From hero to zero

One day lieutenant Ben Peterson’s single-handedly stopping a bank robbery and the next he’s being accused of tampering with evidence. Ben needs to clear his name, fast! His only ally is straight-shooting rookie Delia Morgan.

Involving Delia is the last thing Ben wants. But he needs her help to figure out who’s setting him up. As their investigation intensifies, so does the temptation, and they open up to each other in ways neither expected. However, when it becomes clear that Delia still doesn’t trust Ben completely, it puts more than just their careers in jeopardy...

Ben took a deep breath.

“Okay, I admit I’m at a disadvantage to get the information I need. But I can’t ask you to risk your career to help me.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why?” But he didn’t give time to answer. “How do you know I’m not guilty?”

He looked away from her as if her response to that question didn’t matter.

Oh, it mattered, all right. She hated that she couldn’t tell him what he needed to hear. If only she could announce her fervent support the way the other troopers had. But she wasn’t built that way. She needed proof. Police and lab reports were like the building blocks of her constitution, the glue bonding them together. Indisputable proof.

That Ben Peterson even tempted her to step away from what she knew and trusted scared her more than any domestic or shots-fired call ever could.

Dear Reader,

I am so excited to introduce you to my True Blue miniseries and to me, since this is my very first Superromance book. True Blue tells the stories of the brave men and women of the Michigan State Police Brighton Post. They are members of a different type of family, one based on shared sacrifice and ultimate trust rather than common genetics.

This project has been great fun because it has allowed me to delve into one of my favorite topics: law enforcement. From my college criminal justice electives to the weekend cops beat from my newspaper reporter days, I have loved learning about these honorable officers, who perform heroic acts daily. The miniseries gave me an excuse to attend the Citizen’s Police Academy, go on several police ride-alongs, learn to shoot a Glock and be Tasered by choice (ouch!). I hope all the research will lend credibility to my fictitious world so you’ll indulge my creative license in the stories.

In Strength Under Fire, reluctant hero Lieutenant Ben Peterson is forced to question the foundation of his state police family when he is falsely accused of evidence tampering. Because he no longer knows who his friends are, Ben must rely on help from non-team player Delia Morgan, a trooper with much to prove...and so much to hide.

I love hearing from readers. Contact me on Facebook or by snail mail at PO Box 5, Novi, MI 48376-0005, or follow me on Twitter, @DanaNussio1.

Dana Nussio

Strength Under Fire

Dana Nussio

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DANA NUSSIO began telling “people stories” around the same time she started talking. She has been doing both things ever since. The award-winning newspaper reporter and features editor left her career while raising three daughters, but the stories followed her home as she discovered the joy of writing fiction. Now an award-winning fiction author as well, she loves telling emotional stories filled with honorable but flawed characters. A pair of almost empty nesters, Dana and her husband of twenty-five years live in Michigan with two overfed cats named Leonardo (da Vinci, not DiCaprio) and Annabelle Lee.

MILLS & BOON

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To my dear friend and fellow author Nancy Gideon, who always knew I could write the tough stuff and pushed me relentlessly so I could get it right. I hope I made you proud.

A special thanks to the law-enforcement and public-safety professionals who helped make the Lakes Area (Michigan) Citizens Police Academy possible for information junkies like me. I am especially grateful to Patrolman Tim Farrell and Officer Shawn Penzak of the Novi Police Department, and Officer Ken Ayres and Officer Rebecca List of the Wolverine Lake Police Department for answering my relentless questions and opening your law-enforcement world to me. Thank you to Rebecca, in particular, for helping me bring Delia Morgan to life. All of you are the real heroes.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“THERE’S OUR HERO.”

Ben Peterson froze in the squad room doorway as a collage of smiling faces and uniform sleeves reached out to haul him in by the shirt collar. The cheers, the thuds of applause—a wolf whistle thrown into the mix—squeezed the cramped space even tighter. Insides pleading for retreat, Ben crossed the room as if he didn’t mind being right there at center stage. Even a goldfish had no choice but to keep on swimming when its bowl turned cloudy.

“No, Lieutenant Peterson is my hero,” Vincent Leonetti called out in a flawless falsetto, a grin splitting his already ugly mug.

Once a class clown, always a class clown. Even if Bozo had been promoted to sergeant.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Ben gestured downward with his hands, wishing he had a mute button. “Knock it off, Vinnie.”

“Admit it. You done good.”

Ben shook his head, but finally he shrugged as he faced the dozen afternoon-shift troopers spaced around the room’s perimeter and huddled on the desks at its center. They were already in their navy uniforms, silver ties knotted, heavy jackets at the ready for their trips out into the frostbitten southeast Michigan January. These were the men and women of the Brighton Post. His teammates. His friends.

Maybe it had been too much to expect that they would leave him alone to do his job today, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping. Didn’t they see that yesterday’s events still felt more like fiction to him than any facts reported on News 3 Breaking Live? And didn’t they know by now that he preferred to stay in the background? He was good at it. Until he’d stepped inside that bank and shot the delicate balance of his professional life to hell and then some. The chances of getting back to his safe little norm appeared to be slim to forget it, buddy.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he crammed his sweaty hands into his pockets. “Thanks, everyone, but—”

Lieutenant Scott Campbell stepped close and rested a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“We all know that this guy enjoys being singled out about as much as getting a root canal, but moments of heroism like his deserve recognition.” Scott gestured toward him. “So on behalf of the Michigan State Police Brighton Post, I would like to congratulate Lieutenant Ben Peterson on a job well done.”

Ben opened his mouth to try again, but the other lieutenant raised a hand to stop him.

“Even on his day off, Lieutenant Peterson single-handedly took down two suspects in a bank robbery attempt, and at the same time he—” Scott paused, winking “—made a deposit into his interest-bearing checking account.”

“Are you kidding? Interest-bearing?” Vinnie’s eyes were as wide as his grin.

“Thanks for protecting the greenbacks,” someone called from the back of the room.

“Can you get me a preferred rate on a sixty-month CD?” another chimed.

As the punch lines continued pinging around the room, Ben finally let go of the breath he’d been holding. Compared to the awkward accolades his coworkers might have given him for those thirty terrifying minutes at Brighton Bank & Trust, this gentle ribbing was a gift.

When the laughter filtered down to chuckles, he jumped in. “Thanks again. But I was only doing my job. Just as any of you would have done.”

“But would we?”

Scott’s words cut him off and ended the other conversations in the room. “We want to believe we’ll be ready if called upon to act, even when off duty. And Lieutenant Peterson was ready. Good to know, especially for those of us who drive desks more often than patrol cars.”

He gestured toward Ben to indicate whom else he included in that sedentary us.

“Glad you remembered to show off your good side on Channel 3,” Vinnie started again.

“Thanks.” Ben winced at the memory of last night’s interview and the others he would have to endure for the benefit of the post. The media attention hit too close to a home he never planned to visit again by choice. Not that he’d chosen it the first time, either.

“You’re one lucky asshole,” Trooper Grant Maxwell called out.

“That coming from a guy who narrowly escaped a bullet last spring,” Vinnie quipped. “Now there’s some luck.”

“Just another day on the job,” Grant said with a smug grin. “Anyway, I’m not the one who’s gonna get his own comic-book character. He leaped right into hero mode without breaking a sweat.”

“I’m no hero.” Ben’s words were automatic. A reflex. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I just did what I had to do.”

The sense that he was being watched was so strong that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Of course someone was watching. They all were. But he had no doubt that one individual would be studying this scene more carefully than the others. Sure enough, a petite brunette stood at the edge of the activity, always as an observer, but never quite a participant.

Trooper Delia Morgan couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable, her posture as stiff as the unforgiving bun she always wore in her hair. Though a competent, by-the-book new recruit and a skilled, left-handed sharpshooter, from the start she hadn’t fit in well with the Brighton Post team, and she’d made no effort to change that.

Deep blue eyes, heavily lashed and so huge that they seemed to see everything and more, caught Ben’s gaze and gripped tight. Of course Trooper Morgan would be suspicious of him now. For months, he’d preached teamwork to her like a televangelist, and here he was basking in the spotlight of individual praise.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” she said after what must have been the most pregnant pause known to mankind.

“Uh. Thanks.”

Strange, she’d been obliged to say something nice, and yet she’d almost sounded sincere. That couldn’t be right. She was the last person he’d expect to get caught up in this hero nonsense. Did Delia see him differently now? Would he enjoy it if she did? As Ben pushed away those disconcerting thoughts, Delia tilted her head and a tress of shiny hair escaped its clip, falling across her jawline. It came to rest along the fair skin of her neck.

The impulse to test the feel of those silky-looking strands struck him so fast that his hand reached out before he had time to get his thinking straight. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets, blinking several times, his mouth suddenly dry. What was that? Never mind that the woman was clear across the room, nor that this particular woman would have slugged him for getting too close. Thankfully, she must have missed his idiotic move because she reached up and shoved her hair out of the way herself.

He swallowed. What was he doing focusing on Delia like that anyway? Make that Trooper Morgan. Even if the overly independent officer had been an enigma to him since she’d been assigned to the Brighton Post nearly a year before, now wasn’t the best time for him to try to figure her out. He had no business thinking of her in any way other than as a fellow officer, either. Especially not as an attractive woman.

“Well, I wonder who’s out protecting the citizens of Michigan this morning.”

Ben straightened like a teenager caught scoping out a girl during a bio quiz, which was especially awkward since he was thirty-two and Delia was twenty-six. Luckily, none of the other officers had noticed his gawking. They’d turned to the far doorway where Captain Lou Polaski stood, his beefy arms crossed, his expression stern. But then the hard line of his mouth curled, and he started clapping, setting off another round of applause.

“Well done, Lieutenant Peterson.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

With a nod, the post commander shifted to face the whole group.

“Yesterday’s events offer the post some positive PR in a time of state belt-tightening and post closures,” he said. “But they should also serve as reminders that we always need to be prepared to react. Even while off duty.

“We are first responders. Period.” Polaski swiped a hand through the air to emphasize the finality of that point. “The requirement for us to carry our weapons at all times is not just a suggestion. We must always be ready. Lives depend on it.”

The flash of panic that Ben had experienced inside that bank lobby rose again like bile in his throat. His pulse thrummed now as it had then, while he’d frantically tried to recall whether or not he’d strapped on his ankle holster before running errands. If he’d forgotten just that once, the post might have had little to celebrate today.

The squad room fell silent at the gravity of Polaski’s words. Was Ben the only one whose insides quaked at the thought of flags flying at half-mast? Who worried that his mistakes could have grave consequences and leave grave markers in their wake? These troopers put themselves in harm’s way every day. They did it for their fellow officers, who were like family, and they did it for people they’d never met. Yesterday’s incident only reminded them of what the stakes were. And how high.

“So on that note, everybody get back to work.” Polaski pointed with his thumb to the steel door that led to the parking lot. “The state isn’t paying you to stand around, patting each other on the back.”

Ben breathed a sigh of relief. The rodeo show was over. At least for now. The normal din of the squad room returned as troopers shrugged into their coats, grabbed their radios off chargers and started for the door. Some of the higher-ranking officers drifted down the hall, but Ben waited for the last few troopers to leave on patrol.

Instead of rushing out to her car to be first on the road the way she usually did, Trooper Morgan took her time collecting her things. When the door closed behind the others, she turned back to him.

“Lieutenant Peterson, you did a great job yesterday.”

Ben stared at her. She’d probably felt pressured to say something kind earlier, but this was overkill.

“It’s what we’re trained to do,” he managed over the awkwardness clogging his throat.

“But you really did it.”

“Uh...thanks.”

The inflection in his last word made his comment sound like a question, and he recognized that it was one. Was that shock he’d heard in her voice? Or awe? It must have sounded strange to her as well because her eyes went wide. He should have looked away. It would have been the decent thing to do when she looked uncomfortable enough to fire through the floor for an escape route. But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her face. Porcelain skin without a freckle anywhere, a straight nose with one of those cute tipped-up ends that women paid good money for and a mouth as close to a perfect bow as any he’d ever seen.

Why had he never noticed those things about her before? Weren’t details supposed to be the bread and butter of good police work? Maybe it was because she was behaving as suspiciously as a suspect with half a dozen crack cocaine rocks in her pocket. Or maybe because she was treating him so differently today. Like she admired him or something equally unbelievable.

No matter the cause, it was ridiculous to be seeing Delia Morgan as if for the first time and, worse yet, this time he was noticing all the wrong things. As if to put an exclamation mark on that point, his gaze dipped to just below her silver badge where small breasts softened the boxy lines of her uniform. Would they be as perfect as he imagined? He averted his gaze as heat rushed to his face. He really was just a horny teenager, hiding behind a uniform and a fancy title.

The trooper must have read his mind because she lifted her chin to stare him down for his unprofessional behavior, an expression that might have been more effective if she’d been standing on the desk instead of next to him where she had to look up. Way up. Nevertheless, she was again that tough young officer, too independent for anyone’s good, including her own.

“Well, Trooper—” he paused, clearing his throat “—be safe out there. Remember, call for backup when you need it.”

“I will...if I need it.”

Ben chose to let the comment pass this time. She couldn’t take back what she’d said earlier, anyway. And if she really did see him differently now, then maybe she would finally listen to his teamwork message. Finally buy into it just a little. He could hope, couldn’t he?

“Also, you should try to meet up with everybody after your shift. They’re going to the Driftwood instead of Casey’s Diner this time. I’m sure the others would like it if you came.”

“Okay. Sure.”

She didn’t look at him as she said it. He made a mental note to remember how she looked, acted when she was lying. She shoved open the door, allowing the frigid air to whoosh inside, and stepped outside. Either she or the wind pushed it closed behind her.

For a few seconds, Ben could only study the exit and wonder what had just happened. Their strange conversation wasn’t the half of it. Twice, in a matter of minutes, he’d checked out a female trooper, something he’d better stop doing yesterday if he planned to keep his job. What was wrong with him?

Maybe it was simply this unusual day, surreal in Groundhog Day proportions, that had made him so uncomfortably aware of her. Or maybe it was that Trooper Morgan had surprised him. Only a handful of people had ever been able to do that.

In his experience, people stayed true to form, no matter what that form was. Law-abiding citizens kept following the rules, and convicted felons became repeat offenders with tragic regularity. He understood too well the collateral damage those habitual offenders left behind, not to mention the worry over apples that fell too close to their second-rate trees.

Trooper Morgan either didn’t understand the rules of the game or refused to play along. Just when Ben had begun to wonder if he’d ever find a crack in her armor of fierce self-reliance, Delia had shown him a flicker of possibility.

Somehow he had to help her become a real part of the Brighton Post team before Polaski decided that her independent streak was a bigger liability than her determination and commitment to justice were assets. But how could he convince someone like her that there was no I in team? Maybe he should become more involved in her work development, while maintaining strict professional boundaries, of course. He could do that with his eyes closed, right?

As he entered his office, giving a self-satisfied nod, an image popped into his head, unbidden and unwelcome. Delia as he’d never seen her, her dark mass of hair flowing down her back, those huge eyes shining with humor and a sexy smile playing on those perfect, kissable lips. He blinked away the rest of the image because in it, besides that smile, she wore nothing at all.

On second thought, he needed to forget about doing anything with his eyes closed. He’d better keep them wide-open, and if he had any sense, he would stretch a barrier of bright yellow crime-scene tape between him and a certain female trooper. Tape that said Police Line Do Not Cross.

* * *

DELIA GRIPPED THE steering wheel so hard that her hands cramped as she merged the patrol car onto Interstate 96, but even focusing on her aching fingers failed to clear her thoughts. She should have felt better in the familiar black interior of her car, where the rules made sense, where she was in control, but everything was out of whack now.

Why had she said those things to Lieutenant Peterson? It wasn’t like her, at least not the current her. That little girl behind the curtain of her past, she might have said something like that. She’d been the one prone to hero worship, who’d trusted grown-ups too easily. And she’d paid dearly for those mistakes. Delia barely remembered that silly, naive girl.

If only she could forget today’s conversation with the lieutenant. Why hadn’t it been enough for her to just congratulate him like everyone else had? Especially when all he’d really done was to be at the right place at the right time. Okay, maybe a little more than that, but still. As if the hero’s welcome hadn’t been enough, she’d heaped more praise on him when no one was watching.

But you really did it.

The memory of his chocolate-colored eyes widening behind those Clark Kent glasses had her straightening in the seat now. But her words weren’t even the worst part. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d meant what she’d said. Despite the fact that the type of opportunity she’d needed to distinguish herself at the post had fallen right into his lap. Or that she couldn’t move up to a higher-profile agency where she could focus on child-predator cases while she spent her days handing out traffic citations and investigating property-damage accidents.

I’m no hero.

She squirmed in her seat as his words echoed in her ears. With her watching and waiting for his teamwork message to implode over his fifteen minutes of fame, Lieutenant Peterson had come up with a comment like that. It didn’t make sense. She knew police officers. They were cocky SOBs, who would take credit for building the Ambassador Bridge if they thought they could get away with it. The attitude came with the uniform. That edge showed up with the badge.

If Sergeant Leonetti had been the one congraluted, he would have grabbed a microphone and cued a comedy monologue. Trooper Shane Warner would have struck a pose to show off his overdeveloped biceps. Even she would have only pretended to hate the attention. After all, it was a means to a critical end.

But Lieutenant Peterson had come through for those bank customers in a highly volatile situation, and he’d done it with the kind of humility she couldn’t help but admire. She’d never seen anything like it. The people in her life had never even stood up for those they claimed to love, let alone for strangers.

A reluctant hero, but a hero still.

She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that Lieutenant Peterson had reacted differently than others would have. Sometimes it astonished her that a man like him, someone with such kind eyes, had become a cop in the first place. He had “nice guy” written all over that baby face he tried to shield behind his glasses. As if those could do anything to hide that dimple in his chin or the way his smile lifted slightly higher on one side. Even his light brown hair betrayed him by curling the moment it grew a millimeter outside of its close-trimmed cut.

Not that she’d noticed those things when she’d started working at the post ten months ago. Or kept noticing them.

“Great. Just great.”

Delia shook her head as she took the exit for US 23 and continued to her favorite traffic surveillance point near Whitmore Lake. Today backing into the spot shielded by the overpass felt like diving for cover. Why was she allowing herself to have inappropriate thoughts about a fellow officer? And more dangerous than that, letting herself be tempted to believe that any man was different. They were all the same, and she knew it.

Delia reached for the passenger seat and flipped on her handheld radar gun. The numbers reset on the screen, their details clear. If only her thoughts about a certain lieutenant were as easy to flip on and off. She had to make them stop. Wasn’t it difficult enough being a woman on the force without her behaving like one of those vacuous females who oohed and aahed over heroes in uniform? All of her effort to establish herself as the most competent recent graduate of the State Police Recruit School would be down the drain if she didn’t get her thoughts under control. She could almost hear the sucking sound of her lost momentum.

A beep on the laptop, stationed on her console, interrupted her pity party like a needle popping balloons. Setting the radar gun on the passenger seat, she clicked on the message from Gail Jacobs, the administrative assistant.

Lieutenant Peterson asked if you could make a run through Kensington Metropark during your shift. He wants you to take a look around the scene where that burned-out car was discovered last week.

Delia hit Reply and typed OK. It wasn’t as glamorous as thwarting a bank robbery, but routine assignments were part of the job. She glanced down at the message again and blew out a breath. Obviously, she’d made a big deal out of nothing. Just because she’d made some goofy comment this afternoon didn’t mean there would be some monumental change at work between her and the superior officer.

Before she could return to traffic monitoring, another beep announced a second message.

Oh. He also said thanks again. All that attention today must have been killing the poor guy.

Delia swallowed as she lifted the radar gun and pointed. Whether or not Gail had misunderstood the message she’d been asked to pass along, something had clearly changed at the Brighton Post. And it had moved as quickly as the red pickup truck that raced past Delia, clocking eighty-five in a seventy-miles-per-hour zone. But no matter what had shifted, she’d better figure out a way to move it back.

Switching on the spinning red light often called the “gumball” on the patrol car’s roof, she pulled out behind the speeding driver.

“Sorry, buddy. This isn’t your lucky day, either.”

CHAPTER TWO

A SCENT OF something deliciously fried and, therefore, off-limits wafted over Delia as she opened one of the heavy wood doors to the Driftwood Inn. Ignoring the urge to let the door fall shut and hurry back to her practical champagne-colored midsize, she stepped inside and wiped the snowy sludge off her shoes onto the mat.

Rich wood paneling and low lighting hinted at a hunting-lodge feel, but the mounted deer heads and the antler chandeliers clinched it. Because the place had given her the creeps on the few occasions she’d joined the group here—like dining on a cemetery plot—she scanned the length of the gleaming bar instead of looking at any of the mounted creatures too closely.

“About time you got here.” Sergeant Leonetti stood up from one of the tables that had been pushed together and waved her over. “Did you go to Casey’s instead?”

Before she could stop herself, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was speaking to her. Why had they been waiting for her? How had they known she was coming? Even she hadn’t known for sure until her car had pulled into the parking lot as if on autopilot.

“Yeah, what was the holdup?” Trooper Kelly Roberts brushed back the dark blond hair she wore tied up for work but which fell in perfect waves to her shoulder blades tonight.

“Oh. Sorry. I had the place right. I was just dragging in getting out of work.” Delia tried to ignore the strange temptation to pat her own hair into place. What was that about? She knew perfectly well that her bun was still right where it always was. Well, except for that one section that had refused to stay put all day.

Anyway, since when did she worry about her appearance around these people? That made about as much sense as her showing up there tonight to take part in an activity that she usually avoided just to make an odd day seem normal.

“Still dragging, aren’t you?” Trooper Warner noted.

“Oh. Right.” Well, she couldn’t keep standing there by the door, so taking a deep breath, she forced herself forward toward their table, casually taking attendance as she went. They were all dressed in street clothes—Leonetti, Roberts, Campbell, Warner and Maxwell. A few others, too. Even the two most recent additions at the Brighton Post, Trevor Cole and Jamie Donovan, had put in appearances. Cole was a casualty of the Manistique Post closure in the Upper Peninsula, and Donovan was so new that the ink hadn’t dried on his recruit school certificate.

Only Lieutenant Peterson was noticeably absent.

Delia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Of course she would be on the lookout for him. She’d avoided him throughout the rest of her shift, delaying the awkward moment when she would have to face him again after her embarrassing comments. But now she had this disturbing, heavy sensation she refused to define as anything other than relief.

Only three empty chairs remained at the far end of the table, so she took the one in the center, which gave her a buffer on either side. She was making an appearance as the lieutenant had suggested without the extra effort of actually holding up her end of a conversation. A win-win situation as far as she was concerned. No one seemed to pay attention to where she sat, anyway, so she opened her menu and started reading.

“Hurry up and figure out what you want,” Trooper Warner said. “We waited to order, and we’re wasting away from starvation down here.”

“That’ll take a while for you, Shane.”

Delia’s breath caught, forcing her to cough into her sleeve to cover it. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to confirm who’d spoken from somewhere behind her. The shiver feathering up her spine did a fine job of that all by itself. But she couldn’t resist turning to the door any more than she could stop the unfortunate dance in her tummy when she did.

Now that she couldn’t explain at all.

She’d seen Lieutenant Peterson out of uniform before as they all changed after their shifts, but he looked different tonight. As if it wasn’t dramatic enough that he’d skipped wearing his glasses, he was also dressed like a fashion model. He’d paired dark jeans with a gray cable sweater, and his black wool coat hung open. Strange how his shoulders and chest looked broader than she remembered. That could have been the sweater. He looked taller, too, though it didn’t take much to tower over her, especially when she was seated.

He would hate to hear it, but without his glasses and with his dimples flashing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, he looked even younger than normal. Boyishly handsome. The descriptor that popped into her head with no permission whatsoever had her turning back to her menu with a jerk.

Trooper Warner pushed his burly self away from the table, stood and crossed to the door to shake Lieutenant Peterson’s hand.

“If you were trying to offend me, you failed.” He did a biceps flex. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Whatever gets you through the day, man.” Lieutenant Peterson patted the trooper’s shoulder, his eyes alight with mischief.

The lieutenant seemed as different outside of work as he looked. Not as formal. Or serious. But then everyone was more relaxed when they were here together. Well, everyone except for her.

“Glad you made it, Ben,” Lieutenant Campbell called from the other end of the table.

“Guess we should feel privileged that you squeezed us in with all of your public appearances,” Sergeant Leonetti chimed as he waved him over.

So much for this new, relaxed Lieutenant Peterson. He stopped at the end of the table, his posture suddenly stiff.

“Can we not make this a repeat of this afternoon?” He covered his face with his hands, staring at them through his splayed fingers. “If my head gets any larger, I won’t be able to fit into my shoe box. Er... I mean office.”

Lieutenant Campbell shook his head. “Or if you don’t stop, he’ll shoot out of here faster than an IndyCar at Belle Isle.”

The two men exchanged a meaningful look, and Lieutenant Peterson shrugged. As if by unspoken agreement, the others returned to their own conversations. Delia might have done the same if she’d been speaking to someone or if the lieutenant hadn’t started walking again. Right toward her.

The idea of having an empty seat on either side had seemed clever at the time. Now...not so much. He was left with no choice but to sit next to her. And if her stomach had been unsettled before, it now moved on to a gymnastics routine.

What was the matter with her? Their earlier conversation was no excuse. Her nerves were on full alert, and this wasn’t even a crisis situation. She was vacuous, all right. What would she do next, bat her eyelashes at him?

He stopped behind the seat to her left and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair. The sporty, masculine scent of his cologne drifted in her direction. She had this ridiculous temptation to close her eyes and breathe it in until her lungs ached when she should have been holding her breath. She didn’t care about things like cologne, whether it smelled incredible or not. She didn’t even own a bottle of perfume.

Without looking her way, he opened his menu.

She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant Peterson.”

“Delia.”

He caught her sidelong glance and smiled. “We don’t have to be so formal off the clock.”

“I know.”

Not that she would ever be comfortable addressing any of them informally. Skipping titles was like ignoring the chain of command. Something she never did. Yet now she found herself rolling his first name around on her tongue. Ben. Because it tasted a little too nice, she again returned to her menu, deciding between a ham-and-Swiss panini and a Caesar salad.

“Glad you decided to come.”

She blinked. Of course, she’d said she planned to come, but he’d been right to doubt she was serious. She searched madly for a safe topic and then blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“I’ve never seen you in contacts before.” That wasn’t what she was going for. She’d just admitted to watching him when he wasn’t wearing them.

“Yeah, I just wear them when I want to look about eleven.”

“Are you kidding? You look every bit of thirteen.” Why couldn’t she stop herself? Now he knew she’d noticed his baby face. And maybe even that she liked it.

At the brush of his arm against hers, Delia startled and whacked her other elbow against the side of the table. She crossed her arms, as much to brush away uncomfortable tingles as to rub her smarting joint, and give her nervous hand something to do.

“Sorry.”

“No big deal.”

He leaned in close and spoke again in a low voice. “Just promise you won’t compliment me again.”

She tried not to shiver as his warm breath tickled her ear and neck. She forgot about the pain in her arm altogether. “Oh, I promise,” she choked out.

If only she hadn’t opened her big mouth earlier today, then maybe she wouldn’t be on sensory overload now. She wanted to believe that, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that even if she’d shut down her primary senses, she would still be every bit as unsettled by his nearness.

“Good. Of anybody, I knew I could count on you to keep this in perspective.”

Of anybody? His words ripped her right out of her off-limits daydream, leaving a path of irritation in the gaping tear. Was he praising her or slamming her? Did he know that she’d been watching him to see how he would handle his moment in the spotlight? She expected him to look back to her with a knowing expression, but instead he turned to the waitress and ordered a bacon cheeseburger.

Without saying more, he leaned in to listen to a conversation farther down the table. Apparently, this was just like any other day for him. She was the only one who’d worried that there had been a shift in their professional relationship. Had she overreacted? She might as well have called in the bomb squad for a one-block power outage. With a frown, she turned to the waitress and ordered the salad.

Ben, whom she’d suddenly started thinking of as Ben, was oblivious to her discomfort as he spoke to the other lieutenant across the table.

“What did you think about that Red Wings game last night? Killed the Avalanche, didn’t they?”

Lieutenant Campbell shook his head, chuckling. “A man with five kids? When would I have time to watch pro hockey?”

Delia rolled her eyes. Not that she cared, but male officers often used sports talk to exclude women from their conversations. Just another reminder that it was a mistake to think of any man, Lieutenant Peterson included, as different from the others. Using sports to shut her out only proved what little he knew about her. It would serve him right if she spouted sports statistics until his eyes crossed.

“Don’t let him kid you,” Sergeant Leonetti piped in. “His whole gang was watching that game. And doing the wave on their couch.”

“Who do you think started the wave?” Lieutenant Campbell said.

She was dying to talk about last night’s overtime goal or how much the team had suffered since their star player’s retirement, but she held back. Then Ben gestured toward her.

“Delia, you’re a Wings fan, aren’t you?”

His words startled her as much as his touch had earlier. Maybe more. “How did you—”

“Just a guess.”

But he reached down to the purse at her feet, her car keys resting on top. When he lifted his hand, her winged-wheel key chain, the symbol for Detroit’s professional hockey team, dangled from his fingers.

“I’m a cop. They pay me to notice details.”

He jiggled the keys until she reached for them, and then he lowered them into her hand, accidentally brushing her fingers.

“Well, you blew that case wide-open.” She ignored another round of tingles as she stored away the keys.

Ben had made a point of including her in the conversation. It shouldn’t have surprised her, given that he’d been suggesting ways for her to become more involved with the team for the past few months, but it did.

“He’s on a roll this week, then,” Sergeant Leonetti piped. “First the bank and now this.”

Ben pointed at the team’s comedian. “Come on. No more.”

His warning only started the ball rolling, though, and soon hero jokes were shooting from both ends of the table. He accepted several jabs with good humor before putting up his hands.

“Enough already. I thought we were talking about hockey.”

“Were we?” Trooper Warner lifted a brow, but as if he realized they’d pushed the lieutenant far enough, he turned to Delia instead.

“Fair-weather or die-hard?”

“Excuse me?”

“Fan. Which kind are you?”

She shrugged, her gaze shifting among the others, who were suddenly focused on her. Was this how Ben had felt that afternoon after the big announcement, like a bug under a microscope, smothering between the slide’s glass panes?

“Die-hard, I guess. I mean, the Tigers and Lions are great, too, but there’s nothing like the Wings during playoffs.”

“You’ve got that right,” Ben agreed.

The waitress and a second waiter appeared then, carrying trays laden with food. Delia was relieved to be forgotten as everyone got down to the business of distributing and inhaling their late-night meals.

Even as she took tiny bites of her salad, Delia couldn’t help but to steal glances at the man beside her. Because she wasn’t even sure that she needed his help to fit in with the team—or if being enmeshed in a team was critical to her job—she found her rush of gratitude toward him unnerving. But she did find his actions awfully sweet. He’d gone out of his way to invite her tonight and then to include her in the conversation. She couldn’t remember anyone who’d done something just for her. Was it only for her sake? Or was he just paying her back for the things she’d said earlier? Maybe he wanted to even the score. Or have her owe him.

Delia shifted in her seat, pulling her elbows tightly against her sides, her closed hands pressed against her hips below the table. He might have done something nice, but that didn’t mean she owed him.

She would never owe any man. Anything. Ever.

She drew in a ragged breath and let it out slowly. Now she was really being paranoid. If Ben did have an ulterior motive for directing attention to her, it was probably just to deflect some of it away from him. And who would blame him for that after the day he had just spent?

If only she didn’t always have to question people’s motives. Didn’t have to suspect that there was an evil grin lurking behind every smiling face. But she couldn’t help it. Some hard-learned lessons couldn’t be forgotten no matter how much she wished she could whitewash the gate guarding her memories.

She risked one more peek at him. One too many. He was looking back at her, watching so closely that he could have described each of her pores. Only this didn’t feel like an examination. More of a caress, really. One that smoothed from her temples to her baby toes. And from the heat building in her private places, that touch hadn’t missed any tourist stop along the way, either.

Hell, even her arches tingled.

Then it was over. Well, on his end, anyway. He turned away as if nothing had happened. She, on the other hand, was too shocked to do anything but hold herself perfectly still, as her frayed nerve endings still snapped with sparks. Obviously she was out of practice at reading signals from men, not that she’d been all that good at it when she was in practice. But her reaction now was not just inappropriate, it was downright indecent.

You know you wanted it.

She swallowed, ice water dousing the heat that had radiated along her skin. Those words and their speaker shouldn’t still have been able to reach out from the past to club her, but they could and had. The few bites she’d managed to swallow turned to acid in her stomach. Swirling. Clenching. She couldn’t go back there. If she allowed herself to slip down those shadowy halls and become lost in that maze of lies and blame, she might never find her way back.

“You okay, Delia?”

It took her a few seconds to decipher the concern creasing his brows. What had he seen? Had she given herself away? “Oh. Just a headache.” She rubbed her temples with her thumbs for effect. If only it were that easy to rub away those thoughts.

He indicated farther down the table with a tilt of his head. “Let Kelly know if you need something for it. She carries a whole pharmacy in that big bag of hers.”

“Hey, I resent that.” Trooper Roberts showed off a large lime-green purse without a bit of shame and then stowed it under the table.

Delia pushed around a piece of chicken on her salad. There was no way she’d be able to eat another bite. She wanted to believe that the past could no longer break her, but it was sure giving it the old college try.

At least Ben didn’t try to start another conversation because she couldn’t look him in the eye now. If she dared, she might do something unforgivable like melt into a puddle on the floor. Or, worse, tell him about her past. She squashed that thought immediately. That it had even crossed her mind was unacceptable. She would never again tell anyone. She’d shared her story once, and look where that had gotten her.

What was going on with her, anyway? For someone who prided herself on having an absolute immunity to men, she needed a booster shot where Ben Peterson was concerned. No, make that Lieutenant Peterson. Impersonal. Distant. The way it was supposed to be. Until she built up some resistance to this particular strain of male, she needed to avoid the exposure zone.

CHAPTER THREE

BEN STOMPED UP the front steps to the 1930s farmhouse his friends had deemed “the project.” To him it was just home. He grimaced as a loose floorboard creaked when he reached the wraparound porch. Something else to fix. Just like the mess he’d made at the Driftwood. As if things between him and a certain trooper hadn’t been awkward enough today, he’d just made them a whole lot worse.

His freezing hands fumbled with the keys, and they dropped to the snow-dusted wood with a thunk. It just figured he would have forgotten to leave the outside light on tonight. Why did he continually forget when he knew how dark it was out in the country? Grumbling, he crouched near the door and patted around him until his fingers closed over the keys. After several of his misdirected jabs, he finally slipped the key into the lock.

He pushed the door open, welcoming the rush of heat that struck his face even before he could reach inside to switch on the light. With the corncob-quality insulation in these walls, this would be the only time he felt warmth in this place all night. He kicked the door shut harder than he’d planned to and then braced for the sound of breaking glass. The near complete silence that only those who live outside of city limits ever experience filled the space instead.

As he rounded the corner into the formal living room, a collection of faces stared back at him, their photo frames askew but still clinging to the wall. Enlarged color snapshots featured a silver-headed couple with a boy at various ages, but most of the images were in black and white. A portrait of the great-grandparents he’d only known from their stories took the center spot in the display. They weren’t smiling, either.

“Your week must have been as bad as mine.”

As Ben hung his coat on the antique coat tree and zipped on the sweatshirt he always wore inside the house, his gaze followed the lines of the Victorian furniture that had been there for as long as he could remember. There probably wasn’t a single piece that had anything more than sentimental value, but they all had plenty of that to spare. Except for the goldfish bowl on the bookshelf, nothing in this room had changed in thirty years.

On his way through the house, Ben smoothed his hand along the dark wooden doorway molding. Admiring some of the woodwork he’d restored himself usually calmed him after a stressful shift, but there was nothing usual about this week. He braced himself for another onslaught of images he would never forget, shouts ringing again in his ears, the pungent scent of his own fear still fresh in his nostrils. He’d hated the stink of it, even then.

He shivered, telling himself it was only from the cold. He could lie to himself if he wanted to. The house felt chillier tonight, anyway. Bigger. And emptier. The hollow echoes of his own footsteps chased him on the creaky floors as he continued into the kitchen. As he’d done so many nights before, he washed vegetables, diced chicken and sprinkled spices. Only after the chicken in the wok had turned white and the pea pods and water chestnuts were sizzling in the sesame oil did he remember that he’d already eaten.

Slamming a plastic container on the countertop, he poured the meal inside it to refrigerate for later. He should have known better than to show up at the Driftwood tonight after his crazy day at work. And not just because of the pep session, either. If he’d known that Delia would be there, he would have headed straight home. Technically, she’d warned him that she planned to show up, but he’d had no reason to believe her. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d joined them at either of the haunts where the officers gathered after their shifts, so he couldn’t account for her presence any more than he could explain the spike of his pulse when he’d seen her there.

Even now, he wasn’t sure how he’d made it across the restaurant to sit next to her without falling over his feet like in a B-rated comedy flick with a D-list cast. Worse yet, that clumsy approach had been the most acceptable thing he’d done all night. He’d whispered close to her ear so he could sneak a whiff of her lavender shampoo, and he’d made up so many excuses to accidentally brush her arm that it must have looked like an elbow fight. He probably would have copped a feel right over her oh-so-proper black turtleneck if he could have gotten away with it. He’d sure helped her out of that sweater with his eyes.

Suddenly thirsty, he threw on the faucet and poured himself a glass of water. With his eyes squeezed shut, he took several gulps. What had happened to him? He used to be a professional. He knew the rules, and until now, he’d followed them. So how had he gone from finding ways to bring one of the troopers more fully into the post team to wanting to frisk her in all the best ways right there on the table?

It didn’t make any sense. He’d passed by Delia Morgan every day for months, wearing the same uniform, finishing up reports at the same desktop computer, and he’d never once suffered from a case of dry mouth. Until today. He couldn’t recall a single case of sweaty palms over her nearness, either. Until... But that was the thing. Something had tripped a switch in him today, and no matter how hard he tried to click it off again, she kept showing up in his thoughts, accentuated by nothing less than ideal lighting.

He took another drink and then held the cool glass to his cheek. Unfortunately, his face wasn’t the only thing that felt too warm over just the thought of her and that sweater.

This situation had disaster written all over it. He couldn’t be attracted to a trooper, even if he wasn’t her direct supervisor. He didn’t do interoffice romances. He wished he could make the excuse that it had been too long since he’d dated, but that disastrous blind date from last weekend probably still counted. As for “afternoon delights” as Vinnie would have called them, though, it had been a long, dry year in the whole delights department, afternoon or otherwise.

“Get your head on straight, Peterson,” he grumbled.

Polaski definitely would tell him that if he saw him now and probably with more colorful vocabulary. Whether or not Ben had sought out attention when he’d entered the bank yesterday, he’d become an object of curiosity. A hero in some people’s minds, even if he would never see himself as one. Well, he’d better start behaving like one. A hero would always be his best, most professional self, not someone who only thought about his own needs as his father had. A hero wouldn’t allow himself to see a coworker as anything more than a brother or sister in blue. He would work solely for the good of the public and the post.

Yes, he still wanted to help Delia Morgan better assimilate into the post family. It was the right thing to do for the team, after all. But if he couldn’t put his plan into action without crossing that firm line, then he needed to back away for his own good...and hers.

* * *

THE EIGHT PCS positioned around the squad room were deserted, except for the one where Delia sat typing information into the blanks of an electronic arrest report form. She would have been just coming off patrol herself soon if not for a routine traffic stop earlier that ended in an arrest. That stop had changed when her Law Enforcement Information Network database search had shown an outstanding arrest warrant.

Sensing that she was no longer alone, she lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder. Not hoping it would be anyone in particular. Just curious. Sure enough, Lieutenant Peterson leaned casually against the door frame. His pose and the way he startled, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, had to be the reasons for the tickle that skittered up the back of her neck.

She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

He smiled then, and Delia’s tummy did an unfortunate jig the way it had so many times around him lately. She tightened her jaw and crossed her arms over her stomach to still those dancing feet. Why couldn’t she just get past these inappropriate reactions to him?

Sure, Ben Peterson had never been invisible to her. Far from it, no matter how hard she’d tried not to see him. But everything was magnified since his shining moment last week.

Since she’d noticed him staring back.

She’d probably imagined that, too, so it was downright annoying that the sparks she felt around him continued to crackle and pop.

“I just wanted to get a good look at the trooper who arrested Mary Poppins in there.” Ben pointed with his thumb toward the door to the cinder-block holding cell where Delia’s suspect sat awaiting transfer to Livingston County Jail.

Frowning, she spun her office chair to fully face him. “I would expect that a lieutenant would take an arrest seriously. Any arrest.”

“Seriously? Even this one?”

As much as she wanted to hold on to her stern expression—this was their job after all—she didn’t stand a chance when facing off with Ben’s silly smirk. He had a point. It was pretty funny. “Why are you so interested in this arrest, anyway? Are you a closeted Poppins fan?”

“So what if I am?” He pursed his lips. “Er...was.”

She finally gave in and grinned over his joke about him giving away his secret. “‘Practically perfect’ and all of that?”

He grinned again. “You know it.”

It was amazing how easily she bantered with Ben now, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. As often as he’d struck up conversations with her during her shifts in the past week, how could she not have become more comfortable around him? She shouldn’t make too much out of it, though. Ben was friendly with everyone at the post, from the commander to the lady at the front desk. But he’d focused on Delia lately, seeming determined to roll past that awkwardness between them and to really become her friend.

Strange how she wanted to give in on both things. Having someone to talk to at work certainly hadn’t been all bad. She’d found herself looking forward to the moments he would stop by, curious what interesting thing he would say next. Even if he’d probably only made the effort to further his plan for making her team-worthy. Of course he had an agenda. Everyone did. People didn’t do things without a motivation of some sort. Even Ben. She should know better than to believe he was doing it just to be nice.

He stepped closer to her desk and glanced at the report over her shoulder. “This has to be a good story. Tell me how you broke this case.”

Immediately, she stiffened again, a reflex when anyone moved too close to her, but she forced a smile and continued typing. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t expect to find anything on LEIN when I pulled over a white-haired lady for driving thirty-two in a seventy.”

Whether he shifted to the next PC to ensure that the machine was working or to signal that he’d noticed her discomfort, Delia couldn’t tell.

“Usually a good bet,” he said finally.

Delia swallowed, sliding a glance his way. Though he could have been answering either her comment about senior suspects or the thoughts she’d kept to herself, she chose the safety of the earlier topic. “But then doesn’t that make me guilty of profiling? Or un-profiling?”

“Probably just of being human. No one wants to think of anyone’s grandma as a suspect.”

“Don’t let me off the hook so easily.”

He pointed to the closed door. “Come on, Delia. That woman in there is proof that looks can be deceiving. She looks more like an escapee from a library convention than a suspect with an outstanding warrant for failure to appear on an impressive list of check-fraud charges.”

“Maybe it was just a clever disguise.”

After another look at the holding cell, he shook his head. “No. I bet she always looks like that. Sensible shoes and all.”

“Then clever career choice?”

He gestured toward the arrest report on her screen. “If that isn’t a pink slip for that particular job, I don’t know what is.”

“No unemployment line for that one, either.”

“After an arrest like that, taking down a wanted fugitive and all, you’ll be the next one to make the local news.” He paused, chuckling. “Viewers will be relieved to see your pretty face after having to look at mine for so long.”

Pretty face? A startled laugh escaped before she could stop it. Was Ben Peterson flirting with her? Would she like it if he were? Of course he wasn’t, and no, she wouldn’t. He was only joking with her the way all of the officers did with each other, and she was making too much out of it. Again.

“In my interview, I’ll give credit to the team like—” Delia stopped herself, glancing over at him. She hoped he didn’t think she was making fun of him over the banking incident. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, nobody makes the news for bringing down Mary Poppins. Or maybe Mrs. Doubtfire, who—”

“Wasn’t who she seemed to be,” they both said at the same time and then laughed.

“A senior-citizen fugitive or big bad bank-robbery suspects.” She held out both hands, palms up, weighing the two options in an imaginary scale. “Those two arrests don’t compare on the if-it-bleeds-it-leads scale for TV news.”

He tilted his head back and forth, considering her words. “Guess not, but they should.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, there was no blood in either of those arrests,” he pointed out.

“Which is a good thing.”

Ben shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in their conversation. He hadn’t spoken about the incident at the bank at all other than the details he’d listed in the report. Was there more about the case that he hadn’t disclosed? Something critical that he’d left out of the report?

But he spoke up again before she had time to ask. “We were both just doing our jobs.”

She had returned to her own report, but now she couldn’t help but to look back at him, waiting for answers.

“Some cases get more attention than others—” he paused, shrugging “—but all of our work is important as we serve and protect the people of southeast Michigan.”

The words were out of her mouth before she had time to edit them. “I was wrong about you.”

His eyes widened behind his glasses. “You mean you no longer think I’ll forget about the team now that I’ve made the six o’clock news?”

Delia was just standing up from the chair, but his comment caused her to pop up so quickly that her holstered weapon bumped the desk. “What do you mean? I never said—”

He shook his head. “Forget I said that. I meant to ask how you were wrong about me.”

Because she didn’t want to confess that he’d already hit on the exact answer like a nail driven home by one perfect strike, she scrambled for another reason. “I was wrong to think you’d tried to avoid speaking to the media because public relations wasn’t your forte.”

“Oh. Then you were right the first time.”

He tipped his head to the side, his chuckle low and sexier than it had any right to be, especially right there in the squad room where just anyone could hear it. Delia refused to think about other locations where a sound like that would be perfect. Places with low lighting and soft music—

“Nope,” she said to the both of them. She shook her head as much to clear it as to disagree with him. “Not buying it. Just listen to you. You’re a walking, talking public-service announcement. ‘Serve and protect the people of southeast Michigan’? In front of a camera, you could convince residents that they want us to give them speeding tickets.”

“Thanks, I guess. But let’s hope I don’t have to prove it now that the media attention has died down.”

Delia needed to finish the report before her suspect was transported to jail, but she was stalling. She had a job to do, and she could only stand there searching for something clever to say that might keep him there longer.

“You’re a good cop, Trooper Morgan.”

She swallowed. Those were the words she’d worked so hard to hear. Words that meant everything to her. She sneaked a calming breath, exhaling in slow puffs. Maybe she should have expected that he might be the first to say those words to her, but she couldn’t have guessed how much they would humble her.

“Thanks. Um, you, too, uh...Lieutenant.” Strange how she was tempted to call him Ben, even here where it would be frowned upon. The way she would talk to a friend.

The side of his mouth lifted. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but if you’re handing them out, I’ll be happy to take a few big ones, please.”

“I’m serious. Really.”

And she was serious, even if he was determined to deflect the praise. Stranger still, she was suddenly tempted to say more. Thoughts she should keep to herself. Like that he was a real hero. And how incredibly rare people like him were. Maybe even how lucky she was that someone like him wanted to be her friend.

But someone threw open the door to the parking lot then, a strong-arm invasion of winter gusting inside. Kelly Roberts and Grant Maxwell hurried into the squad room, still laughing over some earlier joke while they brushed snowflakes off their covers and uniforms.

Delia straightened, gripping the edge of the desk. She appreciated the jolt from the frigid air almost as much as she did the interruption. At least both gave her a chance to rethink what she’d been about to say.

Things she’d had no business saying. She was grateful for the growing collection of witnesses and the comforting hum of conversations other than the tape repeating inside of her head. The one that demanded to know why she was tempted to let down her guard with Ben Peterson. But most of all, she was grateful for all of these things that saved her from saying words she couldn’t take back.

CHAPTER FOUR

“PERFECT TIMING.”

Delia turned toward the voice to find Jamie Donovan next to her as they sloshed toward the post building. Nearly soaked after just stepping out of their patrol cars, they didn’t bother sprinting for the door.

Jamie shook his head, spraying more droplets in Delia’s direction. “What’s with the downpour in January? Isn’t this supposed to be snow? In the Upper Peninsula where I grew up, this would be snow.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, are you, Toto? Here sometimes it’s snow, and sometimes it’s rain.”

“This is so not Oz,” he grumbled.

She had to agree with that. “It’s going to be a nightmare tonight. When all of that freezes...” She shook her head, imagining the work ahead for the midnight-shift troopers. That shift was the only one where troopers were partnered for patrols, and they would definitely need their partners tonight. “Let’s just hope drivers slow down.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Well, maybe nonfatality accidents, then.”

He nodded. “Let’s hope.”

Delia smiled as she pulled open the door, waved Trooper Donovan in and entered behind him. She’d had an actual conversation with one of her fellow troopers, if weather and traffic counted as valid topics. Would Ben be impressed that she’d tried anyway? Not that she worried about what he thought or agreed that all of this “connecting” was necessary, but still. Who knew? Maybe there was something to his team theory. If it helped her make the right impression at this post, playing along with his idea wouldn’t be all bad.

“Nothing like driving through a monsoon—”

Jamie’s words cut off, and he stopped so quickly that Delia bumped into him. When he didn’t move, she stepped around him as she shed her soggy jacket. That several troopers were spaced around the room, coats still in their arms, wasn’t all that surprising given that they were all coming off their shifts. Only the superior officers, Ben included, were there with them, but out of place, lined up along the back wall instead of at the front of the room where they usually presented updates at the beginning of their shifts.

All of them were preoccupied with the tiny flat-screen mounted high in the corner. Even Gail Jacobs, who never hurried anywhere, rushed into the squad room, took a spot along the wall and stared up at the television. Without saying more, Jamie crossed the room and took a place near the a few troopers on the opposite wall.

Delia slipped into an empty spot in the back and brushed some of the water from her bun. Her stomach was tight, as if it knew something she didn’t. Just down from her, Ben frowned, looking as confused as she felt. The ten o’clock news from one of the Detroit stations filled the TV screen, a graphic of a state police shield and a photo of the Brighton Post building flashing behind the news desk.

Ben groaned. “It can’t be that slow of a news week.”

Whatever the cheery newscaster was reporting must have been a teaser because the station went to commercial, leaving them staring at an ad for basketball shoes.

“I thought we were finished with this,” Ben said in a low voice. “Don’t they have anything else to report on? A road-rage incident maybe?”

A few murmurs and shifting of feet prevented the room from being silent, but Gail remained eerily quiet, which was no more like her than hurrying was. She stared at the screen as if willing the newscast to return from the commercial break.

Delia rubbed at the gooseflesh beneath her uniform sleeves. Her throat felt dry. Something definitely wasn’t right. She didn’t know what was going on, but this wasn’t another follow-up on the bank-robbery story. The guarded expression on Lieutenant Campbell’s face confirmed her suspicion that this report would offer no good news.

Ben glanced from one officer to the next, his hands pressed to his sides. “Would one of you tell me what this is all about?”

Lieutenant Campbell’s gaze flitted to the screen and then back to him. “We’re not really sure yet, but—” As the newscast flashed on again, he stopped and gestured toward the screen.

“In a News 3 exclusive,” the newscaster began, “two Detroit attorneys have filed a class-action lawsuit in response to the Department of Human Services’s use of what has been called the ‘rocket docket’ to determine...”

Ben frowned at the TV and turned to Sergeant Leonetti. “You know anything?”

The funny man wasn’t even grinning this time. “Sorry, man. I don’t.”

A loud click came from the steel door behind them, and Trevor Cole rushed inside with Kelly Roberts close behind him hurrying to get out of the rain. Both paused inside the door to shake off their coats. Trevor glanced from the officers to the television.

“Another meeting of the Ben Peterson fan club? Who interviewed him now?”

“You’d think he’d get better at giving interviews after so many, but he looks miserable every time,” Trooper Roberts said as she slid out of her coat.

At the almost imperceptible shake of Lieutenant Campbell’s head, the two troopers stopped talking. What did some of them know that they weren’t sharing? Instead of paying attention to the conversations that were shrinking to curious whispers, Captain Polaski stared at the television, his posture so straight that he appeared cemented in place.

“Up next is our report coming out of Brighton,” the reporter said to segue to the next news story. “From the same post where just last week we reported on an incident of bravery and heroism comes disappointing news. What can you tell us about this, Laura?”

A field reporter, next to the big blue “State Police Brighton Post No. 12” sign, appeared on a split screen.

“Yes, Kimberly, I’m here at the Brighton Post, where an investigation is underway in evidence tampering and larceny regarding drugs confiscated during a series of arrests.” She paused, her expression becoming somber. “Sadly, a person of interest in the case appears to be the same officer recognized last week for bravery in a thwarted bank robbery. Will this be the downfall of a hero? We’ll let you know as News 3 investigates.”

If the others hadn’t been hauled into an uncomfortable silence, Ben’s gasp might not have sounded so loud. But in that vacuum, the sound pierced the quiet like the click of the magazine in a .40-caliber Glock.

“A person close to the investigation tells us that Lieutenant Ben Peterson...”

Delia barely heard anything the woman said after that as the reporter cited convenient, unnamed sources. She couldn’t pull her gaze from Ben, who stared, wide-eyed, at the screen, his arms stiff at his sides.

The urge to run to the TV, smack its power button and shout to anyone who would listen that the newspeople were wrong was overwhelming. And yet her feet must have been buried in ice. The other troopers appeared frozen, as well.

Delia shook her head to get out of the deep freeze. The suspicion surrounding the lieutenant was incomprehensible, but her reaction to it made even less sense. Without her knowing the details of the investigation, or having any proof, her gut reaction was to eliminate him from the suspect list. How could she even call herself a cop? How did she know he wasn’t guilty? What did she even know about him really? Nothing.

The scene shifted on the screen, and Captain Polaski stood next to the reporter in a taped segment.

“Captain Polaski, what can you tell us about the investigation and the independent state investigator appointed to oversee it?”

The commander cleared his throat. “Sorry. I am unable to comment on an active investigation. I can only say that the Brighton Post will cooperate fully with the state investigator.”

“Can you confirm or deny the tip we received that Lieutenant Peterson is a person of interest in this case?”

“Again, I can have no further comment on an active investigation.”

The reporter only smiled. “Captain, then can you confirm if Lieutenant Peterson is the same Ben Peterson, son of Leonard J. Peterson, a—”

“That matter doesn’t pertain to this—”

But she continued as if he hadn’t tried to interrupt her. “—a career criminal, who died in prison after a vehicular homicide conviction involving the death of his own wife.”

Delia stiffened. Had she heard that correctly? Ben’s dad was responsible for the death of Ben’s mother? She was right. She didn’t know Ben at all. She hadn’t even been aware that she wasn’t the only one with ugly secrets. Unfortunately for Ben, his secrets had just been aired for the entertainment of the entire Detroit metro viewing area.

From some faraway place, Polaski repeated the standard response that he couldn’t comment, but silence in the room swallowed the sound. It didn’t matter that the captain cut off the interview right then. The titillating details were already out there, just as the newswoman had planned.

Sergeant Leonetti grabbed the remote and hit the power button, sending the screen back into darkness. The other officers seemed to hold a collective breath, waiting for Ben to respond. Seconds ticked by in the rhythm of Delia’s pulse that pounded in her ears. Finally, Ben turned to the commander.

Polaski held his hands wide. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

Ben only shook his head. “I don’t know where all that’s coming from.”

Although some of the others looked as shell-shocked by the news as Delia was, Lieutenant Campbell stalked angrily toward Ben. When he reached him, he squeezed his shoulder.

“This is shit, Ben. You know we’ll get it cleared up.”

“We’re behind you,” Sergeant Leonetti added.

“Sorry, man.” Trooper Cole paused, clearing his throat, “And, uh, sorry to hear about...the other stuff.”

The others didn’t speak up, pretending not to be watching Ben. Gail swiped a sneaky tear from the corner of her eye.

“Thanks, guys,” Ben said after a long pause.

The hitch in his voice sliced through Delia. She had this irrational, unprofessional urge to gather him in her arms and tell him everything would be okay. What was wrong with her? She not only didn’t know if he was guilty, but she also had no idea whether anything would be okay for him again. She needed to take hold of her emotions before she did or said something stupid.

Polaski looked at Ben and gestured toward the hall. “Guess we’d better talk about this in my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant’s lack of emotion bothered Delia as much as the break in his voice had. Why wasn’t he more upset over what had just happened? Or furious at the reporter for sensationalizing his family’s dirty laundry?

Ben hadn’t looked at her once since the news report had aired, but as he followed his superior officer from the room, he glanced her way. Gone was the laughter that had always danced in his eyes. His gaze was raw now, his glasses only magnifying the bleakness. She’d seen that dazed look in the eyes of accident victims before. Was Ben a victim or just someone shocked that he’d been caught?

Her lips opened as she searched for words of comfort, but none came. His gaze narrowed, and then he lifted his chin, continuing into the commander’s office. The door closed with a final-sounding click.

The others slipped from the room as if driven to the protective havens of their offices or locker rooms. Delia couldn’t bring herself to go with them. Other officers who were just coming on duty emerged from the locker room, the questions on their faces left unanswered.

Delia took a seat at one of the desktops and opened a report she had to complete before she went home. She didn’t want to leave yet. Not without knowing what had happened to Ben. Muffled masculine voices came from the distant office, but she couldn’t make out the words. Though it was none of her business, she couldn’t help herself. She had to know.

Part of her sensed that no matter what Ben was accused of, he was innocent. That it was all a mistake. In the end, he would be cleared, if he was even ever charged. But an unsettling feeling that formed deep inside her brought a truth along with it: she’d been wrong about people before.

* * *

CAPTAIN POLASKI’S OFFICE was smaller than Ben remembered as he settled into the visitor’s seat, the closed door making it feel like a cell. Only this time he was on the inside. Ben brushed damp palms on his trousers, refusing to listen to the voice inside telling him he wouldn’t wear this uniform for much longer. He couldn’t think about that. But he couldn’t stop the pain in his chest, unwelcome hands squeezing it from inside.

How was this happening? One minute everything was good at work—better than it should have been since he’d been manufacturing daily excuses to talk to Delia—and the next minute...this. He focused on the wall, covered by certificates and framed photos of recruit classes, but the images only washed together in a swirl of muted blue. Then the images shifted into a pile of twisted metal and shards of glass. The screams. Pain everywhere at once. So much blood. The relief, then the guilt, of realizing it wasn’t his blood.

No. He blocked the backward journey of his thoughts. He forced himself to breathe. Even if none of what was happening tonight made sense to him, these were different news stories than those from his memories, about different crimes with a different suspect. Namely him.

He shifted at the sound of the door opening. Captain Polaski squeezed past him, shutting the door and settling into the seat behind the desk. Ben leaned forward, toward what he hoped would be answers, but his boss didn’t fill in the blanks quickly enough.

“Do you know what they were talking about out there?” Ben gestured toward the squad room. “Because I don’t.”

“No,” Polaski said, but his nod contradicted his words. “I would’ve guessed you didn’t.”

“Well...”

“I’d been hearing murmurs for a few weeks, but I didn’t know any of the specifics until today.”

Meaning either he hadn’t been told who was being investigated, or he hadn’t been given details of the allegations. Polaski knew all of those things now if that closed brown file he kept touching on his desk was any indication.

Ben stared at the file, willing it to open, until his boss’s words filtered in. He looked up. “Wait. Weeks?”

“As I said, we didn’t have the specifics.”

Those words Ben accepted with a nod, no matter how frustrating they were. Of course Polaski couldn’t share information about a possible investigation. He knew that. So why was Ben taking it so personally that he hadn’t? His boss couldn’t exactly tell him, Yo, dude, keep your head low.

“So what’s it about? The reporter said something about evidence tampering and theft.”

“That’s right. You know how we’ve been making more drug arrests in Oakland and Livingston counties over the past few years?”

“Yeah. The numbers are up.”

Polaski held his hands wide. “Well, strangely, our conviction rate has barely risen.”

“How can that be?”

“That’s what state officials wanted to know when they started looking at our arrest records.”

Instead of asking more, Ben crossed his arms and waited for the captain to explain.

“They wanted to figure out how the drugs confiscated during traffic stops kept disappearing before trial,” Polaski continued. “How dirtbags were getting off scot-free when the arrests were clean. What they found were several discrepancies involving our evidence room. Someone’s been messing around with the evidence if not removing it altogether.”

Someone like him? As he considered the likelihood of that, Ben started shaking his head. “What does all of this have to do with me?”

“Do you remember what a common denominator is from elementary-school math? Well, you’re it. You signed off on the evidence chain in several of the cases in question. Investigators are still looking at the other cases, though.”

“But my name could be found on hundreds of evidence chains.” As soon as the words were out of Ben’s mouth, the reality of them hit him squarely in the head. He’d been set up. How? Why? By whom? And again...why?

“I can’t be the only officer who signed off on those pieces of evidence.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said that. Even if someone had set him up, how could he wish for one of his friends to be falsely accused just so he could avoid the headache of it? That was further proof that he was no hero, if anyone had ever been fool enough to consider him one in the first place.

“So far, you’re the only common denominator.”

This time Ben nodded. The last thing he needed to do was make this worse. “You do know I would never do anything to help drug dealers, don’t you? Never.”

“I know,” Polaski said simply.

But did he know? Did any of them? Sure, they’d all spoken words of support, but were they all looking at him with the same suspicion they did a suspect in custody? Unlike in the court system where defendants were considered innocent until proven guilty, guilt was never ruled out until suspects were cleared.

“With my dad...” he began but let his words trail away. His family’s story of addiction and tragedy was hardly news to those who’d been around the post for a while. Drugs had stolen too much from his life for him to ever see them in any way other than black-and-white.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that part.” Polaski frowned. “I didn’t pick up on where the reporter was headed with her questions quickly enough. She was determined to get those juicy details out there no matter what I said.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“But the other...” He touched the file again. “You understand that we’ll have to cooperate fully in this investigation, right?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“With as much scrutiny as police departments have been under lately, we can’t afford to allow any suspicion that we’re showing favoritism. We have to conduct this investigation completely by the book.”

Something about the way Polaski said it made Ben shift in his seat. “You’re not saying that you’re putting me on a desk job, are you? Because, uh, I already have one of those.”

Instead of picking up on his attempt to lighten the mood, the commander shook his head. “No. But I am going to have to put you on paid administrative leave.”

“Leave?”

“I need you to stay away from the post while state investigators are digging around here.”

“But, Captain, you can’t do that.” Ben’s eyes widened just as his boss’s narrowed. “I mean if you do this, I won’t have any way to prove my innocence. Someone has set me up, and I need to figure out who. I won’t have any access to LEIN or any of the databases to investigate.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near LEIN or anything else in this investigation.” He shook his index finger at him, losing patience. “Stay out of it. Let the system work.”

Ben nodded, his acceptance settling heavily inside of him. He’d said the same thing to suspects who’d claimed to be innocent. Only now could he truly understand their skepticism. The system didn’t always work. Not for everyone. With the possibility of serious charges hanging over his head, could Ben afford to trust the system with his freedom?

“Yes, sir.” He pushed forward in his seat, intending to stand.

“Relax, Peterson.” Polaski stood first. “Think of it as a vacation. Do some things around that project house of yours.”

“I’ll try” was all he could manage.

“And we’ll take care of the rest.”

It was the commander’s way of saying they would look for the truth, no matter what it was. He wouldn’t promise any more than that, and Ben would never expect him to. A fierce commitment to justice was something the two of them shared.

“Thank you, sir.”

Pulling open the door, he started down the hall. At least no one was still in the squad room as he made the walk of shame to the locker room and then to the parking lot. Even Delia was finally gone, which was probably good. He wasn’t prepared to see her right now, especially not with accusation in her eyes.

He scanned the half-filled water bottles and coffee-shop cups spaced around the room, suggesting that the others had left in a hurry. As much as he appreciated his fellow officers giving him space, the empty room made him feel abandoned. He was so used to being able to count on his Brighton Post family. And now that he was in trouble and could use a little help from his friends, he no longer knew who his real friends were. He cared about these people, would lay down his life for them, but he couldn’t escape the truth that one of them had targeted him.

Yesterday, he was surrounded by friends. Part of the only real family he’d had in years. Today he’d never felt more alone.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”

Delia tried not to bristle at the way he asked the question. She couldn’t blame him for wondering, though. Not when she was asking herself the same question as Ben Peterson stared out at her through the narrow opening of his front door. Make that frowned out at her, squinting behind his glasses.

Okay, it was too early in the morning by ordinary standards for her to show up on anyone’s doorstep, especially his. An address she wouldn’t have known without snooping in personnel records. But it didn’t seem too early to be there when she’d been up all night repeating the reasons she should steer clear of Ben. And the logical case for keeping her nose out of his current situation altogether. She’d lost the arguments around sunrise and hadn’t been able to wait another minute to do something she would regret.

Ben clearly wasn’t happy to see her. His hair stood at odd angles, at least to the degree possible with a cut so short. Blue flannel pajama bottoms showed beneath his navy bathrobe, and a pair of what had to be freezing bare feet peeked out from those. She definitely did not notice that he was bare-chested beneath that cinched bathrobe or wonder if that tiny tuft of chest hair at the opening was as soft as it looked. And she absolutely wasn’t imagining how he would look if that belt magically untied and how it would feel to press herself against all of that skin.

Delia blinked. Despite the chill, her cheeks burned. She’d never had thoughts like that, and starting to have them now would be a worse idea than even coming here was. So she pushed the images away, refusing to acknowledge the warmth that had spread from her face to her neck and downward.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she managed and then dampened her suddenly dry lips. “I mean...uh... Ben.”

He crossed his arms and rubbed one foot against the other, probably to fend off frostbite. She was shivering just standing on his porch with a full armor of winter gear.

“Well, are you going to answer my question?”

She gripped the rickety handrail tighter with her gloved hand and shifted forward, the wood creaking beneath her boot, her step smearing the pristine dusting of snow.

She didn’t do things like this, either. She didn’t bend rules, let alone break them. For anyone. Yet these days she was breaking them like it was her job. Too bad the career that meant everything to her was what this sabbatical of her good sense could cost her. Forget hunting child predators, if this didn’t go well, the only thing she would be tracking down was a good spot in the unemployment line. As if sticking her neck out wasn’t foolish enough, she was doing it because of a feeling that Ben might be innocent. A vague notion that was in no way based on fact. Feelings and hunches didn’t belong in a solid criminal case. Or in her life.

“I just wanted...” Delia let her words fall away because she didn’t really know what she wanted or why she couldn’t follow her own advice to stay away.

“Well, you shouldn’t be here. Didn’t Polaski tell you that?”

He studied her, his gaze so narrow his eyes had to hurt. Little red lines snaked out from his irises, and purple half-moons had settled beneath his lower lashes, suggesting that the game he’d played last night had involved too many bent-arm throws. His liquor-store-Dumpster cologne confirmed her suspicion. This was so unlike the man she’d thought she knew. But then the responsible man who’d nursed just one beer at the Driftwood was the same one who’d neglected to mention that his father was convicted in his mother’s death. Could he also have failed to mention ties to a suburban Detroit drug ring?

“Oh, he told us. He was pretty clear.”

“Then why would you—” Ben stopped and sighed. “Well, I guess this is going to take a while. You might as well come in. Can’t afford to heat the outdoors.”

Heating bills would be the least of his worries if he faced charges in the state probe, and they both knew it, but neither bothered saying so.

Just as Ben pulled the door wide, a gust of wind dumped a few dozen snowflakes on the wood flooring in the entry. Delia grimaced at Ben’s automatic frown as she stepped into the place she never would have imagined him living. It appeared to have been decorated in Early Floral Explosion, from the dated wallpaper and the welcome mat to the wreaths and swags on the walls near the staircase.

Closing the door, Ben rubbed his hands together. He didn’t bother offering to take her coat. Clearly, she wasn’t staying. Delia pulled off her hat anyway, hating that she worried about the static in her hair. What did she care what he thought? She wasn’t here to impress him.

“Well? I don’t have all day.”

“Another appointment with a bottle?” She immediately regretted stating the obvious. Still, if she found the word hangover in the dictionary, she would find a selfie of Ben in his present state next to it.

His jaw ticked, but he shook his head. “It was a rough night.”

“I see that.”

Instead of answering, he tromped away through a formal living room that was every bit as much of a flower garden as the entry. She had no choice but to keep standing on the doormat as chunks of snow dropped off her boots. She was starting to sweat, so she unbuttoned her coat, but left it on. She couldn’t risk startling him and having him throw her out before she’d had her say.

He passed through a doorway into what was probably the kitchen and returned several seconds later, a drink in his hand.

She shook her head. “I don’t need anything. Thanks.”

“It’s not for you.”

He opened his other hand to reveal a pair of white pills, popping them in his mouth and chasing them down with his drink.

“Oh. Right.” Her gaze caught on the inch of clear liquid in the glass. Could it have been...? He jiggled his hand so the liquid swished.

“Water. Want to smell it?”

“No. Thanks.”

He grimaced. “Stop shouting, okay?”

Her lips lifted. “I wasn’t.”

Even so, he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he pinched the bridge of his nose as if pressing against a monster headache.

“I don’t know why I thought that would help last night. It’s not a regular thing for me.”

“I didn’t figure.”

He studied her as if trying to decide if he believed her. “I knew better.”

The poor guy did look miserable. Delia could relate to that next-day pain and regret. She’d allowed social lubricants to help her make poor decisions a few times. Ben had been drinking alone, though. And she knew what it was like to feel truly alone. Without anyone in her court. She wouldn’t wish that black hole of the spirit on anyone. But the temptation to reach out to Ben, offering comfort and a soft place to land, that was new and disconcerting. And wrong. Did she need a bigger sign that it was a mistake to come here?

She cleared her throat. “Cut yourself some slack,” she managed to say. “It was a bad night.”

“Why would you say that? You don’t cut anyone slack.”

“I guess not.”

At first she was surprised that he’d noticed that detail about her, but it was hardly a secret. She’d never been comfortable with the grays in life or in the law. Not when black and white were purer neutrals, without the untidy smears of mixing paint. As for breaks, she hadn’t met many people who deserved one. And she certainly had never been given any.

They weren’t here to discuss her, though, so she stepped out of her boots and padded away from the mat in her heavy socks to get a better look into the living room.

“So...nice place.” She turned back to him. “Funny, though, it doesn’t seem to match you.”

“As if you know me so well.”

She pressed her lips together. How could she answer that when the information she’d learned in the past twenty-four hours had suggested that she didn’t know him at all? Why hadn’t he told her about his parents? Of course, she had no right to expect him to confide in her when she’d shared nothing with him.

“It was my grandparents’ house. They raised me.” He glanced around the room as if trying to see it through her eyes. “Grandma liked flowers. A lot.”

He wasn’t kidding. Petals and stems showered the drapes, the throw pillows, even the settee. Ben Peterson owned a settee?

“Haven’t gotten around to updating the place since they passed,” he said.

When had they died? Recently? Had they passed away years apart or close together? She had so many questions, but none of them had anything to do with why she’d come today, and she couldn’t get sidetracked.

“Hey, it was nice of you to stop by to see if I was okay. I am.” Ben’s gaze lowered to the glass in his hand. “Well, relatively. You must’ve drawn the short stick if they sent you here. Vinnie cheats, you know. You can tell him I said so.”

“Can’t do that. Nobody knows I’m here.”

“They didn’t send you?”

“That would be a no.”

“Then what’s going on, Delia? Tell me why you’re here. If you need to gloat, could you save it for another time? I’m not up to it today.”

She couldn’t fault him for thinking such a thing. Not so long ago, it wouldn’t have been far from the truth.

She took a deep breath and dove in. “Look, I’m here because I want to help.”

“Not a good idea. I don’t need—”

“Help?” she finished for him. “Oh, you’re going to need help all right.”

“I was going to say...pity.”

Of course he would hate that. She waved away his suggestion with a brush of her hand. “That’s good because I wasn’t offering any.”

But Ben kept shaking his head. It was probably emasculating enough for him to accept help from her, but pity? That had to be like ripping his Man Card to shreds.

“What I am offering is the chance to have someone working with you, but on the inside.”

“I can get answers,” he insisted. “I’ll just have to be more...creative.”

“Creative? You’re going to have to be a freaking magician to do this on your own. A crime has been committed here whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Someone is guilty. If you claim it isn’t you, then who is it?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was on a roll. She couldn’t stop now, not when she hadn’t yet convinced him to let her help. She couldn’t slow down long enough to ask why it was so important to her, either. What would she say? That it was the right thing to do? That he’d tried to help her, too? That he seemed to be a good man? It was more than any of those things alone, but she couldn’t tell him that.

“Stuck at home, you won’t have access to the databases to help you clear your name. Technically you shouldn’t be accessing LEIN for personal use, anyway, but—”

“No, but—”

“And how will you observe the other officers while at home in your bunny slippers?”

“I’m not.”

“Wearing bunny slippers?”

She glanced down and was surprised to find that he was no longer barefoot. At some point, probably while he was in the kitchen, he’d put on old hiking boots, their well-worn leather etched with the hard work of their rugged, capable owner.

The jolt that shot through her system was so sudden, so unexpected, that she was surprised she didn’t land on the floor. Forget the heat in her face earlier—she was warm all over now. Even in places where heat wasn’t allowed, she simmered like a teakettle just getting started.

“What?” He stared down at his boots. “The floor’s cold.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Had it been anyone else reacting this way, she would have called it lust, but that wasn’t a word she’d ever applied to herself. And over a pair of work boots? Or did it have more to do with the man wearing them? Either way, it needed to stop. She didn’t have feelings like that. Not for anyone, but especially not for a coworker.

When she looked up again, Ben was shaking his head.

“Listen, Polaski told me to stay out of it and let the state investigators do their job. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Any remnants of her unacceptable thoughts evaporated with that comment.

“Pfft!” When he lifted his chin, she continued, “Sorry, but are you planning to wait until the cell door locks with you on the inside before you advocate for yourself?”

“Well...”

“Then do you believe that justice always prevails? Well, it doesn’t.” She shook her head harder than was necessary, but then not everyone knew how malleable justice was when tapped with the tools of money and power. “Just tell that to those who’ve been wrongly found guilty and sentenced to Death Row. To the one hundred and fifty of them who’ve been exonerated and released since 1973.”

“I never said I wouldn’t check out a few things.”

“So at least now I know you were lying to me before?”

Ben opened his mouth and then shut it again. Had he forgotten that it was part of their job to separate the truth from the bull?

“Either you’re too proud—and dumb—to accept help or you just don’t want it from me.” She held up her hand to stop him when he tried to argue. “But the way I see it, you don’t have many options. I didn’t notice your other friends lined up out there offering to help you.”

She indicated the front porch, refusing to wonder whether he’d thought of her as a friend instead of only the subject of his teamwork experiment.

“How do you know some haven’t already called?”

“Have they?”

“Scott did. I told him to stay out of it.” He shrugged. “He has a wife and five kids.”

“And the others?”

He lifted his chin and pinned her with his gaze. “Maybe they’re not used to disobeying direct orders from a superior. Maybe they’re not in the habit of acting alone.”

“Are you saying that I am?”

Instead of answering, he waved around her to indicate her presence in his house.

“You might have a point.”

Ben took a deep breath, puffing up his cheeks and then releasing it slowly. “Okay, I admit I’m at a disadvantage to find the information I need. But I can’t ask you to risk your career to help me.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why did you?” But then he didn’t give her time to answer. “How do you know I’m not guilty?”

That was definitely the question of the day. He looked away from her as if it didn’t matter to him how she answered. Oh, it mattered, all right. She hated that she couldn’t tell him what he needed to hear: that she believed he was innocent. But she couldn’t do that. Not when she didn’t know for sure yet that he was.

If only she could announce her fervent support for him the way the other troopers had right after the news segment. But she wasn’t built that way. She needed proof. Police reports and lab evidence reports were like the building blocks of her constitution, and proof was the glue bonding them together. Indisputable proof. She had to have it.

That Ben Peterson even tempted her to step away from what she knew and trusted scared her more than any domestic or shots-fired call ever could. At least with them she had guidelines to follow.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “Are you guilty?”

Something raw flashed in his eyes. Then it was gone. But the mask of nonchalance he used to replace it was something she understood.

“No, I’m not guilty.”

“Neither are most of the suspects I’ve arrested. At least the way they tell it.” It was supposed to make him laugh, but he only pressed his lips into a grim line. “Anyway, you don’t know if I’m the one who set you up, either.”

He studied her for several seconds. “I guess I don’t.”

“Then we’re even.”

Where her previous attempt at humor fell flat, this one must have rubbed his funny bone because he grinned for the first time since she’d arrived.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Only one of us is on a paid holiday of sorts and has been banned from the place he’s been working for ten years.”

“More time to watch cooking shows.”

“Why cooking shows?”

“Well, that’s what I’d do. I like to cook,” she said with a shrug. “I record the shows and watch them after work. They’re my secret addiction.”

He smiled again. “I guess everyone has a few secrets.”

Delia only nodded. He was probably just talking about the shows and about her being a rule breaker, but his comment unsettled her just the same. She knew his secret about his family now. But he didn’t know her secrets, the ones she’d kept so carefully walled off that they seemed like someone else’s life.

She’d never told anyone. She’d never even been tempted to. And yet this reluctant hero, who just might have been moonlighting as an accomplice to a ring of drug dealers, tempted her to hammer through the brick and mortar and let her secrets pour out. Of all the things that scared her about helping Ben Peterson, that one terrified her most.

That truth, and the fact that they’d run out of things to say, had Delia buttoning her coat and slipping her gloves back on. She moved past him toward the door. “I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

At his nod, she opened the door and stepped through it.

As she took a few steps toward her car, he called after her, “Are you gonna tell me why you’re going to all of this trouble?”

The many reasons rushed into her thoughts at once. This was Ben, who’d made an effort to help her. And he was alone right now. If only someone could have helped her when she was alone. Anyone.

But as she turned back to him, she chose only one of the reasons. “It’s the right thing to do.”

He nodded as if accepting her words this time. “But then we both know how seldom people do the right thing.”

Delia just stared at him. He was probably just talking about how in their career they often saw people at their worst. But it seemed like more than that. Did he know about her? How could he? Did she want him to know?

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