head. “Maybe you should start your search a little closer to the ground,” she suggested.

He adjusted his hand’s height downward, then lower still.

“Try dachshund height,” she said.