Was she plagued by the same disturbing attraction he felt?

Or was he the only one whose equilibrium was being tested by forbidden urges? Somewhere along the line, Josh’s protective feelings and aesthetic appreciation for Professor Rachel Livesay had gotten tangled up in a sexual tension that was at once irresistibly intriguing and damnably inconvenient.

His physical response to her had been tempered by the absolute awe of learning the elusive differences between her pregnant body and the body of any other woman he’d known. There was a vulnerability about a woman whose normal state of grace had been altered by the fragile miracle of life growing inside her belly. Everything about her seemed like femininity intensified.

He’d wanted to touch her belly, feel the life within her.

He’d wanted to kiss her.

Oh, boy. Talk about blowing his cover!

The Rookie
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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

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

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Josh Taylor—His youthful smile and irresistible charm make him a natural for infiltrating a meth ring on campus. Will his assignment put his pretty professor in even more danger?

Dr. Rachel Livesay—Eight months pregnant and on her own—just the way she’s planned it. Until someone threatens to take away her baby. She turns to a younger man for protection. But can she risk turning over her heart, as well?

Dr. Simon Livesay—Rachel’s ex-husband and former business partner. Once he cheated on her. Now he wants to replace her.

David Brown—He didn’t take kindly to being kicked out of the good doctor’s class.

Dr. Curt Norwood—He and Rachel were old friends from college.

Dr. Andrew Washburn—His sperm bank offered only the finest in father candidates and promised the utmost discretion.

Kevin Washburn—What secret was the lonely young man hiding?

Lucy Holcomb—Rachel’s troubled client knew what it was like to lose a baby.

AJ Rodriguez—The wounded cop owed Josh a favor. #93579—The not-so-anonymous father of Rachel’s baby.

For Marilee Mathine.

A good friend and co-worker for many years, and the unofficial goodwill ambassador for St. Paul Public Schools.

Thank you for all your support in both teaching and writing. Thanks for fielding those phone calls. Thanks for easing my stress and sharing my excitement.

May good fortune and good health be your lifelong friend.

With thanks to the Kiss of Death ladies

(the Mystery/Romantic Suspense Chapter of RWA)

for answering my research questions with expertise and enthusiasm.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

Joshua Taylor hunkered down behind the stack of crates in the old warehouse, alternately scanning the shadows for signs of movement, and eavesdropping on the soft yet tense conversation playing into the receiver wedged inside his ear.

His black slacks and fur-collared uniform blended into the night. The only signs that might give away his presence were the shiny brass badge pinned above his heart, and the sleek bulk of the steel pistol he gripped between his leather-gloved hands.

“You told me you could deliver.” That was A. J. Rodriguez, at one time the partner of Josh’s older brother, Cole. He’d been masquerading for the past three weeks as a drug dealer trying to move his business into Fourth Precinct territory. “And now you want to short me twenty bags when I come with my arms—and my briefcase—wide open?”

“It’s risky, putting my faith in new neighbors.” That cranky, drug-damaged voice belonged to Randall Pittmon. He’d been in and out of jail more times than Josh had taken a date to the local amusement park—and that was saying something. That ageless scumbag was going down for the count this time, though. No misdemeanor charges. No plea bargains. This was a major bust.

As soon as Randall put his cards on the table. Cards filled with street-ready methamphetamine. Vacuum-packed crystals ready to smoke or melt down to inject. The same kind of home-brewed high that had taken one of the kids he coached at the local gym last month.

Josh swallowed his impatient huff and shifted his position. The concrete floor was chilling his butt, and this guy wanted to philosophize! Josh turned his chin toward the microphone clipped to his shoulder strap and whispered, “Does anybody else think this guy’s stalling?”

“Maintain silence, Taylor.” That would be Lieutenant Cutler.

Josh nodded in lieu of a yes, sir, and peered into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the location of the other uniformed officers who’d been assigned as backup for A.J. and Cutler’s men. No one. Nothing. He was stuck like a frog at the bottom of a mud-hole, blindly waiting for the predator to strike. Able only to listen and wait for Cutler’s command.

One day soon he’d make detective, and he could take the lead on cases like this one. At age twenty-eight, he was ready for it. He’d passed the test. He had the college degree. He had the experience under his belt.

What he needed was a different last name.

Being the baby of a large brood of law enforcement brothers, he had an almost legendary reputation to live up to. Proud as he was of his family’s accomplishments, he found it hard to measure up. He couldn’t just be a competent patrolman with a decent arrest record. He couldn’t just have good instincts on the street. He had to be better than anybody else up for the new detective slots in the Fourth Precinct.

He had to walk a fine line between taking orders and taking risks, and prove that he was the best.

A.J. tried to urge Randall into a decision. “My offer’s not going to be on the table much longer. If you have the goods, deal. If not, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Definitely stalling. Josh rolled over onto the balls of his feet and crouched low, maintaining his cover behind the crates. He ventured a whisper, almost touching his lips to his mike. “Lieutenant.”

Josh ignored the lieutenant’s succinct curse and reported what his ears and his gut told him, even if his eyes couldn’t see it. “Pittmon’s waiting for a third party. Does A.J. know that?”

Detective Rodriguez had been thoroughly searched by Pittmon. So there were no wires on him. And no weapon. At least, none that Pittmon knew of. A.J. might be a sitting duck.

Josh’s earpiece crackled as another officer came on the line. “I’ve got a blue pickup coming in the back. Local plates. I’m running ’em now.”

Cutler swore for all of them. “Anybody got a clear view of what’s going on? Pittmon just stepped out of the camera shot.”

Josh tuned out the roll call of reports. He slipped to the end of the stack of crates and pressed his belly flat to the floor. Turning the bill of his KCPD cap to the back of his short, dark-blond hair, he made himself point man to A.J.’s backup. Keeping himself aligned with the shadows, he inched forward just enough to get a bug’s-eye view of unfolding events.

“Pittmon’s headed toward the garage door,” Josh reported, his deep voice barely a whisper. “A.J.’s at the desk. The only package is the briefcase with the money. Wait. Somebody’s coming in.”

The buzz of voices in his ear fell silent. Randall laughed and swatted the third man on the arm as he walked in. The new man was smaller in stature. He wore jeans and sneakers.

And a letter jacket.

“Crap. It’s just a kid.” A slew of other, choicer, more damning curses filled his brain. Josh pushed them out of his mind, along with the image of Billy Matthews’s strong young body lying still on the gym’s hardwood floor. No spasms. No sweats. Nothing. He just dropped like a stone. Josh could suddenly hear his own rapid breathing, his heart pounding as it had that day. “The kid’s about eighteen. I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

Neither could A.J., it seemed. Calm as always, the compact, muscular detective rose to his feet. “Is there a problem?”

“Bingo on the plates.” An officer from the command-post van chimed in. “Tyrone Justiss. He’s on probation from juvie hall.”

Not for long, thought Josh.

“Do you have it or not?” A trace of impatience filtered into A.J.’s voice.

“Yes, sir.” Tyrone received a nod from Randall and carried the nylon sports bag to the table. “Right here.” The teenager unzipped the bag and pulled it open, displaying the shrink-wrapped blocks of pure meth with all the pizzazz of a game-show model.

Oh boy.

Josh chomped down on his anger and started counting off the seconds in his head until A.J. was clear and they could apprehend Pittmon. And the kid.

Didn’t the teen know what he’d gotten himself into?

“Looks good to me.” A.J. had inspected the goods and closed the bag. He slung it over his shoulder. “Next time, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Next time, don’t be so quick to make yourself at home in my backyard.”

When Pittmon reached inside the front of his jacket, Josh’s senses went on full alert. “Gun!”

The next few seconds unfolded with the heart-stopping clarity of a slowed motion picture snapping by, frame by frame.

Randall squeezed the trigger. A.J. twisted his shoulders, grunted with the impact of a bullet and sailed back into a stack of shipping crates. A spray of police bullets cut the old desk in two and chipped up concrete at Randall’s feet.

As Josh charged, the kid pulled a Saturday-night special from his pocket. He pointed the revolver at A.J., then at Josh. Sweat popped out on the kid’s forehead as panic swept across his face.

“Drop it.” Josh approached the youth, their guns facing off like an old-fashioned showdown.

“Drop your weapons!” Lieutenant Cutler joined the swarm of officers surrounding Pittmon.

Seeing the wisdom of surrendering when he was outnumbered, Randall set his gun on the floor and raised his hands. In a matter of seconds, he was facedown on the concrete, wearing a set of handcuffs.

But the kid started to backpedal. “I ain’t goin’ back!”

“Drop the gun before somebody shoots you,” warned Josh.

“You gonna shoot me?” he challenged, his eyes darting like a cornered animal’s, his gun trained on Josh’s chest. “I’ll shoot you first.”

A TAC team officer, dressed in black from his cap to his bullet-proof vest to his boots, circled behind the kid.

Josh took his right hand off his gun and tried to placate the teenager. Using only his eyes, he urged the officer to move aside. The kid was already on the edge. Any sudden move, and he might just make good on his threat to pull the trigger.

Then the rest of hell would break loose and the kid would end up dead instead of in jail.

“Give me the gun,” Josh urged in a quiet, firm voice. “Hand it over and you won’t get hurt.”

Something alerted the kid to the other officer’s presence. “Hey!” He whirled around.

Josh lunged, catching the youth by the wrist and twisting his arm upward. The shot pinged off the exposed steel beams of the warehouse ceiling and landed with a thunk in a crate somewhere.

In a matter of heartbeats, Josh had the kid pinned to the floor. His gun was safely tucked in the back of Josh’s belt. The TAC officer plus two more men had their rifles trained at the boy’s prone figure.

“Back off,” Josh ordered, as if he had the right to give an order to three superior officers.

“Taylor!” Lieutenant Cutler. Josh snapped his cuffs around the boy’s wrists and exhaled a weary breath. He knew what was coming.

“Don’t argue with these men,” Josh whispered in the youth’s ear. “I just saved your life.”

“Don’t do me no favors.”

So much for gratitude. While the TAC team officers carted off the kid, Josh climbed to his feet, holstered his gun and straightened his cap before facing Cutler.

“I told you my men had point on this. Your job was to back up and secure the perimeter.”

“I was protecting the kid.”

The older man planted his hands on his hips and glared up at Josh. “He’s just as guilty as Pittmon. His gun is just as deadly.”

Josh stood a head taller than Cutler. He shook the tension from shoulders that were twice as broad. He felt annoyingly chastised, but the man was right. He had acted on the instinct to protect, rather than the task assigned to him. “Yes, sir.”

“Go easy on him, Lieutenant.” Antonio Josef Rodriguez eased his way into the conversation. He pressed a bloody compress to the wound at his left shoulder. With a nonchalance that betrayed neither pain nor gratitude, he nodded toward Josh. “Taylor here probably saved my life.”

Cutler’s nostrils flared as he considered A.J.’s remark. “I suppose that’s another debt of gratitude we owe the Taylors.”

Josh let his gaze travel from the unemotional support in A.J.’s golden gaze to the flash of sarcasm in Cutler’s baby blues. “Just doing my job, sir.”

It was all he’d ever wanted to do.

Now if the old guard at KCPD, like Lieutenant Cutler, would just back off and let him do it.

Chapter One

Dr. Livesay,

I’m watching.

I want what’s mine.

The baby you’re carrying belongs to me.

Take good care of it.

Daddy

Dr. Rachel Livesay stared at the snow-speckled piece of paper in her hand. Images of each boyfriend she’d dated through high school and college flashed through her brain. Of course, none of them could be the father. She’d married when she was twenty-five, and, unlike her philandering husband, she hadn’t felt the need to betray her vows with a lover. And since the divorce over two years ago, she hadn’t felt the desire to get that close to any man again.

Or maybe it was just her judgment in men she didn’t trust anymore.

At any rate, Daddy’s message was just a cruel joke. There was no father to speak of, no man who could lay claim to the miracle growing inside her.

“Jerk.” Rachel wadded up the typewritten note she’d found stuck under her windshield wiper and stuffed it into her coat pocket. This was probably just a stupid, tasteless prank. Still, she couldn’t help but survey the dull gray grounds and concrete buildings around her to see if anyone actually was watching.

Though the snow had stopped for the time being, the February morning still held the damp chill of a Missouri winter. The students, staff and faculty members hurrying to their ten o’clock classes from the parking lot and public transports huddled with their chins tucked inside their collars, or were bundled up beyond recognition beneath scarves and hats.

No Peeping Tom’s. No unwanted daddies in disguise.

Rachel shook her head at her own foolishness. Someone was just trying to get a rise out of her. A disgruntled student, no doubt. The set of papers she’d returned at her last Community Psychology class had been less than stellar. True, she’d found a few gems, but she’d also given out Ds and Fs. Including one plagiarized paper titled “Psychoses of Inner-City Youth.”

That’s what this was about. Attack the pregnant professor where it hurts the most. Get your jollies at her expense. “That’ll teach me to challenge them to think beyond my lectures.” She inserted her car key into the lock, exhaling a sigh of relief. “What was I thinking? Expecting them to take notes and read the text.” She raised her eyebrows in mock shock and opened the door, addressing the imaginary student. “Ooh, you got me this time.”

With as much grace as a belly-heavy woman could manage, she bent across the seat and retrieved the stack of lecture notes she’d left inside her Buick. She shifted her balance back over her hips and straightened, relocking the car behind her.

She braced her gloved hand on the roof of the car.

I’m watching.

So much for not letting the note get to her.

A sudden shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature cascaded down her spine. She huddled inside her long, cocoa-brown wool maternity coat and turned to look beyond the Holmes Street parking lot toward the heart of downtown Kansas City.

Someone was watching her.

The creepy sensation sparked along her nerve endings and made her spin around an embarrassing 360 degrees.

The bustling energy of a city campus kept everyone moving quickly along the sidewalks and makeshift shortcuts. Sometimes alone. More often in chatty pairs or small groups whose animated conversations created a cloud cover of sorts in the cold air, preventing her from really making eye contact with anyone.

“Get a grip, Rache,” she scolded herself.

She rubbed her distended belly, cradling her hand against the tender muscles where her miracle baby loved to stretch and kick. “Imagine.” Her voice slipped into that breathy pitch reserved for mothers speaking to their unborn child. “Calling you an ‘it.’ That’s probably why Daddy isn’t doing very well in my class.”

Right on cue, the baby kicked against her hand. Rachel smiled, imagining a shared high-five between mother and infant. Her tension eased on a cleansing breath.

There was no daddy in their lives, she reminded herself, slinging her leather tote over her shoulder and heading toward class.

As far as she was concerned, the father of her baby was 93579. A brown-haired Caucasian with an excellent health record, a high I.Q. and interests in classical music and Jayhawk basketball.

The dark hair and intellectual pursuits were to match her own. The clean bill of health was to prevent any future need to contact the donor of the sperm she’d selected from the Washburn Fertility Clinic.

She’d paid good money to ensure anonymity. That stupid note meant nothing. This was her baby. No one else’s.

It wasn’t the way she’d planned to have a family.

But it was the way it had to be.

JOSH TANNER SAT in the second row of his Community Psychology class and watched his professor, Dr. Rachel Livesay, rub the small of her back. It was a subtle movement done with her left hand, hardly noticeable considering the way her right hand flitted through the air with the grace of an exotic dancer, emphasizing each point she made as she lectured.

He liked watching her mouth, too. Her lips were tinted with a frosty neutral shade of lipstick. They were full and sensual, and moved with the same fascinating grace as her hand, in spite of all the technical jargon and graphic examples that flowed between them. Her eyes were green and almond-shaped, a perfect foil for her dark-brown hair. As rich as a sable pelt, it fell thick and straight to her shoulders in a boxy cut that swung back and forth each time she lifted her face to look at the students sitting behind him, near the top of the banked, theater-style lecture hall.

But the best thing about her was her breasts. Ripe. Full. Sensuous treasures that could fill a man’s hands and spill over into his fantasies.

With the cold of winter, she wore smooth-knit tunic sweaters that emphasized the shape and size and beauty of her breasts.

Josh breathed in deeply, slowly, silently. Savoring the gentle course of heat that raised his body temperature by several scintillating degrees.

His psych professor was a hottie.

A very pregnant, and very off-limits, hottie. Despite the fact she wasn’t wearing a ring on her left hand. He wondered about that last observation. He’d heard that pregnancy drew couples closer together. But Rachel Livesay seemed to be conspicuously alone.

His own sister-in-law had given birth just a few months ago, and Mitch Taylor, his cousin and boss—whom Josh considered his eldest brother—had mellowed considerably. Sure, falling in love in the first place had changed Mitch from a hard-ass workaholic into a much more grounded—though no less tough—precinct commander.

But with the baby… Hell, Mitch and his wife, Casey, had been downright frisky at the family’s Christmas get-together. Always touching. Holding hands. Sneaking kisses. Cooing over their newborn and each other.

Where was Dr. Livesay’s attentive mate? Was her pregnancy the accident of a misguided affair? The leftover burden of a messy divorce? The last memory of a deceased husband?

Why was a woman that beautiful and that smart walking around unattached? He couldn’t imagine any sane man not staking a possessive claim on the mother of his child.

Or those luscious breasts. Those eloquent hands. Those beautiful green eyes. Those come-kiss-me lips.

Stupid bastard.

“Mr. Tanner.”

Josh’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of his alias, as if he’d been caught condemning the unknown father out loud. But no, the professor wasn’t telepathic. And he hadn’t been broadcasting his appreciation with an admiring glance.

Had he?

It still took him a split second to assume the Josh Tanner persona and make himself think like a coed, even after a month and a half of campus life. But without allowing more than a smile of acknowledgment to crease his face, he pulled himself from the politically incorrect yet inevitable trail of his thoughts to listen to Dr. Livesay’s question.

“What do you think?”

Though he’d just turned twenty-eight, he knew a moment of juvenile panic. He broadened his smile until it dimpled on either side, buying himself some time to think. Technically, he’d been paying attention. He just hadn’t been listening to what she was saying. But he was getting better at covering his mistakes. He rolled the dice and gambled that he could fake his way through this.

“I agree with you.”

His answer earned a few snickers from his classmates.

Dr. Livesay shushed them with an upraised hand. Oh, great. What had he just agreed to?

She stepped closer, moving her hand from the small of her back to the curve of her belly. “You think training in classical music and the arts is a way to help young, displaced teens stay away from gangs?”

Josh shifted in his chair, straightening from his slouch. Lady Luck was with him today. He could do more than catch up with the discussion. He took the topic and ran with it.

“Sure. If the arts is something that interests him or her, that’s the way to go. For others it’s sports.” Like the group of teens he volunteered with at his neighborhood youth center. “Some do well helping out younger kids as a mentor or tutor. They like that sense of responsibility.” He braced his elbows on the tiny piece of Formica that passed for a desk and leaned forward. She’d touched on an issue near and dear to his heart. One that had put him in this seat in her classroom in the first place. “There’s no one way to reach every kid. But something clicks with each of them. It’s a matter of finding the time and the patience and the funding to discover and supply that thing that clicks.”

He began to move his hands in the same fluid way she had. “If they have nothing to live for or work toward, then the gangs and the drugs are there waiting for them. They all want to connect with something positive. Unfortunately, the trouble is usually easier to find.”

Too easy, he thought, remembering his other life. The life before this one. The one in which one teenage boy could lie lifeless in his arms and another could damn him for saving his sorry hide. Such a waste. He clenched his gesturing hand into a fist and silently consumed his anger. The grim memories threatened to steal his ability to even fake a smile.

Such a waste.

A smattering of applause and a couple of appreciative whistles gave Josh the opportunity to look around the room. He nodded at the blond girl sitting two desks over. Kelly, he thought she’d said. Nine years younger than he, though she seemed to think he was eligible material—judging by the hooded sweep of her bright-blue eyes. Josh grinned and she giggled.

He looked beyond her, at the end of the aisle, two rows back. Joey King. A long-haired loner who wore his thick nylon parka to class every day.

To Josh’s left, he glanced at David Brown, king of the class, surrounded by two thick-necked jocks, a nerdy-looking accounting major and a changing variety of pretty girls. Today there was a redhead. On Friday, his conquest had been a brunette.

Behind him, probably dozing in the top row, he’d find Larry, Moe and Curly. Okay, so he knew they were really Nathan, Rod and Isaac. But the nicknames fit them only too well.

He was watching them all. Slowly but surely getting to know each student. There were others in the class. He recognized every face. Knew them each by name. But those were the ones he wanted to know better.

One of them he wanted to get to know better than he knew himself.

Because one of them could lead him to a killer.

But not today.

Today he’d do well to keep his cover intact.

“I don’t think I can top that speech.” Dr. Livesay clapped her hands together and commanded their attention. “Don’t forget that Wednesday you have your next quiz. Be sure you’ve read all the chapters and reviewed your notes.”

An answering medley of moans and groans made Josh smile again. He added his own complaint to the chorus for good measure and reached for his backpack to load up his books and pen.

“David?” As the students filed toward the exit, Dr. Livesay singled out the self-proclaimed leader of the class and motioned him down the stairs. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” Judging by the tight expression around her mouth, Josh figured David wasn’t going to like what she had to say. She thumbed over her shoulder toward the door behind the speaker’s platform that led into a wing of smaller, private rooms. “In my office?”

David Brown was a wiry young man in his early twenties with dark-brown hair and eyes. He stood a head shorter than either of his pseudo-bodyguard buddies, though Josh suspected he possessed the explosive strength of a bantamweight boxer. His face was nothing remarkable to look at, but today’s redhead sure seemed clingy. Josh supposed David was heartthrob material in a future-C.E.O. kind of way.

Josh noted the lack of visible tension in the young man’s body. His laid-back nonchalance bordered on rudeness.

While Josh zipped his bag shut and reached for his padded leather coat, David Brown nudged his girlfriend du jour up the stairs and nodded to his linebacker friends.

After Dr. Livesay had gathered her things at the podium and exited through the rear door, the three young men traipsed down the stairs. Before the door closed behind them, Josh noted David’s hand signals to his buddies.

Strange. What kind of college student needed the protection of two oversize jocks stationing themselves like guards at the end of the hallway?

Josh zipped his jacket and lingered a moment, digging into his pockets for the matching black leather gloves. The commonsense warnings of Lieutenant Cutler told him this was none of his business. Curiosity told him otherwise.

Trusting his instincts over his training, Josh grabbed his backpack and hurried after them.

He pushed the locking bar on the door and entered the oldest part of the building, onto which the lecture hall had been added. Sure enough, Jock One and Jock Two were pacing like sentries at the water fountain across from Dr. Livesay’s office.

Boldy testing his theory, Josh walked right up between them and took a drink. They stood their ground as if ordered to do so, instead of scattering to a polite distance.

Josh was definitely sticking around to figure this one out. Stepping back, he pulled his research paper from his backpack and crossed the marble floor to Rachel Livesay’s office.

He had the doorknob turned before Jock One tapped him on the shoulder. “You can’t go in there.”

Jock Two framed him on the opposite side. “Yeah. The professor’s got somebody with her right now.”

Josh grinned his best good-ole-boy smile, pretending he hadn’t heard the threat in their helpful comments. “No sweat. I can wait.”

He sat on a bench beside the office door and evaluated the would-be guards. Intimidating in size, perhaps, but not terribly observant. He’d left the door nudged open a crack to hear what was being said inside. If the twin jocks had the brains to go along with that brawn, Josh would have his hands full justifying his presence. As it was, they dismissed his unassuming slouch and he faded into the woodwork.

“You can’t kick me out of class for that.” David Brown’s too-cool voice shrilled with an unexpected whine from Rachel Livesay’s inner office.

Josh snuck a peek at David’s protective cohorts. They’d heard the same protest. They traded confused glances. Maybe no one had ever challenged their fearless leader’s autonomy before. He gave a mental thumbs-up to Rachel Livesay and whatever law she was laying down.

“Yes, I can.” She raised her volume a notch to command David’s attention. “That’s school policy. Read your handbook.”

“But I need this credit for my major.”

David’s protest was followed by the screech of wood against wood, a chair sliding across a floor. Josh tensed at the sudden, forceful sound. Was it a burst of temper or a defensive maneuver? Was David making a threat? Or was the doc standing her ground?

Either way, he wasn’t supposed to notice. He couldn’t maintain the laid-back demeanor of his cover and show a reaction. He silently counted to ten, waiting for some sign to lessen the impulse to barge in, to Dr. Livesay’s defense, to see if she was all right.

A door swung open inside, making her next words crystal clear. “You don’t understand, David. Plagiarism is a probationary offense that can lead to expulsion from the university. I’m turning you in to the Dean’s Office. You’ll be required to appear before a review board. If you’re lucky, they’ll let you stay in school.”

“We’ll see about that. I’m talking to my advisor. He’ll listen to my side of the story.”

“Do that,” she challenged.

David’s temper seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had flared. “Is that all, ma’am? I need to get to my next class. I assume I should continue my regular schedule until I hear otherwise?”

The outer door to the hallway opened wide, and Josh sat up straight, more suspicious of this sudden mood change than of David’s initial burst of anger. One of the bruisers standing guard at the fountain took a step closer. Josh stood, surreptitiously blocking the young man’s path to the doorway.

“Of course,” Dr. Livesay answered after a slight pause, as if she, too, had noticed the reinforcements heading her way. “Someone from the Dean’s Office will be contacting you.”

“Got it.”

David brushed past Josh and sauntered down the hallway toward the outside exit. He disappeared through the double glass doors. His goons followed close on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness of the marbled hall, Josh heard a small catch of breath.

He turned and looked down at the pale color of Dr. Livesay’s cheeks. Without thinking, he let his gaze slide up to meet hers. Her eyes had blanched to the dull gray-green color of a lake on a sunless winter’s day. The vibrant energy that had animated her during her lecture was absent in the current sag of her posture.

Josh felt his body turning, shifting toward her. She seemed tired, spent, emotionally drained. She looked like she needed a shoulder to lean on right about now. He had two, size extra-large. And he was willing to accommodate her.

But then she broke their mutual gaze and retreated toward her office.

Josh debated a moment, hovering in the open doorway, wondering if he should say something. Worrying that he should stay to make sure she’d be okay after that unpleasant encounter with David Brown.

She stopped and turned. “Did you need something, Mr. Tanner?”

“Uh, no, ma’am. It can wait.”

“Catch the door on your way out, okay?”

“Sure.”

She closed the door to her inner office, dismissing him the way she did the other young teens and twenty-somethings.

And why not? Josh chided himself. If she saw him as a student, and not a fellow adult, that meant he’d created a convincing cover. Besides, she probably had a friend her own age whom she was calling right now. Someone whose sympathetic ear would mean something to her.

Adjusting his bag on his shoulder, Josh turned his back on Rachel Livesay and headed down the hallway.

It felt wrong to turn his back on anyone in trouble. But he had a different job to do right now.

And this time he’d play by Cutler’s rules and get it done right.

A detective’s shield and a lot of innocent young lives were depending on it.

RACHEL LOCKED HER DOOR and sank into her office chair. She stood up again, just as quickly, as the baby protested the change in position.

“Give me a break, little one.” She rubbed at the tender skin on her left side, where the baby liked to wedge her foot up under one of Rachel’s ribs. “Sorry about Mommy’s blood pressure. You know how it flies when she loses her temper or gets upset.”

And that confrontation with David Brown had really upset her. Of course, with her hormones so out of whack, she never knew what was going to set her off. And then there was that damn note.

Rachel blinked and pinched her nose shut, fighting off the salty rush of tears that stung her eyes. She would not let that stupid prank get to her. But she could barely remember what she’d discussed in class today. She’d spent half her time sizing up each student and wondering which one could be crass enough or desperate enough to threaten her precious baby.

The three deadbeats in the back row didn’t seem to have enough brainpower between them to come up with something so devious. No, when she thought of devious, she thought of David Brown. Acting as if she was lucky he’d given her a moment of his time. He knew darn well what the consequences of his illegal actions were, and he had the arrogance to accuse her of persecuting him! And then to walk off as if stealing someone else’s work and claiming it as his own was no big deal. He definitely had the brains and the audacity to threaten someone.

But she’d received that note before he’d learned of his certain probation and possible expulsion. Rachel released her nose and blew out a weary sigh. So much for motive.

She pulled her planner from her bag and read through the names on the class roster. Joey King? He certainly was quiet and mysterious enough, sitting there class after class in his dark coat and never saying a word. He was pulling a C. But at least he was doing his own work. Amber? Kelly? She shook her head. They were more interested in the young men in class than in anything she had to say. In fact, Amber had latched on to David’s arm today. Not the wisest move, in Rachel’s opinion. But a poor choice in men certainly wasn’t a criminal offense.

Rachel laughed out loud and shared the joke with her baby. “If it was, I’d be in jail right now.”

She had fallen for Simon Livesay’s dark good looks that first day of residency at the private psychiatric center in Topeka. After working side-by-side for a year, sharing research and steamy nights of passion, they’d eloped to Las Vegas.

She’d loved his intellect, his sense of humor and his worldly ways.

She hadn’t loved the string of affairs that started before their first anniversary.

With backgrounds as therapists, they couldn’t help but attempt a reconciliation. But ultimately, their marriage had been doomed to failure. She wanted children. Simon only wanted the fun that came in making them.

They’d parted amicably enough, splitting their successful practice and their lives fifty-fifty.

Rachel closed her planner and dropped it onto the desk. She looked around at the spotless organization of her office and drifted to the window. Pressing her hand against the cool metal frame, she looked outside at the bustle. Students hurrying to class. A pair of professors talking intently. There was even a group of young men dodging and diving in the wintertime ritual of a snowball fight.

She turned and faced the empty silence of her office again.

Fifty-fifty. Half a life. That’s how she’d felt for so long.

She cradled the precious being growing within her. She was honest enough to admit that fear of a life half-lived, as much as the loud ticking of her biological clock, had prompted her to visit the fertility clinic. Since she couldn’t trust a man to make her happy, she’d turned to her work, and she’d turn to her baby. They’d have a life together. A safe life. A life full of love, where an adult made a commitment and saw the relationship through, no matter what.

Satisfied with the choices she had made, Rachel ignored the baby’s protests and sat down to review her notes for an upcoming counseling session. Gradually, the chill from outside worked its way into the room. Rachel pulled her coat from the back of her chair and shrugged it around her shoulders.

The comforting rush of warmth reminded her of a similar feeling she’d experienced earlier in the hallway. The idea of a warm hug made her think of Josh Tanner.

The big, brassy-haired student who distracted more than one set of female eyes during her lectures had hovered outside her office. She’d been relieved to find him standing there, strategically positioned between her and David’s buddies, Lance and Shelton. Had she imagined something more than idle curiosity had prompted him to stay and witness the exchange with David Brown? As improper as the thought might be, she’d been grateful that he’d hung around.

David hadn’t actually threatened her. But she’d still felt threatened.

If Josh Tanner hadn’t been there, she would have been alone with David and his friends. That prospect was more unsettling than her fears of simply being alone.

Once David had left the office, she’d felt Josh’s gaze on her. Like that warm hug. In a moment of weak relief, she’d ensnared herself in the bright-blue sky of his eyes. Those eyes had seemed older than they had in class when he’d pulled that B.S. answer out of his hat. They’d seemed kind. Concerned. For her. He’d been concerned for her.

Rachel shook aside the notion before that soft, tended feeling overtook her again. Josh Tanner had been raised right, that was all. The young man had compassion. No doubt she’d projected some damsel-in-distress pheromone that had prompted him to hang around.

Whatever his reason, she was glad he’d been there. For those few brief minutes in time, she hadn’t felt quite so alone. She’d felt safe. She’d almost thanked him. No. She’d almost run into his arms and asked him to hold her. But rational thought had kicked in. Josh was a student. She was his professor, a good fifteen years his senior. It would hardly be ethical for her to turn to him for any personal sort of comfort.

She’d handle this threat—if there really was anything to it—alone. If she could raise a baby by herself, she could handle a disgruntled student. She could tackle a piece of paper stuck on her windshield.

Shoving aside any lingering fears or fantasies, she reached for her planner again and thumbed to the page of phone listings. By the time she’d punched in the number for the Washburn Fertility Clinic, her usual confidence had returned.

It was high time she found out who Daddy was.

Chapter Two

“Dr. Livesay, all due respect, but you don’t know what it’s like to lose a baby.”

Lucy Holcomb sat in the chair across from Rachel, wringing her hands. The twenty-year-old was even more nervous than usual today. Was she still taking her prescribed antidepressant medication? Or was there some new crisis turning the young woman’s life upside down?

Rachel resisted the urge to stand and pace, keeping her eight months of pregnant belly out of Lucy’s direct line of sight. “It’s true I haven’t personally experienced what you’re going through, and I can’t fix it for you. But I can help by listening. Look at all the progress you’ve made so far.”

Lucy tossed her curly chestnut hair over one shoulder and stood to circle the room. Twice. “Ever since the miscarriage, it’s like Kevin and I are fighting all the time. I blame him because he wasn’t around when the contractions started, and he blames me because I didn’t take care of the baby.”

“You know it’s no one’s fault,” Rachel reminded her. “Your O.B. doctor told you as much. There was something wrong with the development of the fetus, and your body handled the situation with a spontaneous abortion. You were progressing with your pregnancy just as the doctor had ordered. Sometimes tragedies like that happen, and, unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“But the guilt…” Tears welled up in Lucy’s eyes and overflowed. “It’s not just grief. I feel so guilty.”

Rachel finally stood and took Lucy a tissue. She leaned her hip against the desk in a casual pose. “That’s normal. You can’t beat yourself up over that. We all deal with loss in different ways. Feel different emotions. This is the way that’s right for you.”

Lucy’s mascara blotched in circles around her big, brown eyes. She blew her nose into the tissue. “But Kevin is so angry with me. Sometimes he’s sad and we cry about it and we talk. Then, next thing I know, he’s on my case over every little thing.”

Her outburst of tears ended on a tiny hiccup. “He says we should have another baby.”

Rachel kept her face a placid mask. Oh lord, two kids barely out of their teens, dealing with the loss of one child, anxious to dive into pregnancy again.

“Do you want another baby?”

“I don’t know. Maybe—if it’s what Kevin wants.”

“What about what you want? I think you and Kevin should talk some more.”

“But that’s the problem. He won’t just sit and talk to me like he used to.” Lucy’s gaze lit on Rachel’s protruding stomach. “Maybe a new baby would make him pay attention to me again.”

“Lucy, you and Kevin have issues you need to resolve before you engage in unprotected sex again.” Creating a new life wouldn’t solve the problems of the existing one. “Would he come in and talk with me?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I could ask him.”

“If not me, I can give you some names of several reputable counselors.”

“Okay.”

Her phone buzzed and Rachel leaned back over her desk to read the number of the incoming call. It was a message she’d been expecting. Rachel stood and smiled at Lucy. They’d run a few minutes over their scheduled time already. “I need to take this. Will you be okay?”

Lucy sniffed. “Sure.”

Rachel urged Lucy to check out the bathroom and freshen her makeup before venturing out to catch her bus. “I’ll see you next week, won’t I? Even if Kevin doesn’t come with you?”

The young woman dredged up half a smile that revealed the beauty in her face and made her seem terribly young to be dealing with such heavy emotions. “I’ll be here.”

“Good. I’ll see you then. Call if you need to.”

“Bye, Dr. Livesay.”

When the door shut behind her patient, Rachel picked up the phone, blaming her tardiness on her laborious walk.

“Andrew Washburn here. You said you had a concern about the confidentiality of your pregnancy?” In person, he was a gruff, blustery man whose snowy-white hair and mustache reminded her of Colonel Mustard from her childhood game of Clue. But on the phone, he betrayed a blend of shock and concern that made him sound more like a doting old father figure. Which was an odd image to spring to mind for a man whose clinic had fathered hundreds of babies.

“Nothing like getting right to the point.” Rachel pulled the wadded-up note from her coat pocket and spread it flat against the desktop. “I received a message this morning from someone calling himself ‘Daddy.’ Basically, he claims that my baby is his, and that he plans to take her from me.”

Dr. Washburn’s response was half laugh, half snort. “What? That’s preposterous. Our donors and clients are completely anonymous, and are never informed as to when or even if their sperm have been used. Their relationship with us ends after their donation has been made.”

Rachel sighed, schooling her patience. “Someone thinks he knows. He says he wants what’s his.”

“I assure you, the clinic is not to blame here.” She heard a sound in the background, like the shuffling of papers or the tapping of buttons on a keyboard. “No one but myself and a few bonded staff members have access to the sperm donors’ names. There is no way a donor could find out if he was the father of your child.”

Rachel twirled her finger into the curling phone cord, wanting to believe him. “Are you sure?”

“The donor’s name isn’t even listed in your file. Here it is. Only the number is recorded. 93579.”

“Can you tell me who 93579 is?” she asked.

Washburn’s laugh this time seemed more genuine. “Now that would be betraying his confidence.”

Rachel couldn’t see the humor in anything that might pose a threat to her baby.

“Tell you what. I’ll cross-reference the donor’s file and see if there’s anything there that would make me suspicious of his having the opportunity to contact you.”

“What would make you suspicious?” Rachel pulled her shoulders back and stood up straighter. Was there a possibility the father knew her? “I thought you screened all your donor candidates.”

“We do. We do. But his social circle might cross yours somewhere that we missed before. Perhaps you let the number slip and he recognized it.”

Social circles, huh? That would require a social life. Of which she had none. Her life revolved around school and her baby. Other than a few solitary errands and her twice-weekly trip to the Y for a water-aerobics class, she spent her time either on campus or at home. “I don’t think so, Dr. Washburn. The donor’s number is nothing I’ve ever discussed with anyone but you. But I’d appreciate any information you could give me.”

“I’ll read through the file and call you tomorrow.” She overlooked the patronizing gratitude in his voice. The man was probably relieved she hadn’t pushed the issue any further.

“Thank you.”

By the time she hung up the phone she felt exhausted. The baby had snuggled into a comfortable position and fallen asleep. But Rachel couldn’t afford to surrender to her own fatigue—be it physical or emotional.

Maybe that note was just a stupid prank perpetrated by one of her students. But she couldn’t afford to just let it slide without checking out every possibility.

Her baby’s future depended on it.

JOSH STIRRED THE SPOON around in his mug of coffee. He hadn’t added any sugar, but it gave him something to do while he waited for his contact to join him at the secluded table of the Bookstore Coffee House, a few blocks west of the UMKC campus.

Almost as if the thought had summoned him, a trim, well-built man with glossy black hair and golden-brown eyes slid into the seat across from him. “So, how’s college life treating you? You flunking any of your classes yet?”

Josh looked up and grinned at A. J. Rodriguez. He was learning to appreciate the undercover detective’s dry sense of humor. He responded in kind. “I’m doing well enough to maintain my self-respect, but not so well that I can’t fit in with the party crowd.”

A.J. sipped on the frothy cappuccino he’d brought with him. “Gotten any invitations yet?”

“Yeah. I’m heading to a party tonight. I’ve been told that if I can find my way into the back room, I can get my hands on more than a free beer.”

His companion nodded. “Good. Remember, don’t push too hard at first. Find out who your friends are. If you do spot some meth, just note who has it and if it’s all for private use or split up for resale.”

Josh shrugged. “I know the drill. I overlook the underage drinking because this is reconnaissance, not arrest time. I’ll do my job. I know Lieutenant Cutler is waiting for me to screw up so he can deny my promotion. Besides the fact I’ve earned that detective shield, I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction.”

A.J. raised his hands in mock surrender. “Cutler rides everybody hard. ‘By the book’ is not always a bad way to go.”

“You follow your own rules and you made detective.” A.J.’s smile flashed bright white against his olive skin. “That’s because I’m a charming Hispanic and the precinct had to meet its quota for ranking minority officers.”

Josh seriously doubted A.J. had ever achieved his successes on anything less than his own merit. But he played along with the joke. “So you’re saying if you had blond hair, blue eyes and your cousin was captain of the precinct, you’d still be walking a beat?”

“If I had blond hair and blue eyes in the neighborhood where I walked a beat, I’d be toast.” A.J. swirled the coffee around in his cup, then changed the joking mood before taking another sip. “I didn’t agree to be your contact with the department just because Cutler assigned me. I’ve got your big brother to answer to.”

“Cole’s not a cop anymore.” A.J.’s gaze followed a pair of girls who walked past, his eyes convincingly glued to their curvy backsides. “You don’t know that.”

“Cole walked away from the force two years ago. He does private security work now.”

“If you say so.” A.J. dragged his gaze back to Josh. The detective had to be in his mid-thirties, but he blended into the scenery with these trendy young students as if he wasn’t a day over twenty-two. Josh hoped his cover was half as convincing.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Josh asked.

The rest of the cappuccino disappeared in one last gulp. A.J. scrubbed the remaining foam from his lips with a paper napkin. “What Cole does now is his own business. But the man was my partner for eight years. Since you’re looking to take his place in the drug enforcement division, it seems a natural step to start watching your back.”

Josh bristled at A.J.’s words. “I’m not taking anybody’s place. I’m making my own.”

A.J. nodded, showing no reaction to Josh’s declaration. “Poor choice of words. I apologize. Cutler can be a controlling SOB, but he’s fair. You clean the meth off this campus, and he’ll give you that promotion.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Josh accepted the apology and support with a teasing smile.

“There are no guarantees in this business.” A.J. slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a number where you can reach me at any hour. The line’s secure.” After he pushed the note across the tabletop, A.J. leaned back and rolled his shoulder. His mouth tightened with a wince of pain.

“Still stiff?” Josh knew A.J.’s wound from the Pittmon bust two months ago had done some muscle damage that would be slow to heal. The fact one of the precinct’s best undercover men was out of commission was probably one reason Josh had gotten this assignment. That, and his youthful, wrinkle-free smile.

“A little. When the weather’s about to change, it gets worse.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “I’m not used to sitting on the sidelines.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call you if I need some backup.”

“You better. I don’t want to have to explain you getting hurt to anyone in your family.” A.J. pulled a stocking cap over his head and stood. “Got any personal messages you want to send out?”

Josh considered the request. “Tell Ma hi and that I’m okay. She worries.”

A.J. nodded. “Where does she think you’ve been these past few weeks? Lying on the beach with some sweet young thing?”

An unexpected image of Rachel Livesay popped into his head. With those kissable lips and expressive green eyes, his psych professor was sweeter than any young thing he’d seen waltz by this table or anyplace on campus. He’d dated a lot of women in his time. But never anyone more than a couple of years older than him, and never anyone who was pregnant.

He wasn’t quite sure how to explain his fascination with the older woman. Maybe it was the fact that she’d been distressed over her run-in with David Brown—and for an instant afterward, they’d connected. He’d waited in that hallway to scope out David. But he’d stayed because Rachel had needed him. She’d needed somebody. At least, he’d thought she needed a friend. And he’d been more than ready to volunteer his services.

“Josh?” A.J. snapped him out of his illicit imaginings and back to the present. “Nah. I told Ma I was at a training seminar in Jefferson City.”

“With some sweet young thing.”

“Right.”

The two men shared the hearty laughter of acquaintances becoming friends.

But A. J. Rodriguez wasn’t the best in the business for nothing. For a moment, the seasoned undercover operative with all those years of experience crept into his expression. “Be careful, Josh. This isn’t the kind of work where you can afford to lose your focus. Wherever your head was a few moments ago, don’t go there again. That’s the kind of distraction that can blow your cover and get you killed.”

An instant later, the street-savvy college kid was back in place. A.J. grinned. “Take care, man.” They touched fists in what passed for a handshake. “Call me at that number to set up a meeting tomorrow. Let me know what you find out tonight.”

“Will do.”

After A.J. left, Josh stirred his coffee again, trying not to compare its color to the rich sheen of Rachel Livesay’s hair. Avoid the distraction of the good doctor? Right. That should be easy enough to do.

All he had to do was imagine the unknown father of her child. The man who had the right to take her in his arms and comfort her.

RACHEL PULLED her bright red, rolled-brim hat down over her ears and stepped out into the cold. Though her body temperature had increased in the past few weeks of her pregnancy, she and her wool coat were still no match for the cold, whipping wind that stirred up the snow from the ground and pitched the tiny, icy flakes into her face.

After her water-aerobics workout and a dinner of salad and breadsticks from a local Italian restaurant, she headed for her brownstone condo just off the Plaza in southwest Kansas City.

But instead of turning in for a night of reading in front of the TV, she’d backed out of her doorway and retraced her steps to her car. She just couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation of unseen eyes learning which condo belonged to her. The unsettling quiet that, instead of offering respite and reassurance, taunted her with the realization that she’d be alone for the night. Completely and utterly alone.

Despite the protests of her weary body, she’d locked the door and drove back to campus. At least there she’d find plenty of people around—studying at the library, attending night classes and departmental meetings, going to play rehearsals and music practices.

But when the night janitor had checked her office to see why the light was still on, she’d joked about losing track of the time. She’d spent the evening grading makeup papers and editing her mid-term exam. But eventually, her baby’s needs spoke louder than her own misgivings. She needed to get home. Maybe splurge on cookies with her nightly glass of milk. She needed to sleep.

As busy as the campus had been at seven o’clock, by midnight the place was nearly deserted. The bitter weather had chased all but the heartiest of souls inside.

Rachel’s teeth chattered and she hugged her arms across the top of her belly, trying to retain her body heat. Snow and cold and damp air were nothing new to a Kansas City winter. They were nothing new to her. But by the time she reached the stand of streetlights bordering the faculty parking lot, she was puffing out quick, tiny clouds of air that warned her that the baby’s round head was pushing against her diaphragm and impeding her ability to breathe deeply.

The baby was also sitting on her bladder. She’d used the facilities before leaving her office, but now she felt like she had to go again! Feeling cold, feeling damp, feeling miserable, Rachel hurried her pace and cut straight across the empty parking lot toward her car.

But she pulled up short and stuttered to a stop when she saw her left rear tire. The blowing snow had drifted around the wheels, but there was no mistaking the distinct lean from the hood to the trunk.

She had a flat tire.

Rachel cradled her belly and jogged the last twenty feet. The tire was flat. Definitely flat.

At midnight. In winter. When she was bone-tired and had to pee.

“Damn.” She tipped her head to the curtain of snow swirling in the circle of light from the streetlamp overhead. “Double damn.”

Then she looked down and rubbed her tummy, apologizing for the frustrated outburst. “You didn’t hear that.”

She looked around for options, pushed back her glove and checked the time, breathed in and checked the temperature. She could phone a tow truck and pay the extra charges for a nighttime call. She’d have to walk back to the building and wait or else she’d freeze. She could call campus security to wait with her until she could leave.

Or she could handle the situation herself.

Strengthening herself with a mental resolve, she unlocked the car and tossed her bag inside. “We’re going to be on our own for a long time, sweetie,” she explained to her unborn daughter. “We might as well practice fending for ourselves now.”

But by the time she’d dug out the jack and the spare, she was breathing hard. Quick, shallow breaths in and out through her mouth. The baby kicked to protest the strenuous exercise, catching Rachel beneath a rib, forcing her to stop and clutch her side until the pain subsided.

But then she resumed her work, jacking up the car as quickly and efficiently as the numbing tips of her fingers through her gloves would allow.

She’d unloaded the jack and had the hubcap off and a couple of lug nuts loosened, before she realized she had company. Three figures, watching her from the shadows like snow wraiths. And then she understood what was really going on. An icy chill shimmied down her spine.

This wasn’t about bad luck. This was about payback.

She locked the tire iron in her fist before pushing herself to her feet and turning to face David Brown and his two thick-necked jock friends.

“Dr. Livesay.” David’s smile was anything but genuine. “Having some trouble with your car?”

Rachel was oddly strengthened by the knowledge that David felt compelled to have backup when trying to intimidate her.

“I suppose if I check the stem, I’ll find a tiny pebble wedged beneath the cap.” She’d heard of the trick to slowly release air from a tire.

“I wouldn’ know about that.” David’s cheeks were flushed pink, as if he’d just come from inside some nice warm vehicle or building. Or worse. She picked up on the slight slur in his voice. He’d been drinking.

Intoxicated meant unpredictable. Rachel was already at a disadvantage. She needed to keep her head and think more clearly than any of these boys could.

“Then, you stopped to help me change the tire?”

“Looks like you’re doin’ jus’ fine on your own.”

Rachel noticed one of the bigger youths moving toward the rear of her car. She jabbed the air with her tire iron. “Stay put. I want all three of you where I can see you.”

David gestured to his friends and himself. His lips pouted and he took on a wounded expression. “We’re not in your class anymore, Doctor. You can’t give us orders.”

She nodded to the two muscle men, Lance Arnold and Shelton Parrish. “I didn’t kick them out of class. You’re the one who stole that paper. I found an exact duplicate on the Internet.”

David’s chatty drunkenness vanished. In its place she caught a glimpse of temper flashing in his eyes, followed by cold, heartless rationality. He pointed his finger at her and advanced. “Maybe you shouldn’t be such a tough bitch.” Rachel backed up against the car, succumbing to a moment of self-preserving panic. “It’s no wonder the guy who knocked you up didn’t stick around.”

“Get away from me!” When David was within arm’s reach, Rachel jammed the tire iron in the middle of his solar plexus.

David clutched his arms across his stomach, doubled over and coughed. Rachel poked him in the chest, nudging him farther away.

“You stay away from me,” she threatened in as succinct and even a voice as she could manage. “I’m calling the police right now.”

“With what?” David’s cough turned into a laugh as he straightened.

Rachel traced his line of sight and glanced over her shoulder, beyond the roof of her car. Distracted by the vile menace of David’s advance, she hadn’t noticed Lance circle around the front of her car. Her book bag—and the cell phone she kept inside—dangled from one big, meaty fist.

Fear—more chilling than the night around her—attacked her from within, robbing Rachel of her false sense of confidence.

The diversion was the opportunity David needed. He snatched the tire iron from her grasp.

Instinctively, Rachel circled her arms around her belly, shielding the most vital part of her from any harm.

David pointed the tire iron right beneath her chin, using it as a lethal extension of his accusatory finger. “I don’t want back in your lousy class,” he said, laying down his version of the law in unmistakable terms. “I just need you to clear my record so I can stay in school.”

“That’s out of my hands, David.”

“Do it.” Cold, cold iron tapped the end of her chin and she jerked away from its frozen touch. “Do it, or you might have to face worse than a flat tire.”

A frisson of anger worked its way through the chill that rooted her in place. “How dare you threaten me. You’re the one who broke the rules. You’re the one who has to pay the consequences.”

“It’s one…stupid…paper!”

His voice flashed with anger augmented by the liquor that still coursed within him.

Oh God. Rachel shivered against the raised fender of the car, shrinking into herself. What had she done? Why had she argued? Why hadn’t she stayed home?

This morning’s cyptic note burned an incriminating hole in her pocket. Because of her stupid paranoia, she hadn’t seen the real danger headed her way. Now she’d put not just herself but her baby in danger.

“David. Please…” For her baby’s sake, she wasn’t above pleading. “Lance? Shelton…?”

“Is there a problem, Doc?”

Rachel’s heart jumped to her throat and collided with her fear. The dark, low-pitched voice had startled David, as well. It was a voice that brooked no argument, a voice that showed no fear.

It was a voice she would never forget or be able to repay.

Her knight in shining armor stepped from the shadows into the illumination from the streetlamp. Josh Tanner. With his black jacket and jeans, he’d been invisible in the shadows. She knew he was six-three or-four, and his broad shoulders required the extra space of an empty seat on either side of him in her lecture hall. But as he stepped into the light, with his feet braced for a fight, his hands hanging in loose fists at his sides, and his blue eyes dark with some unnamed emotion, he looked bigger and tougher than she’d ever seen him in class.

She hugged her stomach, keeping her baby close in her arms, half afraid to trust in the rescue he promised.

“Lose the tire iron, David,” Josh warned.

David’s gaze darted from Lance to Shelton to Josh. The look he spared Rachel was a mix of hatred and smug triumph. “There’s three of us, Tanner.” David’s challenge dangled in the cold, damp air. “And this isn’t any of your damn business.”

“I’ve made it my business,” Josh answered, unmoved by David’s bravado. “Now, are you going to leave with your face intact, or with a bloody nose? The choice is yours.”

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