“Smart as you are, Mr. Gallagher, you don’t know everything.”

“Are you always this much trouble, Officer Murdock?”

“Pretty much.”

They weren’t touching, but they were both breathing hard as the furtive exchange of tempers and opinions mutated into a different kind of heat. Their breaths mingled and their chests nearly brushed against each other with every inhale. Her head filled with the spicy scent of shaving cream or soap on his skin. Her body warmed with the proximity of his body lined up with hers. She wasn’t even aware of the holster poking into her backside anymore. Quinn’s gaze fixated on her lips and Miranda couldn’t look away from those laser blue eyes.

But she did. She had to. It was time she remembered why she was here—and the little girl she’d been hired to protect.

MILLS & BOON

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Nanny 911
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Quinn Gallagher —CEO and genius behind Gallagher Security Systems. A self-made billionaire whose inventions have revolutionized police and security work around the world. A man whose success got his wife killed, and is now endangering the one love left in his life, his daughter.

Miranda "Randy" Murdock —Sharpshooter with KCPD's premier SWAT Team 1. Tough and highly-trained. This tomboy has the skills and determination to prove herself in a man's world, but she's out of her depth when it comes to masquerading as a nanny for an adorable little girl…and falling for her charge's widowed father.

Fiona Gallagher —Three years old. Curious and feminine and crazy about her daddy.

Louis Nolan —Quinn's right-hand man at GSS. He keeps the investors happy.

David Damiani —He runs security at GSS headquarters.

Elise Brown —Quinn's executive assistant is loyal to the company. Or is it her boss she's so attached to?

Ozzie Chang —A lab geek at GSS. Quinn sees a lot of himself in the young man.

Nikolai Titov —GSS's largest foreign investor.

Vasily Gordeeva —Quinn's father-in-law has been in prison for a long time.

John Murdock —Randy's big brother is a Marine stationed overseas. But he's had a second career bailing his kid sister out of trouble.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

“Start the countdown.”

The armed driver in the modified camo uniform floored the accelerator, forcing his five passengers to hold on for their lives as they bounced over the ruts and sand and scrub brush of the arid terrain. “I recommend waiting until we get to a safe distance.”

The one person not wearing mock military garb clung to the Hummer’s passenger seat. “And I recommend you follow my orders to the letter. That’s why I’m paying you, isn’t it?”

“Part of my job is to protect you. There could be fallout here.”

“I didn’t come all this way to miss the show. I want to be here at the beginning, just as I’m looking forward to being there at the end—when I see his face and can revel in his failure.” The anticipation of seeing that arrogant face downcast in broken sorrow, his eyes filled with tears, his clipped voice perhaps begging for mercy, was enough to make one light-headed. Or maybe it was this bone-jarring ride across the Kalahari that was affecting rational thought. The boss gripped the door handle and dashboard and turned to the driver. “Push the button.”

Surrendering to the inevitable winner in this battle of wills, the driver pulled the tiny remote-control switch box from his shirt pocket and activated the countdown. He set the device in his lap, but refused to stop the vehicle. Supposedly, that was the sign of a good leader—putting the safety and well-being of his team first. Too bad not every man in this world believed that.

“Another mile between us and the facility won’t make any difference on this terrain.” The driver slowed his speed a fraction and handed over a pair of military-grade binoculars, ironically designed by Quinn Gallagher, owner of the facility that was growing smaller and smaller beyond the swirl of dust in the vehicle’s side-view mirror. “Here. Take these. You’ll be able to watch the sweat beading on their foreheads when they realize they’ve got no place to run or hide.”

“You’re certain there are only the guards at the gate?”

“You know, for someone who has planned some seriously scary stuff out to the last detail, you’re pretty squeamish about collateral damage.”

“I’m not afraid to kill someone if I have to.” The raging injustice and bone-deep pain swirling through the passenger’s heart made it far easier than even the mercenary driver could imagine to inflict pain without feeling remorse. “But I don’t want a high casualty rate. Too many outsiders would get involved then and he’ll lock down tighter than one of his vaults. Because I’ve mapped my strategy down to the last detail, I need to maintain control of the situation. To do that, each task must be completed the way I’ve directed.”

It was a lesson that had been learned the hard way—that there were steps, deadlines, terrible costs for not getting everything just right. It was a lesson that could never be forgotten.

“You’re the boss.”

“Don’t you forget that.” The enemy had. That was why he had to pay. “If he thinks I’m going to stand by and let him ruin my life, he’s mistaken. I intend to hurt him as badly as he’s hurt me. And I intend to strike where it will hurt him the most.”

“It’s almost time.”

“Stop the car.”

With the advantage of higher ground on the mesa where they’d stopped, the view of the facility was unobstructed. The boss adjusted the binoculars to watch.

“Five, four, three, two—”

The boss held up a hand, demanding silence, wanting to savor this first triumph.

It started as a rumble, a sound so deep they felt the tremors through the ground, vibrating up through their feet and legs seconds before hearing the first pop. Then there was a flash of light, followed by that distinctive whoosh as the initial ignition in the plant’s disposal chamber sucked all the oxygen from the surrounding rooms. There was a split second of silence, the anticipation leaving them all holding their breaths. And then…boom. Boom. Boom! One by one the explosions fired off, each one larger than the last, tearing through the shiny new facility, spewing flames and steel and glass into the air. Thick black smoke coiled upward, forming dense black clouds against the desert’s crystal blue sky. In a matter of seconds, there was nothing left of Gallagher Security Systems’s newest production facility except mangled webs of steel and burning rubble.

The team of mercenaries watching alongside had done their job well. The boss lowered the binoculars and watched it burn, feeling the heat even at this distance.

The satisfaction was intense.

Payback had begun.

Chapter One

7 Days until Midnight, New Year’s Eve

“Someone is trying to destroy me.”

Quinn Gallagher touched the temple of his dark-framed glasses, an ingrained habit left over from his youth, when he’d been a four-eyed brainiac from a rural Missouri trailer park who’d learned how to defend himself and his mother from the respective bullies who’d preyed on them. He was no longer poor, no longer had his beloved mother—and up until the murder of his wife, Valeska, nearly three years earlier, he’d believed that he no longer feared anything.

Now three employees that he’d never met, but for whom he certainly felt responsible, were dead in a foreign country. And the office building that he’d closed for the holidays, with paid vacations off for all but the skeleton crew of security guards receiving overtime pay, was being searched from basement to rooftop by a team of black-uniformed cops, armed like the special-ops security details his company outfitted for wealthy individuals and companies across the country. The captain of KCPD’s SWAT Team 1, Michael Cutler, often served as a consultant to GSS when they were developing new weapons, protective gear and security technology.

He was also one of the few men in this world Quinn Gallagher trusted without question. He strode into the penthouse office suite with a disturbing yet unsurprising announcement. “Thus far, we’ve found no sign of forced entry into the building or your office. I’ve got my team checking the top floor here now. Of course, this place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Whoever got in had to have the same kind of talents you possess.” It was a wry compliment. An enemy with Quinn’s technical skills would be a formidable opponent, indeed. The SWAT captain turned toward the small, unwrapped Christmas present Quinn had left on his desk. “Don’t let me or my men interrupt your meeting.”

“Come and go as you need, Michael. Thanks.” Quinn adjusted the knot of his silk tie and paced the length of his office. The men and woman in suits on the matching sofas waited expectantly for some sign that he was ready for their problem-solving input. But none of them dared offer any personal condolence or sympathetic look. He paid them exceedingly well to be the best at the jobs they’d been hired to do, not to be his friends. That was a bonus he rarely bestowed on the people around him. Caring had cost him dearly—when he’d lost his mother, and three years ago when he’d lost his wife.

He didn’t need the distraction of emotional ties to interfere with the efficiency of this Christmas Eve meeting. And his people knew that. Keeping an eye on Michael Cutler and the furtive movements of the rest of his five-man team through the chrome-and-glass partition separating his office from the rest of the floor, Quinn turned his attention back to the executives who’d been able to report on such short notice.

Louis Nolan, his vice president of operations and Quinn’s eyes on every aspect of Gallagher Security Systems, was speaking. “I’ve already been on the phone with Nikolai Titov, our primary investor there. He wants answers.”

“He’ll know them as soon as I have them,” Quinn promised.

“The Kalahari plant hadn’t even begun production yet,” Louis continued. “We were still in the hiring process with the locals. I know we were building there to save money, but now we’re posting a loss on GSS’s bottom line and facing speculation from the press. Titov’s already putting the pressure on to let him reopen and expand the St. Feodor plant in Lukinburg. The last thing we need right now are nervous stockholders. I think we should entertain his offer before this unfortunate incident turns into a catastrophe.”

As Quinn suspected, his security chief, David Damiani, wasted no time pushing to his feet and confronting the older businessman. “Unfortunate? I lost three good men in that explosion. Try making that phone call to their families when Christmas is tomorrow.”

“I’m not denigrating the loss of life.” Louis was a cagey old salt who had no problem defending himself. “I’m pointing out that this could be an environmental or political attack on GSS’s expansion into South Africa. I know our base of operation here in Kansas City is thousands of miles away, but this could snowball into a real tragedy if we don’t spin some control over the situation in the next few days, if not the next few hours.”

David raked his hands through his hair, the movement exposing the Beretta he wore holstered beneath his left arm. “It’s already snowballing, Lou. How do you explain someone breaking into GSS headquarters when we’ve got the best damn techno-security on the planet? I can’t. As far as I can see, we’re already under attack.”

“Gentlemen,” Elise Brown intervened. Quinn knew his executive assistant could be counted on to keep everyone focused and moving forward. “None of us are thrilled to be taken away from our families and vacations at this time of year, and certainly none of us are pleased to hear about sabotage and the murder of GSS employees, but you’re missing the point. Quinn said someone was trying to destroy him, not GSS.” She turned her soft brown eyes up to him. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” That was the painful distinction he’d made. Going after his business empire was one thing. But the gift-wrapped package he’d received on his desk this morning…

His gaze drifted over to the shiny red paper and white tissue decorated with candy canes, of all things—his daughter’s favorite holiday treat. Quinn seethed inside, momentarily experiencing that same helpless fury that had plagued him growing up, before he’d learned to use his brain as a weapon to outsmart the kids who’d picked on him and the men who’d thought his mother didn’t have anyone to protect her.

He forced his gaze away from where Michael Cutler was processing the unwanted gift with his gloved fingers. He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, over the stone-gray parking lot, highways and wintry fields around the modern building he’d erected near the Kansas City International Airport north of the city center. The isolation he felt made the glass windows, marble tiles and Oriental rugs seem especially cold and sterile today. He’d mistakenly thought he’d left the users and abusers of the world far behind him in that small-town trailer park. Instead, after the destruction of his South African plant two days ago, Quinn realized that he’d simply graduated to a more ruthless, more covert class of users who wanted to hurt what was his.

He wasn’t so naive to think he hadn’t made a few enemies over the years. At forty, he’d already earned and lost one fortune. But now that he’d established himself and his company as a world leader in high-tech security support and management, he was sitting on an even bigger fortune and had enough influence across several different industries that only a fool—or one very sick, very cruel bastard—would dare to defy him.

Judging by the message he’d received this morning, he was opting for the latter.

“What? Now? I’ll be right there.” Elise had pulled her cell phone from the coat she’d tossed over the sofa beside her. The distress in her tone was enough to divert Quinn’s attention. Her eyes darted to him, then just as quickly looked away. More trouble? “Excuse me.”

“Ma’am.” An oversize SWAT cop, carrying one of the electronics-scanning devices Quinn himself had invented, stepped aside to let Elise exit the door into the privacy of her office. The big man, who answered to the name Trip, settled in behind the desk to run a check on the phone and computer for any hint that someone had downloaded entry codes to the building and offices.

One by one, the rest of Michael’s team filtered in. Quinn traded a nod of recognition with the SWAT team’s second in command, Rafe Delgado, whom he had met when he’d offered him the use of a secure safe house for his wife, the witness who’d finally identified the man who’d murdered Quinn’s wife. Rafe introduced himself to David Damiani and took the security chief aside to discuss possible incursion scenarios into the building.

A short, muscular cop with curly black hair came through the doorway next and reported in. “Murdock and I have got nothing, Captain. This place is locked down tighter than a tomb. This room and the roof are all that we have left to search. You want us to head on up?”

“Have Murdock check the cameras in here for any signs of tampering. You go on up, Taylor. Stay warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

Officer Taylor turned his Benelli shotgun and disappeared from the doorway, only to be replaced a moment later by an unexpected colleague. Quinn’s eyes narrowed as he found himself studying the last member of Michael Cutler’s elite team. He didn’t know if the long ponytail, as straight and shiny as a palomino’s tail, or the Remington sniper’s rifle strapped over her right shoulder surprised him more.

“Captain?” she spoke.

“Front and back, Murdock. If we can’t find an unauthorized access point to this room, then we damn well better find where the perp covered his tracks.” Michael Cutler pointed to the two cameras at either end of the room, and after her moss-colored eyes took note of every person here, including him, Officer Murdock’s long legs carried her to the security camera mounted over the bar/kitchenette at the back of the office.

“Yes, sir.”

Quinn watched her climb on top of the counter in her ungainly boots and shimmy around a counter to stand eye to eye with the camera. He couldn’t be sure if it was her monkeylike athleticism and disregard for the obstacles in her path or the hint of firm hips and buns in her snug black pants that fascinated him.

Annoyed with his scientist’s penchant for observing and explaining conundrums like the well-armed woman, Quinn cursed under his breath and summoned the focused business mogul inside him instead. The momentary diversion of the lady SWAT cop was a distraction he could ill afford today. There was only one female in his life who mattered, and she was the reason Quinn had called Michael Cutler and his team, as well as the leaders of his own staff, into GSS today.

Quinn buttoned his jacket and strode over to stand beside Captain Cutler at his desk. “Did you read it?”

The words Michael read were already branded into Quinn’s memory. But the others in the room—his staff, Michael’s team—needed to hear this.

“Do I have your attention now? Your daughter will pay the price if you don’t make things right by midnight on New Year’s Eve. Instructions will be texted to you.” Michael carefully slipped the letter into a plastic evidence bag for examination in the KCPD crime lab. “And you received the text?”

“Not yet. I wanted to have a plan in place before he contacted me again.”

“Any idea who your enemies are?”

“Any idea who they aren’t?” Louis Nolan pushed himself up off the couch to join the conversation. “I’m sorry, Quinn, but we’ll be here all day if we start compiling a list of people you’ve ticked off—employees you’ve fired—”

“Only with just cause.”

“—business rivals, greedy cutthroats after a chunk of your money, maybe even a brokenhearted lover or two?”

Quinn shook his head. “There’s been no one since Val.”

Louis patted Quinn on the back and raised one eyebrow in a skeptical, paternal look. “Not for lack of trying. On the part of the ladies, I mean. A widowed billionaire makes for a fine catch.”

“This reeks of inside information—someone with building schematics, someone with knowledge of my schedule, someone with access codes to this building as well as the plant in South Africa. The fact that I have enemies doesn’t bother me as much as not knowing who this particular one is.” And he hated to admit that the possible list of suspects Louis referred to was as long as it was.

Quinn had fended off takeover bids, negotiated with foreign governments and endured scathing reviews of his products in the press. He wasn’t a warmonger, nor did the upgrades to weapons and protective technology he owned dozens of patents for turn the police patrolling the streets of Kansas City and other towns around the world into a military state. Everything he invented, every product his company produced, from home security systems to bulletproof flak vests, was designed to keep people safe. He protected people. The same way he’d learned to protect himself. And his mother. The way he’d protected his wife, Valeska, from the violence of her past—only to have her die at the hands of an obsessed serial killer in the backyard of the home they’d once shared together. A home he’d since razed to the ground and replaced with a fortress more secure than the government buildings his company sometimes equipped.

Nothing, no one, would ever harm his remaining family again.

That was why he wasn’t above calling in favors from KCPD and summoning his most trusted associates to the office on Christmas Eve. “This building is supposedly more secure than the Cattleman’s Bank. So how did someone get into my office and put this here without anyone seeing the perp, or capturing the intrusion on one of my cameras?”

Trip Jones, the big guy with the electronics scanner, rose and circled the desk, with David Damiani, the GSS security chief, right behind him. “I can’t see anything that’s been tampered with on this end, Captain. There’s no indication on the key cards that anyone other than Mr. Gallagher has entered this office in the last twenty-four hours. If there’s no record of a break-in to leave the present, then the perp found another way in and covered his tracks.”

Officer Murdock climbed down from the file cabinet where she’d been inspecting the other camera. “There’s no indication that either of these cameras has been compromised.”

Trip nodded. “Then the tampering must have occurred at the monitor end of things. Digital recordings can be altered as easily as a videotape.”

David Damiani’s team had already determined as much. “That means you’re accusing one of my people of delivering that threat.”

“No one’s accusing anyone of anything.” Michael Cutler coolly defused the growing tension between the two security forces. “Yet. Let’s just get all the intel we can first. Arm ourselves as best we can so we know what we’re up against.”

“Sounds like a smart strategy,” Quinn agreed. He nodded to David. “Check it out.”

“Quinn.” David Damiani was right to protest. GSS wasn’t a billion-dollar corporation because it gave away its secrets to outsiders. “There’s classified equipment in my offices.”

Michael Cutler refused to back down. “You’re obstructing a police investigation?”

“He’s obstructing nothing,” Quinn countermanded. When the threat involved his three-year-old daughter, nothing else mattered. “David, go with him. Give Trip full access. Maybe between the two of you, you can spot something your guards missed.”

“Yes, sir.”

While Quinn impatiently waited for the info that could give him the answers he needed, his gaze strayed once again to the woman with the flak vest, Glock strapped to her right thigh and sniper’s rifle secured over her shoulder. She was over at the windows now, trailing her fingers along the chrome trim.

Louis Nolan had followed her to the windows, his bushy silver brows knitted together with the same perplexed interest plaguing Quinn. “They’d have to rappel from the roof and cut a hole in the glass to get through that way.”

She nodded, studying the seam of the window from top to bottom. “It could be done. I could do it.”

“Unless you had a fear of heights,” Louis teased.

“Fortunately, I don’t.”

“I’ll bet you don’t fear much, do you, darlin’?”

The blonde officer’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. Carrying numerous deadly weapons and crawling across his furniture didn’t fluster her, but a darlin’ from a good ol’ Texas charmer did?

Quinn stopped the conversation. This wasn’t the time for Louis’s flirting. Or his own scientific observations. “I think we’d see the evidence if someone had come through the window. Beyond the fact that it’s tempered, shatterproof glass and the condensation outside from the freezing temperatures would make any kind of traction for your climber almost impossible, there’s no way to replace that specific kind of window overnight.”

She turned her wide green eyes from Louis, seeming to understand his facts better than his COO’s flirting. “Is there another exit to the roof besides the stairwell next to the elevators? Anything with direct access to your office?”

“No.”

She tipped her chin up toward the ceiling “What kind of duct work do you have running up there?”

Officer Murdock was definitely an odd sort of woman, certainly nothing like the polished beauty of his executive assistant, Elise, or any of the other poised and tailored belles he escorted to society events. “Standard issue, I suppose. Although the access panels do have sensors to monitor whenever one opens or closes.”

Michael Cutler seemed to think she was onto something. He looked up at the air-return grate over Quinn’s desk. “Murdock. Call Taylor down and scout it out. Looks like there’s more than one way to get into your office, Quinn. The right perp could even lower the package through that grate without ever setting foot in here.”

The bothersome blonde paused by the desk on her way out the door. “Couldn’t the break-in be something more simple? Like, someone you know—someone who wouldn’t raise any suspicions if they were caught on camera walking into your office?”

Quinn bristled at the accusation. “The people who work at GSS are family to me. I surround myself with people I trust without question.”

“Well, that’s a problem, then, isn’t it?” She flipped her ponytail behind her back, looking up at him with an earnest warning. “You may be trusting the wrong guy.”

“Randy, go.”

Her captain’s brusque command finally moved her out of the room. “Sorry. Climbing into the rafters now, sir.”

Apparently, Louis’s interest in waiting for answers on the break-in—or for the promised text message—waned once she’d left the room. “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he excused himself, “and do call as soon as you find out anything.”

“Randy?” Quinn asked after they’d both gone and he was alone in the office with Michael.

“Miranda Murdock.” The police captain shook his head, as if Quinn’s wasn’t the first curious reaction the SWAT sharpshooter had garnered from the people she met. “Believe me, what she lacks in tact, she makes up for in sheer determination. There’s not a task I’ve given her yet that she hasn’t accomplished.”

“Other than successful public relations.”

“She’s raw talent. Maybe a little too eager to get the job done at times. She matched the highest score for sharpshooting on the KCPD training range.”

“You have faith in her.”

“She wouldn’t be on my team if I didn’t.”

“Quinn?” The familiar knock at his door told Quinn that his assistant, Elise, had an important message for him.

“What is it?”

Elise tucked her dark hair behind one ear, hesitating as she walked into the room. Quinn braced for whatever unpleasant bit of news she had to share. “The current nanny has gotten wind of the threat against Fiona and wants to quit.”

He adjusted his glasses at his temple, snapping before he could contain a flash of temper. “I’m having a Mary Poppins moment here. How many nannies do I have to go through to get one who’ll stay?”

“She’s afraid, Quinn.”

“There’s a guard with Fiona at all times,” he argued.

“Yes, but not with the nanny,” Elise patiently pointed out. “Quinn, she has every right to be concerned for her safety. The guard’s first duty would be to Fiona, not her.”

Where was the loyalty to his family? The sense of responsibility? The devotion to his daughter? She was the fourth woman he’d hired this year—after firing the one he’d caught drinking at the house, and the one who thought spanking his three-year-old was an option, and filing charges against the one who’d tried to sell pictures of his daughter to a local tabloid. “Where is she now? I’ll double her pay if she stays.”

“Um…”

“Daddy!” Quinn understood Elise’s hesitation when the tiny dark-haired beauty who looked so like her late mother ran into his office.

“Hey, baby.” Quinn knelt down to catch Fiona as she launched herself into his arms. He scooped her up and kissed her cool, wind-whipped cheek as her long, thin fingers wound around his neck. “How’s my little princess today?”

“’Kay.” Even though she couldn’t read yet, he turned her away from the hateful note on his desk and bounced her on his hip. Fiona batted away the gloves that were clipped to the sleeves of her coat and held up her well-loved, oft-mended hand-sewn doll. Fiona’s bottom lip pouted out as she pointed to the bandage taped to the doll’s knee. “Petwa has a boo-boo.”

Quinn pulled up the cloth leg and kissed it, suspecting he’d find a similar first-aid job under the knee of Fiona’s corduroy pants. Although the initial flush of her cheeks had concerned him, he was relieved to see that Maria, the nanny du jour, had at least taken the time to dress his daughter properly for the winter weather and brush her curling dark locks back into a neat ponytail before abandoning her.

“There. She’ll be all fine now.” Stealing another kiss from Fiona’s sweet, round cheek, Quinn set her down and pulled off her hat and coat. He nodded toward the specially stocked toy box he kept behind the counter of the kitchenette at the far end of his office suite. “Okay, honey. You run and play for a few minutes while I talk to Elise.”

“’Kay, Daddy.”

He waited until the box was open and the search had begun for a favorite toy before he turned his attention to his assistant. He didn’t have to ask for an explanation. “The nanny didn’t call,” Elise told him. “She dropped Fiona off with me downstairs and left. I couldn’t convince her to stay.”

Quinn unbuttoned his jacket, unhooked the collar of his starched white shirt and loosened his tie, feeling too trapped from unseen forces and ill-timed inconveniences to maintain his civilized facade. He paced down to see with his own eyes that Fiona was happy and secure, playing doctor on her doll with a plastic stethoscope and thermometer.

He came back, scratching his fingers through his own dark hair. He needed to think. He needed answers. Now. “Can you watch her, Elise? I have work to do. I don’t want to leave until I resolve this threat.”

Elise’s mouth opened and closed twice before her apologetic smile gave him her answer. “For a few hours, maybe. But my parents are in town, Quinn. I’m supposed to be baking pies with my mother, and taking them to the candlelight service at church this evening. Besides, I can’t keep her safe. And if that threat is real…”

He had no doubt that it was. Three dead men in the Kalahari proved that. “You could come to the house. You know what kind of security I have there. There’s a panic room and armed guards.”

“And my parents?” He’d always admired Elise for her ability to gently stand up to him. “It’s Christmas Eve, Quinn.”

He was already nodding, accepting her answer, knowing it had been too much to ask. “Of course. I understand. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to upset Fiona’s routine any more than it already has been.”

The vibrating pulse against his chest ended all conversation, blanked out all thought except for one more visual confirmation that Fiona was safe. Then he let the protective anger he felt purge any distraction from his system as he pulled his phone from inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Quinn?” Michael prompted, equally on guard.

He nodded, reading the message he’d been promised. “It’s the text.”

“What does it say?” Elise asked.

Quinn read the skewed nursery rhyme, filling in the abbreviations as he said the words out loud. “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, how does your money grow? With silver bells and 2.5 million shells into 0009357:348821173309. Midnight tonight. Or there’ll be another present for your daughter.”

“What the hell?” was Michael’s reaction.

“It’s a riddle,” Elise needlessly pointed out.

“I get it,” Quinn assured them. “Mary was my mother. I have a memorial trust in her name. Whoever this coward is wants me to transfer two and a half million dollars into this account by midnight. Or…” He glanced over at Fiona’s laugh. He couldn’t imagine a world where someone had silenced that glorious sound. “I’ll transfer the money.”

“I don’t recommend that.” Michael took the phone from him, calling his tech guru Trip on the radio to get him up here to trace what Quinn was certain would be an untraceable number.

“What choice do I have, Michael? How can I fight the enemy when I don’t know who he is? And until we do find out where the threat is coming from, there’s no way to stop him from coming at me again.” He turned to his assistant. “Elise, contact my bank. Don’t let them close before I get there.”

“Yes, sir.” She hurried to her office to do his bidding.

Michael copied down the message. “What if you hadn’t understood the rhyme?”

“I don’t think this bastard is stupid. And he knows I’m not.”

Michael pointed toward the letter wrapped in the evidence bag. “This message says to make something right before New Year’s Eve. That’s a week away. It can’t be this simple, and he’s gone to too much trouble to have it all be over this soon.”

“Agreed.” Quinn propped his hands on his hips. “As long as I can keep Fiona out of this, I want to string this guy along until I can get my hands around his neck.”

Any further conversation stopped as the grate over Quinn’s desk swung open and Miranda Murdock lowered herself down through the opening to plop her combat-style boots on top of his desk. She’d stripped off her Kevlar and rifle and was brushing dust from her black uniform and snaggled hair. And she didn’t seem to see anything odd about making such an entrance.

“I think I found the way in, sir,” she reported to Michael, jumping down beside him. “Barring the whole ‘just walking through the front door’ scenario. Of course, the intruder would still have to alter the camera recording—and turn the sensors off for the few seconds it would take to get in and out.” She paused in her report, her sharp eyes turning to the side and widening enough that Quinn turned to see what had caught her attention.

Fiona. Standing in the middle of his office, her doll dangling to the floor beside her, looking up at the tall blonde woman as if a dusty angel had just descended from heaven.

Miranda’s lips twitched before settling into a smile. “Hey.”

The tiny frown that creased Fiona’s forehead gave her an expression that was more concerned than afraid, or even curious. “You falled.”

The SWAT officer looked up at the open grate, still swinging slightly from the ceiling where Fiona was looking. “Um, no. I crawled. And climbed. And…jumped.” She plucked a clump of cobweb from her hair, glancing toward Quinn and her commanding officer with a questioning plea before pointing a finger at his daughter. “But, you shouldn’t try that. It’s too high. I’m, you know, taller. And a grown-up.”

But the explanation had taken too long and Fiona had moved on to her real concern. Quinn’s hands curled into fists at his sides as Fiona walked right up to Miranda and held up her doll. “Petwa falled.”

“Oh. Um, well…” She snapped her fingers. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t crawl through ceilings.”

Fiona stared.

Quinn gradually relaxed his protective stance. Not everyone got small children, nor knew how to communicate with them—and he suspected Miranda Murdock was on that list. But he could see she was doing all she could to allay Fiona’s worries.

“Not that your dolly—Petra, is it?—would do that. She needs to stay close to you. On the ground.” Seemingly as flummoxed by his daughter’s fascination as she’d been with Louis’s idle flirtation, she looked to her captain for help. “Sir?”

Michael nodded a dismissal. “Prove to me that you can get back out through that heating duct, and I’ll have Trip check the sensors there to see if they’ve been triggered by anyone else in the last twenty-four hours.”

That, apparently, she could do. Needing no more encouragement, the twenty-something female officer climbed up on the desk and pulled herself back up into the ventilation duct in a skilled combination of pull-up champ and gymnast.

“She’s…different, isn’t she?” Quinn observed.

“Like I said, Murdock is gung ho. She’ll get the job done.”

“Michael.” Quinn usually found his instincts about people to be unerringly accurate. “I have another favor to ask of you. Just how much faith do you have in Miranda Murdock?”

Michael’s blue eyes narrowed. Perhaps he’d just had a similar brainstorm. “You’ve supplied my team with nothing but the best equipment since we first started working together. Your vest design saved my life from a bullet once. I figure I owe you.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Quinn scooped Fiona into his arms, drawing her attention away from the dusty blonde angel and the grate that had closed over their heads. “We do.”

Chapter Two

Miranda stilled her breathing, calmed the twitchy urge to blink and squeezed the trigger of her Glock 9 mil, landing five shots, center mass, through the paper target’s chest. Then just for good measure, and because the accuracy score of her shooting range trials was one thing she could control, she angled the gun and put a hole through the paper target’s head.

“You shouldn’t be alone at Christmas,” Dr. Kate Kilpatrick advised. The police psychologist was always full of advice during their sessions. “If your brother is still over in Afghanistan—”

“He is.”

“—then maybe you could volunteer at one of the city mission shelters, visit a shut-in in your neighborhood or invite a friend over for lunch.”

And just which of her friends would be available on Christmas Day? Certainly none of the men on her team. They all had families—wives, children, in-laws. They’d be real gung ho about giving up holiday family time to keep the “odd man out” on their team from being alone on Christmas Day. Lonely was one thing. Pity was another.

Miranda pulled off her earphones and pushed the button to bring the hanging target up to the booth for a closer inspection. Instead of heeding Dr. K’s recommendation to find some company after her mandated counseling session that afternoon, Miranda had come to KCPD’s indoor firing range in the basement of the Fourth Precinct building to blow off steam.

All that touchy-feely stuff Dr. Kilpatrick wanted her to talk about got stuck in her head and left her feeling raw and distracted when they were done. Randy Murdock was a woman in a man’s world. Her brother, John, a KCFD firefighter who’d reupped with the Marines after the love of his life had married someone else, had raised her to understand that when the job was tough—like being a part of KCPD’s SWAT Team 1—that what she was feeling didn’t matter. Four other cops, and any hostages or innocent bystanders, were counting on her to get the job done. Period.

No warm fuzzies allowed.

Nodding with satisfaction that her kill rate had been 100 percent, Miranda sent the target back and cleared her weapon.

“What are you thinking?” Dr. Kilpatrick asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“That I’m not the only person with such a nonexistent home life that I’m available for an appointment the afternoon before Christmas.”

“Ouch.” Observant though it was, Miranda regretted the smart-aleck remark as soon as she’d said it. But the therapist let it slide right off her back with a poised smile. “There you go deflecting the focus off yourself again. Deftly done, too. I could write an article about your classic avoidance tendencies. Always striving to please someone else instead of working toward your own goals. Using work or physical activities to avoid thinking about your feelings or dealing with the loneliness.”

Sharp lady. Miranda hated that the police shrink might be onto something there. “So why are you here at four o’clock on Christmas Eve, Doc?”

“To see you, of course.”

“Sorry about that.” Miranda pushed herself up out of the cushy seat. “We’d better wrap things up then, hmm?”

“Miranda, sit.” Dr. Kilpatrick wore a maternal-looking frown now. And though she’d never known her own mother, or maybe because of that, it made Miranda feel so unsure of how she should respond that she sank back into her chair. “You’re just as important as any of the other officers, detectives and support staff here in Kansas City.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m the low man on the totem pole on my team.”

The maternal vibe became a supportive pep talk. “That’s nonsense. You’re a highly qualified sharpshooter. You passed all the same rigorous physical and mental exams as the other members of your team. Other than chain of command, you know it takes all five of you working together equally and complementing each other’s strengths to make SWAT Team 1 the success it is.”

Miranda released the magazine from the Glock’s handle and pulled out the remaining blanks. Then she reloaded the clip with 9 mm bullets from the ammo box on the shelf in front of her and ensured her gun was in proper working order before returning it to the holster strapped to her right thigh.

She was in the locker room showering when more of the conversation she’d had with the psychologist started replaying in her head.

Dr. Kilpatrick had the patience of a saint. She could ask a question and wait. But the ongoing silence in the psychologist’s office finally got to Miranda, and she blurted out one of the few things that scared her. “Holden Kincaid is coming back.”

“Kincaid? I know several Kincaids on the force. Which one is he?”

“He’s the guy I replaced on SWAT Team 1 when he went on paternity leave. He and the guys are all pretty close.” The random confession had sounded like polite conversation to fill the silence at first. But once one insecurity was breached, others came out. “I mean, even if I prove I’m as good at this job as he is, possibly even better, what good does that do me? If Captain Cutler and the guys resent that I’m there instead of him, that messes up our efficiency. I’d feel like a real usurper for being there. But if I transfer off the team, or get cut because Kincaid is a better man…”

She turned off the hot water and hugged her arms around her naked body as the water ran down the drain and the locker room’s cool air raised goose bumps across her skin. If Dr. Kilpatrick wasn’t so good at her job, then Miranda might not still be shaking from the embarrassing accuracy of the psychologist’s next question.

“Do these self-esteem issues go back to that incident this summer when the Rich Girl Killer attacked you?”

“He wasn’t after me. He wanted Sergeant Delgado’s girlfriend—his wife now—because she could ID him.”

“I read Delgado’s report myself. He said you slowed down the RGK long enough for him to get there to save his wife from being murdered.”

Backhanded praise was no better than a reprimand. “My job wasn’t to slow him down. It was my job to stop him. I failed. He got the drop on me, bashed my head in and I failed.”

“There’s a reason it’s called a team. It takes all of you, working together, to complete your mission. You’re there to complement each other’s strengths, and, on certain days, compensate for a weakness. Every man on that team knows that. Every man has been where you are. No one blames you for having an off day.”

That indulgent, don’t-be-so-hard-on-yourself tone only made the self-doubts whispering inside Miranda’s head shout out loud. “You know it’s different when you’re a woman, Doc. ‘Good’ isn’t good enough. If I can’t perform when my team needs me to, then why the hell should Captain Cutler keep me around?”

The psychologist jotted something on her notepad, then leaned forward in her chair. “SWAT Team 1 is your family, aren’t they? That’s why you’re being so hard on yourself, why you’re so afraid of making a mistake. You don’t want to lose your family again.”

Stupid, intuitive psychologist! That was why the session with Dr. Kilpatrick had upset her so much today. She’d gotten Miranda to reveal a truth she hadn’t even admitted to herself yet.

With her parents both gone and her older brother stationed in Afghanistan, Miranda had no one in Kansas City. No one, period. All she had was this job. Being a cop—a highly select SWAT cop—was her identity. It gave her goals, satisfaction, a sense of community and worth. If she screwed it up, then she’d really be up a creek. Of course, the holidays only exacerbated that reeling sense of loneliness she normally kept at bay.

And she’d actually revealed all that to the doctor?

“Ow!” The pinch of sanity on her scalp told her that (a), she was tugging too hard with the hairbrush, and (b), she needed to get a grip. If she wanted to make the claim that she was a strong woman who deserved to have the job she did, then she needed to quit wallowing in these weak, feminine emotions that felt so foreign to her, and get her head on straight.

Decision made. Time to act. Emotions off.

“Now get out of here, Murdock,” she advised her reflection in the mirror.

After pulling her long, straight hair back into a ponytail, Miranda dressed in her civvies and bundled up in her stocking cap and coat to face the wintry air blowing outside. Night had fallen by the time she hurried down the steps toward the crosswalk that would lead her to the parking garage across the street.

Heading south for half a block, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her navy wool peacoat and hunched her shoulders against the wind hitting her back. When she reached the crosswalk and waited for the light to change, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket to check the time. Great. By this hour on Christmas Eve, none of the usual restaurants where she liked to pick up a quick dinner would be open. She tried to picture her freezer and wondered what microwave choices she had on hand that she could zap for dinner, or if she’d be eating a bowl of cereal again. Why couldn’t she remember these things before she got hungry and the stores had closed?

The light changed. She jumped over the slushy gray snow that had accumulated against the curb, and hurried across the street. That was another thing she missed with John being over in Afghanistan. Besides the bear hugs and patient advice, the man could cook. She’d never really had to learn because he had the gourmet talents and interest in the family. Miranda could easily recall the ham, mashed potatoes, baby asparagus, fruit salad and thick chocolate cake John had fixed for Christmas dinner last year. Her mouth watered at the memory of silky, semisweet frosting and light, moist layers of pure fudge heaven.

Her bowl of cereal was sounding pretty sad right about now.

She entered the parking garage and jogged up the ramp to the second level, where she’d parked her red pickup that morning, long before they’d gotten the call to the Gallagher Security Systems building. As the morning’s events passed through her mind, her thoughts took a left turn and landed on the image of GSS’s boss, Quinn Gallagher, running the show in his poshly furnished, high-tech penthouse office.

The tailored suit and way he spoke, straightforward and concise, as though he was used to people jumping at his word, were clear indicators of his wealth and power. But the short dark hair with that one shaggy lock falling out of place onto his forehead, and those Clark Kent–ish black glasses said science geek. Surprisingly, there’d been muscles under that suit coat. She’d seen them flex and push at the seams of his jacket when he picked up his little girl. Quinn Gallagher was an odd combination of a man—a nearsighted nerd with guns and pecs hidden beneath his suit and tie.

Miranda grinned at the inside joke of her own making. Did Mr. Gallagher even know that he resembled a famous comic book character?

“What’s so funny?”

Stifling the startled gasp that tried to escape, Miranda halted at the big man climbing out of a truck parked in the row across from hers. The black KCPD sweats marked him as a friend, but recognition made it difficult to keep her feet from dashing to her own vehicle. Talk about lousy timing.

“Hey.” Lame greeting, but sufficient. Holden Kincaid needed no introduction. She shrugged off the sappy grin that had caught his attention. “Private joke. About a comic book.”

“It’s Murdock, right?” He pointed to the proportionately sized silvery malamute circling the bed of his truck. “Yukon, stay.” Amazingly, the dog sat on his haunches as his master crossed the driving lane to extend his hand. “Holden Kincaid.”

“I know who you are, Officer Kincaid.” There was nothing but polite friendliness in his demeanor, so running away from the man whose return to duty was giving her such fits about her job would only broadcast the insecurity she needed to hide. With the work-out sweats, stocking cap and scarf tucked around his neck, she could guess he wasn’t here to take her job this evening. “Going for a run?”

He nodded, thumbing over his shoulder at the dog. “Ol’ Yukon there loves the snow, so any chance we can do a winter run, we go for it.”

Keep it natural and conversational. “Even on Christmas Eve?”

His laugh clouded the chilly air. “Liza said I needed to get out of the house for a couple of hours. I take it there’s some Santa Claus stuff in the works with her and my son. So I took the dog out for a run, then came here to lift weights in the fitness center. I figure they need about another thirty minutes before it’s safe for me to go home.”

Liza must be the wife. Friendly man. Obedient dog. Family at home. Miranda’s isolation burned like a giant hole opening up in her belly.

“Well, I won’t keep you from Santa Claus.”

“Wait a sec. Murdock?”

“Yeah?”

When she turned to face him again, his smile had turned into a wry frown. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

Right. So she was naive to think she was the only one who felt there was a competition between them. He was trying to make the best of an awkward situation. She should be mature enough—confident enough—to do the same. She pulled her ponytail from the collar of her coat and tossed it down the middle of her back, busying her hands for a moment to calm her nerves. “Yeah, well, it was bound to happen. I mean, you’re back from leave, and I’m…always here, apparently.”

With something like a sigh of relief, Kincaid’s smile returned. “Captain Cutler said you were a bit of a workaholic.”

Guilty as charged. “I like the rush of the job, I guess. I feel useful. I’m in my element.”

“I know what you mean. I love being home with my wife and the baby, but I’m anxious to get back to it.”

Great. So she and Holden Kincaid were kindred spirits with similar talents. They might have been friends under other circumstances—if he wasn’t gunning for her job; if she hadn’t taken his in the first place.

She glanced around the nearly deserted garage and tried to make an exit again. “Well, um…Merry Christmas.”

“Murdock.” This time Miranda kept walking. “Look, I just wanted to say this isn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

She opened her truck door, but stopped at the odd remark. “Wanted what to happen?”

Her cell phone rang in her pocket, but she was more concerned about deciphering the apology stamped on Holden’s expression.

He nodded toward her coat pocket. “You’d better take that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your phone. It may be Captain Cutler.” He started backing away. “If so, it’s important.”

“How do you know…?” An ingrained sense of duty pushed aside the ominous vibe that this chance meeting with Holden Kincaid had nothing to do with coincidence. Too many phone calls in her life meant a summons to an emergency, and seeing Michael Cutler’s name on the screen of her phone indicated this was a call she couldn’t ignore. She climbed into her truck, closing the door as she hit the answer button. “Yes, sir?”

With a “Merry Christmas, Murdock,” Kincaid turned and jogged down the ramp and disappeared around the garage’s front gate into the night.

“I didn’t catch you in the middle of dinner, did I?” her commanding officer asked. The friendly greeting told her this wasn’t an emergency.

So Miranda took the time to start her truck and get the heater running before answering. “This is a good time to talk. What’s up?”

“We’ve had a situation develop over the course of the day at Gallagher Security Systems that requires your…unique expertise.”

“A situation?”

With a muffled curse, the captain cut the chitchat and got straight to the details. “I talked to Sergeant Wheeler about your schedule this week. She said you volunteered to take some extra patrol shifts over the holidays so that some other officers could spend more time with their families.”

He was calling her on Christmas Eve over this? “I’ve already cleared it with the desk sergeant. It won’t count as overtime. I’m just trading my vacation days for another time.”

“It’s an admirable gesture, but I took the liberty of clearing your schedule for the next week. I’ve already talked to Holden Kincaid, and he’ll take the shifts you were going to cover so no one else has to change their plans. The team is on On Call status this week—if something comes up, he’ll fill in for you.”

A bolt of icy electricity rippled down Miranda’s spine and her gaze shot to the black pickup in her rear-view mirror. This isn’t how I wanted it to happen. Kincaid’s words made sense now. He’d already known he was replacing her—not on SWAT 1, not yet—but that was what the preemptive apology was about. Cutler had already made the arrangements to get her out of the picture.

The gray dog sat in the back of the truck, watching her. He’d probably known his master was here to take her place, too.

She clenched her fist around the steering wheel as those insecurities that had plagued her since the Rich Girl Killer screwup shivered through her. She was losing the job she loved, losing her family, as Dr. Kilpatrick had put it. Only a girly-girl would sit here and cry about it. Still, the inevitable feelings of loss, betrayal and failure burned beneath her eyelids.

“Randy?” Captain Cutler was speaking in her ear. “You still there?”

Tearing her gaze away from the dog and turning off those self-sabotaging emotions, she managed to keep an even tone as she answered. “I’m here, sir. Why don’t you want me to work over the holiday?”

“I don’t want you to work patrol,” he clarified. “Since you’re not traveling out of town, I’m recruiting you for a dedicated assignment this week. And you will be receiving overtime pay for the extra hours.”

Pay was the last thing on her mind at the moment. “What’s the team going to do at Gallagher Security?”

“Not the team, Randy. You.”

“Well, can’t Holden take the assignment instead of covering for me?”

“No. He can’t.” The normal clip of authority in his tone softened to something slightly more paternal. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you do this for me. Can you meet me tomorrow? After you’re done with whatever plans you have for Christmas morning?”

Miranda’s sigh filled up the cab of the truck. She was available after a bowl of cereal tonight if he wanted. Besides, doing a personal favor for the captain couldn’t hurt her chances of staying on SWAT Team 1 now that Holden Kincaid was back in the picture. “I’ll be there.”

She jotted down the address he gave her and promised to meet him at noon.

What kind of assignment was she good enough for, but Holden wasn’t? Or was it a case of what assignment was Kincaid too good for, but she was adequate enough to fit the bill?

Stop it, Murdock. Miranda willfully shut down that negative voice in her head and disconnected the call. Dr. Kilpatrick might have her pegged better than she’d given the psychologist credit for. Her confidence really had been rattled by recent events.

Miranda shifted the truck into Reverse and pulled out of her parking space. When she braked to shift into Drive, she took a moment to scan her surroundings. There might be skeleton crews working over the holidays at KCPD, but none of them had parked up here. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. It was just her and the unblinking malamute who watched her drive past. And the dog didn’t count.

She was alone on Christmas Eve. No one was here to see her drive away; no one was at her apartment to welcome her home. Her boss had some sort of mysterious assignment that would separate her from the rest of the team for a week.

One might think she’d have gotten used to going solo through life by now.

But she hadn’t.

It stank.

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