“I need Angela’s pacifier. It’s in my room. Would you bring it, Regan?”

Regan raced into Ethan’s room and found the pacifier. She saw that his bed wasn’t made and a couple of dirty shirts lay where he’d dropped them. Dust had collected on his dresser. His room had been immaculate before the babies’ arrival. Ethan clearly needed a housekeeper. Or a wife. That last thought pulsed in Regan’s head as she dashed down the hall and handed him Angela’s pacifier.

“Thanks,” he whispered, still rubbing the baby’s back. Smiling up at Regan, he asked unexpectedly, “Have I thanked you for all your help over the past couple of weeks? If not, I want you to know I couldn’t have done this without you. I said I could, but I was wrong.”

He looked and sounded so serious, all Regan could do was nod. She wanted to hug him back and somehow wipe away the signs of fatigue. If only she could turn back the clock—to the last time he’d proposed. She’d accept the second he got the words out. The realization hit her like a load of bricks. She’d just admitted to herself that she wanted to marry Ethan Knight.

And not just because of the babies, either. Not at all…

Dear Reader,

Since I’m blessed with several police officers in my extended family, you might think a “cop story” would be easy for me to write. Not so. You see, my sources come from different aspects of police work—state, county and city bike patrol. Also the SWAT team. While generous with their information, these fine keepers of our peace don’t always agree!

Like many of my books, The Baby Cop began with a couple of small news clippings. In this case, they concernerd horribly abused quadruplets, plus a hiker lost for several days in our mountains. Add to that a lot of library research on Child Protective Services. But the book is wholly a work of fiction. (Up to and including the totally fictitious mention of a not-so-nice group of cops attached to the Phoenix police. Trust me, Phoenix has a super contingent of hardworking officers!) Oh, and I can’t forget Internet research on search-and-rescue dogs.

Any errors or discrepancies are strictly mine.

Cops, babies, dogs—I guess you’ll have to read the story to see how I got all of that to come together in a romance novel. I hope you like the way Ethan Knight and Regan Grant cut through a heap of personal and professional problems to find lasting happiness—the bottom line (so to speak) of what love stories are all about.

I enjoy reading from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731.

Sincerely,

Roz Denny Fox

The Baby Cop

Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

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 ONE

ETHAN KNIGHT tried to block out the chirp of his cellular phone. He’d just gotten to bed after forty-eight tense hours dealing with a hostage situation—armed robber holding a mother and child. He sighed; the inconsiderate caller showed no sign of giving up. Rooting around under his pillow, Ethan found the phone and flopped over so his ear fell across it. “’Lo,” he muttered. His free hand batted at the cold wet nose of his big Alsatian, Taz.

“Sorry to bother you, Detective,” said an anxious voice. “You probably barely hit the sack. It’s Sergeant Vince Paducah. We need you here, man. Our team rolled on a routine nuisance call. We walked into a helluva mess.” The sergeant rattled off a street address and an apartment number.

Ethan reared up from his crumpled pillow and snapped on a light. Before his eyes focused, he’d scribbled the information on the ever-present notepad sitting on his nightstand beside a locked box holding his police revolver. Cursing, he shoved his legs into dirty jeans. “I know that address, Vince. What is it this time? Did Brucie-boy tie one on again and beat the crap out of his poor wife?”

Detective Knight shrugged into his shirt and tucked it into his jeans while reaching for his boots. The caller’s voice dropped. “Way worse. The worst.” Vince uttered a string of codes—department lingo for domestic violence resulting in murder.

Pain exploded in Ethan’s head as his fingers closed around his standard issue Smith & Wesson .38. Damn, his body was getting too old to handle the increase in after-hours cases—especially bad ones like this. “The kids?” he asked softly, trying to quell the flow of acid pumping into his gut. The team might want him ASAP, but Ethan figured he’d have to comb his hair and run a razor over a prickly chin or risk scaring two already frightened children with his wild-man look.

“They’re spooky kids. No hysterics, no tears,” Vince said. “Have you got a good safe place for ’em?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, Ethan pictured a four-year-old girl with huge blue eyes and her stoic six-year-old brother. Two children who’d witnessed more violence in their short lives than any human beings in a civilized society ought to see. Only that was the problem; some people weren’t civilized. Bruce Hammond ranked high among the least civilized SOBs.

“I’ll make some calls on the way, Paducah.” Ethan checked his shield and slid it into a jacket pocket. “I’ll be there inside fifteen minutes.”

“Good.” Paducah expelled a relieved sigh. “My partner said that since Anna M. passed on, you probably don’t have the same deal with the new supervisor. He said to phone the Child Help Center direct. But I’ve heard Anna’s replacement is a regular battle-ax.”

Ethan had received a memorandum announcing that a Regan Grant was taking over Anna’s post. He’d never met this Grant woman, nor would he add to unfounded rumors. He merely grunted a noncommittal response and reiterated his estimated time of arrival as he hung up and stowed his phone in the pocket with his badge.

While he did a cursory shave, Ethan thought about his fifteen-year tenure on Desert City’s police force. For more than half of those years, he’d been called the Baby Cop. It was a nickname that had nothing to do with age but with his far-reaching connections in the city and outlying communities, which allowed him to instantly place kids who needed temporary shelter in loving homes. Homes where the adults cared more about a child’s welfare than the money the state paid every month for that care. Ethan had started by educating his eight brothers and sisters about the need in the community for safe homes. What had begun as a small network expanded over the years to include the families of police buddies and other friends. He’d convinced all these people—anyone of good heart and moral character who could offer a bed, food and TLC to traumatized kids—to license their homes for care. He’d done all this with the assistance and support of Anna M., the previous Child Help supervisor. Although he was a bachelor, even he was approved to provide emergency housing. An erratic work schedule precluded his taking a kid for longer than a night or two, but there had been times he’d used his vacation hours to turn up a safe house for a child.

Ethan’s grandfather, the first Knight to be a cop, had willed Ethan his rambling four-bedroom home. The old man’s charge to Ethan had been to fill the house with a passel of noisy kids. Of course, he’d meant that Ethan produce a family in the normal way. Ethan’s failure there hadn’t been for lack of trying, he frequently assured his nagging parents and siblings. He just hadn’t managed to connect with the right woman.

Running a hand over a now-clean jaw, Ethan turned his thoughts from his family to his job. He had worked out a good system with the compassionate Anna Murphy. Her unexpected death of a heart attack last month at only fifty-five had caused a lot of hardened men on the force to shed tears as they bore her casket to her final resting place. None shed more than Ethan. Anna had been one of a kind. Not a bureaucrat like the majority of city caseworkers who made police officers wade through miles of red tape in order to help victims of violent crimes. Anna’s focus from the outset had been to do everything possible to speed the care of innocents. Especially kids hurt by family disputes. Or kids who lost their next of kin to accidents and random crime.

Anna had trusted Ethan to take care of the children first. She allowed him to file the reams of messy paperwork once things calmed down and he had time to concentrate. Ethan would then supply Anna with the name and address of a foster family, and she’d do her requisite visit, making it appear as though she’d placed the kids all along. There was nothing wrong with their procedure except that it was backward. Unorthodox in the eyes of some Family Assistance personnel. Namely Nathaniel Piggot, the CHC director.

Fortunately for the kids, Anna Murphy had said screw protocol—and Director Piggot. Her first priority had been to ensure a child’s safety. To alleviate a child’s heartbreak.

“Anna’s and my method was the only sensible one,” Ethan grumbled as he let Taz into the front passenger seat of a perpetually unwashed Suzuki SUV. Flipping his headlights on high, Ethan headed into a dark moonless January night, determined to do his part to help two sweet kids make the transition into a cold cruel world that no longer held their anchor—a mom who’d served as punching bag for the scum she’d had the misfortune to marry.

Ethan hauled out his cell phone and called his cousin, Jessica Talbot, a woman with a tender heart. She’d never yet turned away a child in need.

“Jess, it’s Ethan. Sorry to wake you. Listen, have you and Dave got any vacant beds? I’m looking for two. Got a four-and six-year old.” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Didn’t I hear the judge gave custody of Megan and Caitlin Porter to their maternal grandparents? Figured that meant you had a couple of free beds.”

In the background, Ethan heard clothing rustle and a murmured deeper voice. “Apologize to Dave,” he said. “You guys know I wouldn’t call this late if I wasn’t desperate.”

His cousin, who’d finally collected her wits, responded as Ethan had predicted. “Bring them. But I swear, Ethan Knight, you have an unbelievable pipeline in this community. I barely washed the sheets on Meg and Cait’s beds.” Jessica chuckled, then yawned. “Dave’s already on his way to an all-night market to pick up extra milk and more kid-approved cereal.” Sobering, she asked Ethan, “How bad? Do these kids need medical attention?”

“I’ll arrange for psych counseling tomorrow.” He condensed an explanation of the circumstances as he turned down the street leading to the cordoned-off complex. He could see twirling red and blue lights grotesquely outlining huddled residents in nightwear. All were in the throes of interrogation by uniformed police. Two rows of yellow tape secured the crime scene.

Concluding his business with Jessie, Ethan angled the SUV next to a patrol car. He saw the heads of two small figures pressed ear to ear in the back seat. Exiting his vehicle, he popped the rear hatch and chose a soft white fuzzy bear and one dressed in Paddington rain gear from a laundry bag full of stuffed toys. Too well versed in the routine, Taz closed his teeth gently around both bears and trotted, ears erect, to the car where the children clung together. Ethan opened the cruiser door for him, and Taz approached the kids.

They recognized the dog at once. The girl, Kimi, disengaged from her brother and snatched the white bear, which she cuddled close to a thin chest. Mike, whose pinched face reflected both pain and fright, couldn’t seem to accept Taz’s offering. His vacant eyes were beyond seeing toys denoting childish endeavors he might never again pursue. Ethan understood. He’d handled too many of these cases not to gain some insight into the roller-coaster emotions that followed acts of violence.

“I’m Officer Friendly. Remember me visiting your class at school?” Ethan spoke directly to Mike in clear yet mild tones. “And you know Taz. We’ve come to take you somewhere safe, like the last time Taz and I came to your apartment.”

Kimi pulled the comforting thumb out of her mouth and erupted in tears. “I want Mom-meee,” she wailed.

Her brother stared mutely at Ethan from war-glazed eyes. Bending, Ethan lifted the little girl and cradled her close. He stretched out a hand to the boy. “You both need sleep now, Mike. I know a nice lady who has a couple of soft warm beds. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what happens next. I promise. Vince,” Ethan called to a broad-shouldered, uniformed cop talking to an elderly couple, “I’ve got the kids. Okay?”

Looking up, Vince nodded grimly and gave a thumbs-up.

A WEEK AFTER the sad incident, local newspapers still treated the story as front-page news. In that time Ethan made a drug bust, accompanied Kimi and Mike to the psychologist and attended their dad’s initial hearing. He also placed another child in a safe home, this one a ten-year-old girl who’d been repeatedly molested by an uncle. Sometimes there seemed to be a rash of bad calls. And Ethan had to step outside his job and remind himself that for a city of almost half a million residents, a population that doubled when winter visitors and other transients migrated here for the sun, crime statistics weren’t particularly high—no more than average for a community of this size. Still, it was easy to lose a sense of proportion when, day in and day out, you dealt with the dregs of society. For Ethan, a new perspective came through volunteer work with a county search-and-rescue unit.

In fact, over the weekend, Ethan and Taz had been airlifted to Canyon De Chelly, where they’d helped locate a lost camper.

Four o’clock Monday afternoon, Ethan finally had a breather. He sat at his battered desk in the department, typing a report for CHC on the Hammond kids and on Marcy White, the ten-year-old.

Finishing his two-fingered pursuit at last, he stapled vouchers to both reports and re-tallied receipts accounting for monies he’d advanced in each case. He’d paid for the first psychologist’s visit for Kimi and Mike. And for Marcy’s initial Emergency Room care. He and Anna had designed this arrangement because it expedited services that would otherwise be a long time gaining approval. Authorization came much faster after the fact.

Checking his watch, Ethan decided to drop the forms off with the new CHC supervisor before meeting his partner, Mitch Valetti, at a stakeout planned for 6 p.m. He and Mitch hoped to nail the next level up in the latest chain of drug dealers to plague the local high schools.

Whistling for Taz, who slept under Ethan’s desk, the two left the police station. Rather than drive the three blocks to the Family Assistance building, Ethan jogged. Two weekends from now, he and Taz were registered for a classic Schutzhund competition. They’d participated in the skill events with regularity ever since Ethan had collected Taz from a breeder in Holland, a breeder known for producing obedient, trustworthy, intelligent dogs with the stamina needed for lengthy search-and-rescue missions.

Police work paid Ethan’s bills. Search-and-rescue was his most passionate hobby. Between the two, they took up most of his time. Not that he complained. Ethan loved every minute of both. Though Schutzhund events, originating in Germany, were geared to show a dog’s skill in tracking and searching for hidden objects placed in rough rugged terrain, handlers had to be in pretty good shape, too. Which Ethan was, if the admiring look bestowed on him now by Nicole Mason, the CHC Department receptionist, was any indicator.

Ethan returned the appreciative glance. A healthy thirty-six-year-old male, Ethan liked pretty women. And he hadn’t seen Nicky since Anna’s funeral. He would have taken a minute to flirt and maybe ask Nick a few questions about Anna’s replacement. But the pert redhead was tied up at the switchboard. A casual wave sufficed as Ethan’s greeting.

Taz, too, glanced longingly at Nicole. Normally she gave his soft brown ears a rub. As if he understood she was too busy today, Taz trotted past the switchboard and on down the hall, several feet ahead of his master. He turned the corner leading to the administrative offices and sped up. Taz knew Anna Murphy kept doggie treats in the bottom drawer of her desk. She had never failed to give him one.

The fact that this ritual would have to change didn’t register with Ethan. Not until he reached the open door of Anna’s old office and saw pure terror leech all color from the face of an attractive blonde seated behind the desk. Ethan thought the woman was going to scream, but instead, her eyes—so light a blue as to appear transparent—rolled back in her head. Her entire body went limp, although she made a vain effort to hang up the phone before she lost consciousness.

Shocked, Ethan could only follow well-honed instincts. Dropping his reports, he leaped forward and grabbed the woman seconds before she tumbled to the floor.

His boot barely missed Taz’s tail. The dog had nosed open the drawer. He’d rooted under a purse and tossed to the floor what looked to Ethan like several packages of unopened nylon stockings.

Not finding his doggie treats, Taz flopped down on his stomach with a disgusted sigh. He stared at Ethan and the woman with an injured air.

Ethan had his hands full. The Grant woman was no lightweight, even though she appeared to be nicely put together. Ethan knew she was Anna Murphy’s successor. She wore a name badge pinned to the breast pocket of a navy pin-striped suit. Her breathing seemed normal. At least, her badge rose and fell steadily.

Calling on his first-aid training, Ethan grasped the narrow chin between his thumb and forefinger. He shook her gently but firmly and spoke her name. “Ms. Grant, open your eyes. Tell me what’s wrong. I’m with the Desert City police. Are you in need of medical help? Are you diabetic? Was that a threatening phone call?” Shifting her weight, Ethan spared a cursory glance at the dangling phone receiver. Lunging for it with his free hand, he realized there was no caller at the other end of the buzzing line. Still confused, he slammed the instrument back into its cradle and gently slapped her cheeks.

Light-colored eyelashes with sooty tips flickered, finally rising a fraction to reveal eyes dilated in confusion. Huge dark pupils stared past Ethan’s broad shoulder and promptly grew wider. This time the woman shoved Ethan. So hard he landed flat on his butt on her carpet. She sprang away and tried to hide in the corner next to two tall filing cabinets. “Ge…get th-that be…beast out of here,” she gasped, her fingers clawing the wall behind her.

Her ranting made no sense to Ethan. He deduced that by beast she meant Taz. A dog now lying in perfect repose except for the occasional flick of one ear.

Nevertheless, it was clear that Regan Grant was too terrified to think straight about anything. She probably hadn’t heard Ethan say he was a policeman. Headed as he was for an undercover assignment, he looked pretty casual.

With a hand signal and two words of softly spoken Dutch, Ethan banished Taz to the hallway. Rising, he dusted off his jeans. “My dog is outside, Ms. Grant. Do you think you can relax now?”

She uncurled a little at a time, unconsciously clamping a hand over an almost invisible scar that started at the base of her jaw and ran the length of her neck. It was one of several jagged scars long since repaired by plastic surgery. Regan had some wounds that could never be repaired.

Forcing her hand and mind away from bad memories, Regan ran shaking fingers through her heavy mop of corkscrew curls. Her sun-streaked hair had fallen into her face when the clip restraining it had somehow become dislodged. Seeing the silver clip lying on the floor, she bent to retrieve it and felt woozy. Her heart beat so hard and fast she doubted she could calm down. It’d been two years since she’d had a fear attack this bad.

A few weeks ago, when she’d been out jogging, Regan had actually passed a woman walking a Scottie. She hadn’t crossed the street to avoid them. A feat so rare Regan had patted herself on the back. Her hope then was that it meant she was conquering her phobia. Obviously not.

Ethan took heart as a bit of color crept into Regan Grant’s chalky face. Familiar with the private bathroom in this office, he took the liberty of drawing her a glass of water—which he extended slowly to the woman he’d come to meet. While he was at it, Ethan grabbed the opportunity to make his own assessment of someone secretly labeled a battle-ax.

Ethan would guess Regan Grant’s height to be five-five or-six. He’d pass on weight. She looked trim. Vroom-vroom, in fact. When he’d held her briefly, he’d had a sensation of holding something solid—not just skin and bones. Her taffy-streaked blond hair was cut in one length to her shoulders. A million curls picked up rays of afternoon sun and danced around her narrow face like a jagged halo. Any normal man would give her face a second look—or a third. If her generous mouth didn’t draw a guy’s interest, the arresting pale-blue eyes certainly would. Ethan knew he could never call anyone who looked like Regan Grant a battle-ax.

Regan stared for far too long at the unwavering water glass held by a bronzed masculine hand. She licked her lips, wanting the water. But she was still shaking so badly she thought she’d spill it if she accepted the glass. What must this man, this stranger, be thinking of her? And who was he? Her last appointment of the day had been Mrs. Campbell. She’d been gone more than an hour.

With the hated dog out of sight and her thoughts returning to work, Regan managed to accept the glass. “Thank you,” she murmured, motioning her Good Samaritan into a visitor’s chair while she returned to her desk. Only after she was seated and the water had eased the tightness gripping her throat did Regan examine her unannounced visitor.

She had no doubt her staff would consider him “hot.” She frequently overheard co-workers rating men who visited the CHC offices. This one had appealing black curls falling over straight black eyebrows. And eyes so dark, so rich a blue, they were almost black. He was a little too tall and muscular for Regan’s taste. But he had a nice smile. And he smiled it at her now. Waiting.

She set the glass down with a thump and, with an effort, refrained from straightening her blouse and checking the status of her suit jacket. “Uh, I’m, Ms. Grant, supervisor of the Family Assistance Department’s Child Help Center. Nathaniel Piggot is our director, Mr….?” Regan reached a hand across her desk. Her firm clasp demanded the man seated opposite her supply identification.

Ethan’s stomach turned when he heard Nathaniel Piggot’s name. He could only hope Ms. Grant wasn’t taking a page out of the director’s book. Left up to Nathaniel, all needy kids would eventually be phased out of the system to sink or swim. He guarded the department’s budget as if it were his private fortune. Piggot didn’t believe in providing what he termed “frivolous” services. Basic needs, in Ethan’s estimation.

“Sorry,” Ethan said, realizing he’d taken too long to give her his name. “I’m Ethan Knight, Detective, Desert City PD. That’s my partner, Taz, out in the hall. One of them, at least. Mitch Valetti is the other.” Grinning, Ethan turned briefly toward a huge black shadow visible through the frosted glass panels that flanked Regan’s door.

She followed his movement and barely suppressed a shudder. Her lips tightened and her earlier welcoming voice became decidedly cool—due only in part to the hulking animal. Regan erased her first favorable assessment of Ethan Knight. Policemen didn’t rate high on her list. In fact, she’d taken this job to forget a messy breakup with her fiancé. Jack Diamond, a captain with the Phoenix force had the same outward charm as Detective Knight. Too late, Regan had learned that Jack spread his charm around to every woman he met, including some he arrested. They’d lived together a short time, yet she’d been the last to find out Jack had a problem keeping his pants zipped. His pals on the force all knew, but not one had clued her in. In Regan’s estimation, policemen were vermin scraped from the bottom of the barrel.

She clasped her hands on top of her desk and leveled at Knight the sternest look she could muster. “I’ve read your name on case files processed by my predecessor, Detective. While you may have worked directly with Anna, I have a different policy. All new cases go straight to Level-one Intake. There they’ll be read, ranked and assigned to available caseworkers on a needs basis set up by Director Piggot.”

Ethan, who’d gathered his reports from the floor during her terse little speech, slapped the stack in front of her on the desk. “Well, I’ve saved you the trouble of ranking Mike and Kimi Hammond, as well as Marcy White.”

Regan’s narrowed gaze went from the man’s thinned lips to the papers still fluttering on her blotter. She didn’t like Ethan Knight’s belligerent stare or his arrogant attitude. “Wh-what do you mean, saved me the trouble? Ranking cases based on service requirements is what we do at CHC. Reports come to us from several sources. Police intervention is one, but minor in the larger scheme, I assure you. Take these forms to Sandy Burke, three doors down. Oh—should you need to see me again, please leave your dog outside. I assume there’s a rule excluding animals other than seeing-eye dogs from government buildings. If not, there should be, and I’ll certainly make a request to have one implemented.”

“Really?” Ethan leaned forward, supporting both arms on the desk. His nose nearly touched Regan’s. “My dog has better manners than a lot of people you’ll meet, including some who work here. I don’t know where you got your training in social work, Ms. Grant, and I don’t give a damn. But in Desert City we take care of our needy or abused kids at the time they require help. We don’t send them up dead-end channels never to be heard from again.” Rising to his full six foot two, Ethan glared down into her pale features. “These kids have been processed. All my reports need is your look-see at the foster homes and your signature. It’s fine by me if you shred the vouchers. The kids got the medical care when they needed it. That’s what counts in my book.”

Regan picked up the top set of papers and scanned the page until anger blurred her vision. Her jaw sagged, but her head shot up and she impaled Ethan with a scowl. “I can’t believe you have the gall to step on our toes so blatantly and then come here and deliver me a lecture, as well. What credentials do you have? What gives you the right to decide who in this town is qualified to care for a troubled child?”

“Three children—this time,” Ethan said in a low, dangerously soft voice. “I suppose you could say my credentials come from working Desert City streets for fifteen years.”

Regan drummed her fingers on the paper she’d let fall. “No degree in psychology or sociology?”

“Criminal Justice,” Ethan snapped.

“I see.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the back wall. “I have a master’s in child psychology and one in social work, Mr. Knight.”

“Detective,” he said curtly. “A rank I earned working with the scum of society while you sat in civilized classrooms and studied in quiet libraries.” Damn, but something about the snooty tilt to this woman’s chin irked him.

Regan pursed her lips. “I don’t have to defend myself to you. I think you’re well aware that you’ve exceeded your authority, and to what extent. I want it stopped here and now.” She stabbed a finger at Ethan’s painstakingly typed reports. “Otherwise, Detective, I’ll initiate a formal reprimand and personally place my complaint in the hands of your commander.”

Ethan felt heat claw its way into his throat. Suddenly the term battle-ax didn’t seem so far out of line. Rising stiffly, he inclined his head in a curt movement, his back teeth clamped too tightly to manage any sort of formal leave-taking. For a moment he was tempted to whistle Taz back into the room to give the psychology expert another taste of the type of fear kids experienced when their worlds were turned upside down. But he was more humane than that.

Yet it went against Ethan’s grain to leave, allowing the supervisor to think he’d heeded her threat. Other social service agencies in town lauded the system he and Anna Murphy had built. If Ms. Power Suit Grant assumed he’d turn away from a suffering child rather than risk a reprimand from the chief, her degree in psychology wasn’t worth crap.

Bringing Taz to heel with a flick of his finger, Ethan strode from Regan’s office. Still fuming, he collected his vehicle from the station, then drove to meet Mitch.

“Wow,” Mitch said a few minutes after Ethan and Taz joined him in the unmarked car they’d been assigned. “Who climbed your butt?”

Ethan, who’d thrown himself into the passenger seat, aimed a glower at his closest friend. “What makes you think anybody did, cowboy?” Mitch was known as the Italian Cowboy around the department for two reasons—he was of Italian extraction and he owned a small horse ranch.

“I wonder.” Valetti laughed. Brown eyes sparkled with humor. “I’ve got it.” He snapped his fingers. “You got taken down a peg or two by the heir to Anna’s throne. Your message on my voice mail said you were going to drop some reports off to her. So—” Mitch waggled his dark eyebrows “—rumors must be true. Grant is a certifiable bitch.”

Ethan winced. “Where do rumors like that start? If you’ve never met her, Mitch, why would you pass on such garbage?”

“Ah. So she’s a fox?”

“Screw you, Cowboy. Quit trying to put words in my mouth.”

“Ouch.” Mitch’s grin spread from ear to ear. “The lady really messed with your head, didn’t she, my friend.”

Ethan mind flashed back to the pale delicate face made stark by terror. His fault for surprising the lady with Taz. Her terror had been real. So Regan Grant had a vulnerable side. A weakness he could exploit if he cared to blow the incident out of proportion and let Mitch add to the rumors. Or he could keep it to himself and try to create a working relationship with her.

Using the time it took to pour coffee from a thermos, Ethan dragged his mind back to Mitch’s remarks about Anna’s replacement. “Ms. Grant’s going to be a stickler for following rules Anna bent a little.”

“From what I hear, that’s putting it mildly. Did you set this new supervisor straight?”

A smile tugged at one corner of Ethan’s mouth. “Not exactly. I didn’t overwhelm her with my charm and personality. In fact, she said if I don’t go by the book when it comes to placing needy kids, she’ll institute a formal reprimand against me and hand-deliver it to the chief.”

Mitch’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding! No, you aren’t,” he muttered. “That goes with what Brian Fitzgerald said about Grant. Fitzgerald’s fiancée, Danielle Hargreaves, is the last caseworker Anna hired. She’s working on her master’s. Has to finish her thesis and do her orals. According to Brian, Grant had a hissy fit because Piggot told her all caseworkers were either MS’s or PhDs.”

“Did she fire Dani?”

“Still deciding, I guess.”

“It’ll be a loss to the department if they let Dani go. She’s got a great rapport with rape victims.” Ethan sipped from his cup.

“Yeah. And she needs the job to pay off six years of college loans. Brian said they’ll have to postpone their wedding if Dani loses her income. Some of the guys were thinking you might put in a good word for Dani with the Grant dame. Guess not, huh? Doesn’t sound as if you two hit it off.”

Ethan shook his head. “The way it stands, my speaking up might jeopardize Dani’s position even more. Is her potential job loss why all the guys at the station are grousing? I mean, is that what started the rumors about Grant?”

“There’s more. Grant instituted a dress code for caseworkers. Slacks and ties for the men, dresses or suits for the women. Like people who need the services of a caseworker cares how they’re dressed!”

“Dress codes are a nuisance, but most areas have them. You know how the chief is about white shirts and no loose ties unless we’re undercover.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s not all. Anna didn’t pay attention to quotas. She apportioned cases out based on criteria other than straight numbers. Your Ms. Grant has decided everyone ought to have a equal number of cases, and it doesn’t matter if some involve a family of ten and others a single mom with one kid.”

“She’s hardly my anything, Mitch. Maybe if she makes enough waves and ticks off enough people, Piggot will get rid of her.”

Mitch shook his shaggy head. “Don’t think so, Ethan. Rumors also say Nathaniel brought her in from out of town, selecting her over qualified in-house candidates.”

“I don’t know if I’d repeat that rumor, Mitch. Regan Grant has impressive credentials. From a strictly technical point of view, I can’t think of anyone in-house who’s as qualified to replace Anna.” He shook his head. “Let’s face it. No one can replace Anna. She poured her heart and soul into the job.”

“Anna was a gem.” Mitch poked Ethan in the ribs before settling back to watch the house they were staking out. “The guys at the station used to say it was too bad Anna M. was old enough to be your mom. Otherwise you’d have made the perfect couple.”

Ethan’s ears burned. He’d been teased a lot about his open admiration for Anna Murphy. “Tell you what, Valetti. If I ever find a woman my age who has half of Anna’s intelligence and compassion, I’ll snap her up in a flash.”

“I’d give a lot to see that, my man. In the almost seven years we’ve been partners, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same woman twice. At least not at any official functions.”

“If I did that,” Ethan said dryly, “my family would book the church and start planning wedding showers. Being a middle child, I saw how the Knight railroad worked. Anybody dated someone twice, and first thing you knew, Mom invited them to dinner. Or Grandpa took them to the club for a friendly round of golf. Or Dad just happened to run into them on the day of a family barbecue. A guy or gal doesn’t marry one Knight, they marry a family. I plan to be damn sure I’m dating Ms. Right before I let the clan get their hooks in.”

“Too bad you’re not getting any younger, big E. By the time you locate Ms. Right, you’ll be bald, fifty, and flabby.”

Ethan sputtered that no man in his family went bald and he was far from flabby.

Mitch, who seemed to enjoy the heck out of needling his friend, sobered soon enough. “Frankly I hoped Anna’s replacement might be the woman for you. Too bad she turned out to be a butt-faced ogre.”

Ethan lifted a brow. “Anybody who tagged Regan Grant with that description hasn’t seen her.”

“Really? Then she’s a looker?”

Ethan recapped Ms. Grant’s attributes to himself. Damn, he’d never hear the end of it if he let on to Mitch that he found Regan Grant attractive. He also had to admit she had the proper credentials. One degree more than Anna had, to be exact. Lifting a shoulder, Ethan casually let it drop. “She’s okay,” he said without inflection. “Isn’t it time we gave this topic a break and worried about who’s in the car that’s pulling into our suspect’s driveway?”

CHAPTER TWO

REGAN SAT IDLE at her desk for long minutes after the detective stormed out. She was shaken by the encounter with his dog and also by the harsh words she’d exchanged with the man. It wasn’t like her to raise her voice to someone she’d just met. Especially someone she might have to work with again.

Her reaction was obviously related to the last ugly scene she’d had with her fiancé. She had taken a friend to help move her furniture and personal belongings from the apartment. They’d arrived midmorning on a weekday and discovered that he’d had the locks changed. When Regan phoned asking him to come let her in, Jack’s language had become abusive. As well as calling her names, he’d said she could forget about taking even one thing from the place.

Regan regularly counseled women about their rights in just such instances. Yet she’d been unprepared for the way Jack’s treatment had made her feel. He’d caused her knees to shake. Put her stomach in turmoil. And those physical feelings were secondary to her sense of being used. Until she realized she wasn’t totally defenseless. She’d lived in the building for five years before Jack moved in, claiming he loved her. The hard reality had suddenly smacked her in the head. Jack had never loved her.

Once she’d accepted that, Regan hadn’t argued. Instead, she’d hung up on Jack and gone straight to the building superintendent. Mr. Thornton said he’d always hoped she’d come to her senses and dump Jack. The old man hadn’t thought twice about letting her into the apartment.

Although she’d been careful to take only what belonged to her, Jack had had her arrested at work for breaking and entering. It was a nasty scene. As a cop, he’d had the muscle, literally and figuratively. He didn’t want an amicable settlement. He wanted to humiliate Regan for daring to cross him. Thanks to the pull he had in the courts, she’d lost everything except her jewelry and clothing.

The experience had left her bitter. For weeks she’d doubted her ability to help other women faced with similar situations. In the midst of her confusion, Nathaniel Piggot had phoned and offered her the supervisor’s job in Desert City. A couple of years back they’d successfully collaborated on a state grant project. The faith he expressed in her was exactly the encouragement she’d needed. Piggot’s career offer gave her a valid reason for leaving Phoenix and a job where she’d constantly be running into Jack and his buddies. In time she hoped to put the episode with Jack completely behind her. Except that she was afraid she’d let her anger at Jack spill over into her dealings with Detective Knight.

But perhaps her reaction was justified. While it was true that Ethan Knight looked nothing like Jack Diamond, except in the swagger shared by all police officers, he exhibited the same annoying “my way or the highway” attitude.

Grimacing, Regan admitted to having gone ballistic over the dog. She regretted that—although maybe she shouldn’t. Knight had broken the rules. A lot of rules. And from the sound of it, he had no remorse.

Regan didn’t for one minute believe he’d gone to all that trouble for those kids out of the goodness of his heart. It’d be news to her if policemen had hearts. Jack had stolen her furniture simply because he could. Because Regan couldn’t produce proof that she’d bought the living-room and bedroom sets, or the various kitchen appliances she’d acquired over ten years. Who kept receipts for that long? But that was beside the point, she reminded herself firmly. Her fight with Jack shouldn’t reflect on new relationships with police officers in an entirely different city.

All policemen weren’t necessarily jerks just because Jack Diamond and his pals on the force came from one insufferably arrogant mold.

“Ms. Grant.” The interruption to Regan’s self-analysis followed a soft knock on her door. A cascade of long black hair appeared first in the narrow opening.

“What is it, Danielle?” Regan shook herself out of her stupor. She dropped her hands from the temples she’d been massaging and grabbed one of the files Detective Knight had tossed on her desk.

At her response, a young woman’s head and shoulders emerged. Bright eyes peered furtively around for a moment before her red lips formed a disappointed pout. Regan could think of no other way to describe the look.

“Nicole told me Ethan Knight was in your office. I’d hoped to catch him before he left. M-Ms. Grant, is everything all right? You don’t look well.”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Regan didn’t realize she was crumpling Knight’s carefully typed report in one fist. When Danielle Hargreaves’s gaze drew Regan’s attention to the fact, she quickly dropped the paper and smoothed it out.

“I’m sorry if you had personal business with Officer Knight, Danielle. As you can see, he’s gone. And I really mustn’t take time to chat.”

“It’s Detective Knight, Ms. Grant. And my business with him isn’t personal. I need to give Ethan my sister-in-law’s name and address. She’s been approved to provide foster care for up to three kids. I’ll have my fiancé, Brian, pass the word to Ethan. They work out of the same police unit.” The dark head started to pull back and the door began to close.

“Danielle, wait!” Regan issued a rather sharp call to the newest caseworker in the department. She and Danielle had inadvertently gotten off to a bad start. Now it seemed the young woman blamed Regan because her predecessor had broken the hiring rules. The irregularity had come to light when Nathaniel collected all the employee records to discuss each one with Regan before she took over Anna Murphy’s old position. In actuality, Regan had begged Nathaniel to give her time to evaluate Danielle’s performance, rather than outright fire her. He’d refused.

Unfortunately there was no way to tell Dani that Regan planned to drag her heels about the firing until after Dani had completed her thesis. Regan could scarcely admit to a subordinate that she’d started her tenure by going head-to-head with their boss.

As the weeks went by and the rumors circulated about Regan’s hard-line approach, she’d tried to ignore the talk.

Dani stepped nervously back inside the office. “Yes, Ms. Grant?”

“Please, when we’re one on one, call me Regan.” She smiled, hoping to put the young caseworker at ease. Danielle’s work was exemplary from what Regan had been able to judge by follow-up visits to Dani’s clients. Regan was sure that once she clarified the rules regarding the chain of command in all foster placement cases, Danielle would understand.

Appearing extremely uncomfortable, Dani focused on her watch. “I have a client to visit at four, Ms. Grant. It’s three-forty-five now.”

“It’s Regan, remember? And this won’t take a minute.” She motioned to the chair recently vacated by Ethan Knight. When Danielle remained standing, Regan cleared her throat. “Apparently Detective Knight had some type of arrangement with Mrs. Murphy to circumvent normal placement procedures. As of today, children in need of foster care will go through accepted channels. It’s a universal method of placement used by Family Services in nearly every city in the U.S. Your sister-inlaw’s name will reach our intake office on a computer printout. She, in turn, receives a placement when her name rises to the top of the list.”

“But…but…” Dani’s brow furrowed.

Regan injected a little steel in her voice. “That allows our department to function as a well-organized team, Danielle. It gives the assigned caseworker time to examine a prospective home, as well as evaluate all children in need of placement. A good match ensures a positive experience for both foster child and foster family. Go on to your appointment,” Regan said more gently, making a shooing motion with her hands. “If your sister-in-law is desperate for the monthly stipend allotted to foster families, she shouldn’t have to wait long. Mr. Piggot sent me a memo yesterday indicating that demand for foster families outweighs applicants.”

“Maddy doesn’t care about the money!” Danielle blazed. “She signed up because she cares about kids—and…and as a favor to Ethan. Because he likes to know his abused kids will be going to loving homes. That’s Ethan’s whole intent, Miss Grant. He wants the kids to be more important than the dollars they generate for the foster families.”

Regan’s mouth fell agape. She quickly closed it, then again smoothed the pages of Ethan Knight’s report. Pages fast representing a thorn in Regan’s side. “Surely you understand that our department is a minor part of a massive state operation, which receives federal funding.” Turning, she pulled two fat books from the floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind her desk. “Each and every office is governed by the same rules. Rules established by supervisors who have served countless hours in the placement and entitlement of families in need. Nowhere within these guidelines is there any rule remotely pertaining to what Detective Knight does or does not want.”

Regan noticed that her voice had risen.

“Yes, ma’am. I understand what you’re saying. Um…I really have to go to my appointment, Ms. Gr—Regan. I’m meeting a client at her job. She only has a twenty-minute break and I don’t want her to lose her job on account of me.”

“No, of course not. I’m glad we had this opportunity to talk, Dani. If other caseworkers have sidestepped rules to accommodate Detective Knight, please set them straight. Or better yet, ask them to pay me a visit. As I said in our first group meeting, I have an open-door policy. One that allows us to iron out differences before they become insurmountable.”

Nodding, Dani backed out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her.

Regan stared at Dani’s petite shadow on the frosted glass until it disappeared. She shuffled the Knight reports to the bottom of her stack of current cases, all the while thinking Anna Murphy must have been ill for some time before anyone had ever realized. Otherwise her department wouldn’t have fallen into such disarray. Anna’s name had been practically a byword in the hierarchy of the state Family Services system for as long as Regan could remember. That was a big part of why she’d accepted this assignment. Not that she was having second thoughts now. And yet, Regan did wonder how much had slipped by Anna M.

She tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the pile in which she’d placed the Knight reports. In an earlier examination of the department’s active cases, Regan recalled seeing Ethan’s name on countless records. Maybe she ought to pull them all and have a second look. Regan sighed. What she supposed she should do was pay a visit to every foster home where Knight had placed a child.

“Oh, brother,” she muttered. But it was the only way she’d know for sure that the department was in good shape.

Picking up the phone, Regan called Records and asked to have all the currently active case reports transferred to diskettes. “I want to take them home to study on my laptop,” she informed the clerk.

She sighed again. There were many evenings of work ahead.

ETHAN DRAGGED into his office sometime after midnight. He’d been down at the jail for two hours trying to sort out the legitimate arrests he and Mitch had made from the innocent kids accidentally caught in their raid on the drug dealers’ house. The young kids who were buyers needed help. But no officer on the Desert City police force believed they’d get the right sort of help if they were tossed into juvie. Mitch’s specialty was getting these kids into programs where they’d learn productive ways of spending their free time. Mitch was a whiz at wangling slots in already overloaded boys’ and girls’ clubs and sports centers. That was why Ethan let Mitch go to visit the parents, while he stayed to word their reports in such as way as to put the scum responsible for selling drugs to thirteen-year-olds behind bars for the maximum sentence. Or so he hoped…

Sinking into his swivel chair, he booted up his computer and went into e-mail to retrieve his messages. Using his free hand, he filled Taz’s bowl with kibble. Ethan kept a sack in his desk drawer; it saved taking time to run by his house on days when one shift overran another.

Thirty-four messages. Ethan groaned.

“Damn, damn, dammit all,” he swore roundly. The first two messages informed him that two of the scuzz-balls whose paperwork he’d completed were already out on bail. The next thirty-two were from family and friends telling him Regan Grant had phoned making appointments to visit his network of foster homes.

“It shouldn’t worry me, Taz,” Ethan said, pausing to rub dog’s neck. “All those folks are doing an A-1 job. Everyone Grant’s called, the kids are settled in fine. Better than fine,” he said with satisfaction.

Before Ethan finished his sentence, a dark shadow fell across his computer. He glanced up, giving Taz one last pat. “Hiya, Fitzgerald. Chief demoted you to graveyard? What did you do to piss him off?”

“Manny Garza’s wife went into labor at noon today. His partner and I agreed to split Manny’s shift for the next few days.”

“That’s great. Everything all right with Mary Garza? Isn’t the baby early?” Ethan asked when Brian Fitzgerald looked puzzled.

“Time flies when you’re having fun, Detective,” Brian said around a cockeyed grin. “It’s been nine months since Manny strutted around the office bragging that he was going to be a first-time dad. He told us the minute the rabbit died.”

“What cave have you been living in, Fitzgerald? Rabbits no longer have to kick the bucket. Now they have this innocuous little strip of litmus paper that turns a different color if the lady’s pregnant.”

“Have a lot of experience checking those strips, do you, Knight?”

“The sum total of my experience comes from having six sisters, Fitzgerald, five of whom married. Plus, one of my brothers has a wife. So get outta here. You must have reports to write or something.”

“Always. But I actually stopped in to pass on some information. Dani asked me to tell you that her brother’s wife, Maddy Hargreaves, has been approved to take up to three foster kids.” He dug in his shirt pocket, pulled out a pink message sheet and slid it across the desk to Ethan.

“Good for Maddy. She and Greg have that great old six-bedroom house down in the central area. Their Josh needs to be around other kids. Did Maddy tell Dani what ages she’d prefer?”

Brian shook his head. “Oh, wait. Dani said something about preschool or kindergartners. Her message was a little garbled, what with all the complaints about her ogre of a boss.”

“Regan Grant?” Ethan stopped folding the message and pinned Brian with a wary look.

“One and the same. I hear you’ve met Her Royal Battle-ax. I probably don’t have to tell you that rumors say she’s gunning for Desert City’s favorite shining knight.”

Ethan flushed. If he had to have a nickname, he preferred the Baby Cop. “Word travels,” he murmured. “Guess Mitch shot off his mouth about me tangling with her, huh?”

“You duked it out with Grant?” Brian’s eyes widened. “Wow. Is that why she climbed all over Dani about making sure Maddy’s authorization for foster care goes through the proper channels?”

Ethan shook his head grimly. “Kick me for finding anything attractive about the new supervisor. I’ll take someone with Anna’s lived-in face and big heart over Regan Grant’s angel looks anyday. She’s got a rule book in place of her ticker.”

“She pretty?”

“Who?” Ethan asked idly as he tucked the message into his jeans pocket.

Fitzgerald threw up his hands. “Battle-ax Grant. Who were we just discussing?”

“Huh. She’s easy enough on the eyes.” Ethan rolled his own upward, too clearly recalling the tumble of blond curls that—more than once—he’d pictured tickling his naked chest. Ethan had resented the fantasy, since the woman had torn a strip off him. And she’d given him no reason to think she wouldn’t do it again if the opportunity presented itself.

“Hmm. From the way Dani talks about her, I figured Grant’s got fangs, claws and one beady eye, all wrapped in a package of green scales.”

“Hardly,” Ethan snorted. “If you’re just looking, she’s a babe.” His description of Regan Grant was punctuated by a huge yawn. “Babe or not,” he muttered, pushing back a sleeve to check his watch, “I can’t sit here all night discussing her. Tomorrow Taz and I are visiting the elementary schools. I’ve gotta be one of the good guys. Can’t go in with bloodshot eyes.”

“How many years have you been putting on a uniform and going into the schools? Don’t you get tired of answering the same questions over and over?”

Ethan leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck. “I took over the Stranger Danger program when Granddad retired. Must be ten years ago. And no, I never get tired of it. Those little kids are cute as buttons and clever as the dickens.”

Fitzgerald grunted. “So where do we go wrong? How come I’m hauling so many of their smart-asses in for B & E’s, carrying concealed and worse?”

Snapping forward in his chair, Ethan walked his computer through shutdown. Then he stood and shrugged into his leather jacket. After waking the slumbering Taz, he accompanied Brian to the door. “Somewhere between cute and clever and those smoking guns lurks a string of bad role models. How many kids see Dad drunk and disorderly or beating up on Mom? Sometimes both parents work sixty hours a week. Home gets lonely, so they find friends on the street. Sometimes it starts with empty kitchens and emptier bellies. The first thing they swipe is a piece of fruit or a can of soup. Kids don’t go bad by themselves, Brian. They have help.”

The younger policeman sighed. “Now you sound like Dani. She’s a big one for pointing out why kids go bad. Maybe I need to switch jobs. I see so much juvenile crime, I’m not sure I want to bring a kid into this world. You’ve got twice the years on me in law enforcement, Ethan. Is that why you haven’t gotten married and had kids? ’Cause you deal with so many screwed-up families?”

Ethan slowed his walk. “My own family isn’t screwed up. Like I said, five of my six sisters are married and so’s my brother Matt. All happily. So, no, I’m not afraid of having kids. I think I’d be a good dad.”

“Then why are you still single?”

“Good question. If you ask my mom, she’ll say it’s because I’m too busy trying to save the world.” A grin altered Ethan’s tired features.

“Yeah. Relationships take a lot of time and energy,” Brian agreed. “Sometimes I go two weeks without seeing Dani. Both of us have hectic jobs and erratic hours. I’ve started to wonder if we’re crazy to get married.”

Ethan clapped a hand on the younger man’s back. “The wedding is what—three months away? You probably have prewedding jitters. Right now Danielle’s working hard to get her master’s. Once she’s finished with that, you’ll have more time together.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Ethan.” Brian hung back and let Ethan proceed alone through the busy central office.

Ethan couldn’t say why, but after he’d climbed into his SUV and headed home, he felt unsettled and vaguely jealous of Brian’s impending marriage. Headed home to a large empty house. A house once filled with the laughter of a boisterous family. A house always in need of cleaning because Ethan rarely spent enough daylight hours there to see how the dust had gathered.

“Why aren’t I married, Taz?” Ethan often had conversations with his dog. He could count on Taz to be a sympathetic listener and he often found it helpful to talk through his problems aloud.

Pulling his wet nose away from the front window, Taz barked. He placed a paw on Ethan’s right forearm and whined several times.

“I know, buddy. I haven’t been serious about looking for a wife. But according to Matt, I like living the life of a playboy. Playboy—ha! How many months has it been since I took a woman out? Two? Three? Maybe four?” Ethan tugged disconsolately on the big Alsatian’s left ear. The dog lay down, his chin resting on Ethan’s thigh.

“Before you know it, the best years of my life will have slipped away, Taz. Tomorrow I need to dig out my address book and see about getting back into circulation. Too bad Brooke Miller moved to Flagstaff. Her first-graders loved her. And I—ahem.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Speaking of teachers…if Becky Russell’s still at Cactus Elementary, maybe I’ll talk her into biking out to Saguaro National Park. What do you think, old boy? We could pick her up right after school and go for a burger after our ride.”

Taz raised his head and woofed happily.

“Dang. No, we can’t. I forgot all those messages about Regan Grant’s appointments. She’s going to visit Mom, a couple of my sisters and several wives of guys on the force.” He frowned. “You know something, Taz? She’s systematically checking on all my foster parents. Either she’s out to get me—or out to get them.” He paused for a moment. “What I’ll do is pick up Jeremy after school and take him to the folks’ place to shoot a few baskets. That way I’ll be there when Grant arrives. Just to see what’s got in her mind. I’m not too worried about her yanking kids from Jenny or Erica or the younger foster moms, but what if she thinks my folks are too old to deal with Jeremy? His record reads like a dictionary of juvenile crime.”

Jeremy Smith had been labeled a badass from the age of seven. Ethan’s dad had booked the kid on counts of preliminary arson, fighting and petty theft. The boy’s alcoholic mother couldn’t handle him and didn’t want to. By the age of ten he was a ward of the court. Joseph and Elaine Knight were his fifth set of foster parents. After four years, the boy turned his life around. Already he had basketball talent scouts scoping him out. Ethan and his brother Jacob had taught Jeremy his first one-on-one at the hoop. Now Jeremy could cream either one of them or both at the same time.

Ethan grinned as he parked in front of his house. If Regan Grant saw him take a drubbing at the hands of a fifteen-year-old, maybe she’d lighten up a bit.

AT FOUR O’CLOCK the next day, Ethan, sweating like a racehorse and six points behind Jeremy, was about to ask for a water break when Regan Grant arrived for her appointment with Elaine Knight.

Grant started to turn her silver Honda Accord into the driveway, apparently saw the players and backed out to park at the curb. She climbed from her vehicle, briefcase in hand, only to catch sight of Taz bounding toward her, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

Ethan saw how fast Regan dived back into her car. Holding up a hand to halt Jeremy’s drive to the basket, Ethan snatched the ball and held it loosely against his right side. Was it just Taz, Ethan wondered, or did the woman have a thing about all dogs? “Jeremy,” he murmured, dropping his other hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. “The new CHC supervisor is here to talk to Mom. I think Taz makes her nervous. Could you shut him in the backyard?”

A sullen frown marred Jeremy’s sweat-sheened brown forehead. “What’s she want here? Let’s sic Taz on her so she’ll go back where she belongs.”

“Easy, kid. It’s a routine visit. Remember, Anna died before she could petition the court to let you change your name to Knight—after your birth mom nixed the folk’s adoption request. Maybe Ms. Grant will carry on where Anna left off.”

Jeremy had a wonderfully sunny smile when he turned up the wattage. It broke free now as he hurried to take Taz as Ethan requested.

Regan had leaned over the passenger seat and rolled the window down an inch. “I don’t know why you’re here, Detective Knight, but please restrain your dog. I have a four-o’clock appointment at this home, and I’m already late.” She fumbled in her briefcase and pulled out a card. “My appointment is with Elaine Knight. Oh.” She leveled her gaze on Ethan. “Is Elaine your wife?”

Ethan laughed wickedly while blotting sweat from his brow. “Elaine is my mother. I’m not married,” he said, slanting her a glance to see if the news of his single status affected her. If it did, she covered well. He was almost disappointed. “Have you always been so skittish around dogs?” he asked bluntly.

“Dog is man’s best friend. Not woman’s.” Regan peered up the driveway and in both directions along the street. “Is he gone or merely lying in wait somewhere?”

Swiveling, Ethan saw Jeremy close the side gate and head toward them again. “Taz is confined, Ms. Grant.” Jogging across the driveway, Ethan assisted Regan from her car. “I’m no psychologist,” he murmured, feeling her arm tremble. “But you seem beyond skittish. More like phobic, I’d say.” He had a niggling urge to bedevil her. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Well, Ms. Grant, oh, great master of sociology and psychology, have you ever sought counseling for your problem?”

She jerked from his hold so fast Ethan didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong. But he felt bad for razzing her.

“If you’re hoping to divert my attention and keep me from examining this foster placement, I assure you it won’t work. I found Jeremy Smith’s case history most interesting.” Squaring her shoulders, she started up the walkway.

Curious, Ethan followed. “Interesting how?” he challenged. “Because of the way he’s done a one hundred percent turnaround in the time he’s lived with my parents?”

Her hand raised to knock on the door, Regan glanced back, giving Ethan a cool look. “Interesting in that I watched students in this neighborhood get off the school bus a while ago. It made me wonder why you would place an African-American child in an all-white neighborhood.”

Ethan, who’d just leaned forward for a better whiff of Regan Grant’s spicy exotic perfume, stopped dead. “What exactly are you trying to say? It doesn’t take an Einstein to note the marked decrease in Jeremy’s encounters with the law since he came here.” He glowered at Regan, then spun to see that Jeremy hadn’t heard her statement. Fortunately the kid had found another basketball and was practicing free throws.

“You mean it never occurred to you that the boy might be intimidated at being ripped from his ethnic roots?”

Ethan’s arm tightened on the ball he still held. Of all the things she might have taken him to task for—like the flouting of procedures or the nepotism angle—the battle she actually chose floored Ethan. Almost as suddenly as he’d tensed, he felt an urge to laugh. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d react when Jeremy set her straight.

“Well, nothing to say for yourself, I see.” Regan again raised a fist to knock. “Those are the types of considerations trained social workers know to look for when deciding on placement. We take the whole child into account.”

Ethan blocked her knock by reaching over her shoulder to shove open the unlocked door. “Mom,” he yelled. “I’m showing Ms. Grant into the living room. She’s here for your Family Assistance appointment.”

“I like the foster families I work with to call me Regan,” she said while attempting to shut Ethan outside. “I’ll wait right here in the entry until Elaine comes,” she told him.

Her obvious efforts to get rid of him didn’t deter Ethan. “In this house, Family Assistance appointments involve everyone, Regan. I see my dad has driven in. He’ll bring Jeremy.” Ethan’s smile was charming if not slightly provocative. “I’m so glad you want to use first names. Calling you Ms. Grant sounds so stuffy. And now you’ll call me Ethan, of course.” Taking her arm, he propelled her into a homey room that held two leather couches, each with a matching chair. A large beehive fireplace took up all of one corner next to an arched north-facing window, which let in the afternoon sunlight. Family pictures covered the largest wall and spilled over onto every available surface in the room. School photos, mixed with graduations, weddings and christenings. At least four school pictures of Jeremy hung among the others.

Regan, who’d grown up in a divorced family, estranged from her mother all these years, found the Knights’ gallery fascinating. Her dad, who’d had custody of her, was a busy executive. Regan had spent her formative years in boarding schools. Summers she lived with Great-aunt Roberta, a terribly allergic soul who kept a pristine dust-free house. Possibly why Regan herself maintained an orderly apartment.

Elaine Knight and her husband, Joseph, walked in together. Short and plump, yet still youthful-looking at fifty-eight and after bearing nine children, Elaine immediately noticed Regan’s interest in the photographs. She passed the coffeepot and plate of cookies she was carrying to her husband, who hadn’t changed out of his county sheriff’s uniform. Hooking an arm through Regan’s, Ethan’s mother proudly walked her through a family rundown.

“Hey, cool, Mom. You made my favorite cookies,” Jeremy announced, lumbering across the living room in his untied size-thirteen sneakers.

Elaine glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “There’s milk and juice in the fridge, Jeremy. I also left an entire plateful of cookies on the kitchen counter just for you.” Turning back to Regan, she said, “Otherwise the rest of us wouldn’t get any. My three older boys could take or leave raisin-filled cookies. Jeremy would have me make them three times a week.”

Turning from the wall of photos, Regan set her briefcase on the coffee table. “I only see three boys in your family portrait, Elaine. Have you lost a son?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Elaine’s brow crinkled in consternation. “Why, no. We’ve been exceptionally blessed in that way.” Her husband, too, appeared puzzled.

Ethan, busily pouring coffee into the mugs his dad had set on the table, smiled as he handed Regan her cup. “I think Mom meant three boys older than Jeremy.”

Lips pursed, Regan accepted the cup and sat. “Jeremy isn’t your son.”

Joseph Knight, a big man who wore his uniform well, ran a hand through his full head of still-black hair. “He’s been our son for the last five years. And we’re as proud of him as we are of Matthew, Jacob and Ethan,” he said, reaching out a hand to catch Jeremy’s wrist. The gangly boy tumbled down on the couch beside him.

“The folks wanted to adopt Jeremy,” Ethan said, passing Regan the plate of golden-brown cookies.

“Really? I didn’t see mention of that in the file.” She bit into the cookie as she removed a folder from her briefcase and flipped through it.

Ethan studied Jeremy a moment. The boy had begun to crack his knuckles. “Maybe Jeremy ought to supply the particulars.”

“My mom…my real mom, she threw a royal fit. She don’t want me, but she don’t want nobody…uh…anybody else to adopt me. Mom and Dad Knight made me understand how she might not want to turn loose of me. And Anna…uh…Mrs. Murphy talked to her about me legally changing my last name to Knight. As kind of a compromise, she said. Anna was gonna file the papers, but then she died.”

“You want to change your name?” Regan scribbled on the file. “I take it you’d like to live here permanently despite the racial incompatibility in the neighborhood?”

“What racial incompatibility?” Elaine, Joseph and Jeremy said simultaneously.

They looked so genuinely stupefied by her question that Regan, who choked on her cookie, turned to Ethan for clarification. He, in turn, deferred to Jeremy.

“But…but all my friends are welcome here,” Jeremy blustered. “Besides, Tony Garcia lives three houses away. And Bill Washington’s on the next block.”

Joseph Knight leaned thick wrists on his knees. “Either Ethan or I take Jeremy to the Boys’ Club once a week to mingle and play basketball. The school he attends is nicely integrated. And our daughter Erica has an adopted Vietnamese daughter.”

Regan held up a staying palm. Yet it was to Ethan that she looked when she stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry. But…but…such issues matter in some placements. Jeremy is obviously happy here and quite well-adjusted.” She closed the file, tucked it into her briefcase and snapped the locks. Rising, she thrust a hand toward Joe and then Elaine. “Those cookies were the best I’ve ever tasted. I don’t blame Jeremy for wanting them three times a week.” Regan extracted a business card from her purse and passed it to Elaine. “If you share recipes, I’d love a copy.”

Ethan’s mother beamed and so did he. His dark eyes roamed over Regan’s face and settled on her lips, where a cookie crumb still clung. He tucked the fingers of both hands into his pants pockets to keep from dusting off the crumbs. “Before I leave today,” he blurted, “I’ll write the recipe out. I’ll drop it by your office tomorrow.”

Surprised and flustered by his generosity, Regan stammered her thanks. Then she remembered he didn’t travel anywhere without that huge dog. “Uh, don’t put yourself out,” she said in a changed voice. “I prefer my staff not deal with personal business on company time. I need to set a good example. Jeremy,” she said abruptly, careful not to glance toward Ethan. “I’m also giving you one of my cards. I’ll follow up on your name-change request. But should you ever need me for any reason, I want you to feel free to call. My home number is the second one.”

Almost before Ethan got over the sting of her obvious rebuke, she’d gone. All that lingered in the room where he stood alone, the others having trailed her to the door, was a cloud of her perfume. He sniffed the air, telling himself he didn’t give a damn what made Regan Grant run hot and cold. Only, the heightened beat of his pulse told a different story.

“Too bad she doesn’t conduct personal business at the office,” Ethan muttered under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen, determined to copy his mom’s raisin-filled cookie recipe. He found a pencil, then dug the recipe out of a gaily flowered box and sat on one of the counter stools. As he painstakingly listed ingredients, Ethan groaned. He could well imagine what rumors would fly if the guys at the station ever got wind of this. A detective trading recipes. He’d never hear the end of it.

CHAPTER THREE

OFFICE MACHINES hummed and staff chattered around Regan as she unloaded file folders from her briefcase and stacked them on the counter.

“Are you completely finished with these, Ms. Grant?” a young clerk asked. “I can tag them for holding if you think you’ll be using them again.”

“I’ve dictated follow-up reports on this batch. I can’t see any reason to keep them out. Oh, wait.” Regan thumbed through the stack and removed the file on Jeremy Smith. “The foster family for this young man said Anna planned to petition the court for a change of Jeremy’s last name. Is there a second file or some other record of how far along his request has gone?”

“I’ll check. I shouldn’t be long.” The clerk—Abby, according to her name tag—took the file and disappeared into the record room.

A caseworker who’d been talking with two colleagues broke away from the group and approached Regan. “Last night I received calls from two of our foster parents. Both felt unprepared for your impromptu visits yesterday.”

Regan tapped her fingers on the counter. “I gave everyone the standard two-hour notice. Some families actually had more than two hours, because I phoned everyone before I left the office. Nothing was out of order. Why would they feel a need to complain, I wonder?”

Terry Mickelson leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to imply they’d complained. More like they…sounded curious. Perhaps you weren’t aware that Jennifer Layton and Erica Barnard aren’t run-of-the-mill foster moms.”

“No?” Regan began to feel she’d stepped on a tread-mill somewhere that had no off switch. “What are they, then?”

“They only accept kids through a temporary urgent-care safe-home section of the program instituted by Anna and Ethan, you know.” She smiled and gave a dainty shrug.

Regan crossed her arms. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Enlighten me, please. By Anna and Ethan, I assume you mean my predecessor and Detective Knight of the Desert City PD.”

“Uh…yes.” Terry glanced worriedly across the room at her friends who’d stopped talking to listen. The office fell silent enough to hear the tick of the wall clock. “Our records probably don’t indicate that Jennifer and Erica are Ethan’s sisters. Jen is a commercial artist who works out of her home. As does Erica. Work from home, I mean. She’s a CAD engineer. Computer aided design,” Terry supplied when Regan lifted one eyebrow.

“Detective Knight’s sisters? I don’t believe that came up in our conversations. We briefly discussed their occupations. Relative to how they combine full-time careers with providing state-supported child care. Like I said, they passed admirably.” Regan allowed a smile for the first time. “In fact, I wish there was a way to videotape one of their average days to use as a training film for prospective foster parents. It’s a shame they only provide temporary urgent care for us.”

Terry relaxed a body grown tense. “Erica and Jenny are great, aren’t they? Mostly I think their concerns stemmed from the fact that you seemed to single out their family for review. Elaine Knight is their mother. Lexie Knight’s a sister-in-law, and Jessica Talbot is a first cousin. I believe that today you’re scheduled to see Melissa Fogerty and Elizabeth St. George, two more of Ethan’s sisters.”

“As they all seem to be related, I suppose it does appear I’ve chosen to pick on the Knights.” Regan raised her voice enough so that the staff straining to hear could do so without effort. “I’m planning to review all families who came into our program unconventionally. The people you named and some whose files I still have in my office skipped the application process—an aberration we’ll avoid in the future. I’m quite sure our caseworkers know proper procedure, but it never hurts to have refreshers. To that end, I’ll be addressing the topic on Monday at our regular meeting, and the people under review may be asked to make proper application.”

There was a collective gasp from Terry’s co-workers. She was first to express her shock in words. “It would be a horrible mistake to trash Ethan’s efforts to save Desert City’s abused kids.”

“Is that so?” Regan’s light eyes darkened. “Pardon me, but I labor under the impression that saving this city’s abused kids is our responsibility.” Stretching across the counter, Regan tapped a fingernail on the title stamped above Terry Mickelson’s name badge. “Child Help Center. That’s us, correct?”

A once-retired caseworker, Odella Price, materialized from the records room along with Abby, the clerk who’d gone to help Regan. Odella had left the department six years previously but had returned part-time at Anna Murphy’s request. For more than a year now, Odella’s part-time load had totaled fifty hours a week. There were employees like Terry Mickelson and others who thought Odella should have been given Anna’s job, even though she had no administrative experience. A fair share of the staff let it be known in unsubtle ways.

Odella Price had grown up the daughter of parents who ministered to the poor. She was intelligent and well-educated. Empathy oozed from her pores. Around the office, she assumed a role of unofficial negotiator.

A tall woman, Odella stood five foot ten inches without shoes. She carried no spare ounce of flesh beneath her smooth mocha-colored skin. Outside of tiny laugh wrinkles fanning from rich brown eyes, few who met her believed she was sixty years old, as she claimed to be.

Moving fluidly, she glided between Regan and Terry. A gregarious smile displayed even white teeth, only close friends knew they’d been crooked until Odella turned twenty-four, when she got her MSSW and subsequently her first paycheck in a field she loved. Now she spoke through that dazzling smile. “Abby tells me you inquired about the status of Jeremy Smith’s request to change his last name, Regan.” Odella was probably the only staff member, other than Piggott, who dared call Regan by her first name. Nathaniel liberally used given names, but he allowed only a chosen few to call him anything besides, Director or sir. Since Odella’s return to the workforce, she’d placed herself on Piggot’s short list. More to annoy the man than to align herself with him.

Switching her focus from Terry Mickelson to Odella, Regan concurred with a slight nod. “I was told Jeremy desired adoption, but his birth mother refused. They believe she agreed that he could legally take the Knight name.”

“That was six months ago. Shontelle’s status changed just this week. I pulled off a fax yesterday informing us that she’s being held in a Utah prison pending murder charges. She’s alleged to have knifed her current boyfriend.”

“Excuse me? Who knifed whom?”

“Shontelle Waters. Jeremy’s birth mom. In the time he’s lived with the Knights, she’s been married and divorced twice. At last report, she’d left the state with a new man—the one she reportedly murdered. I’ve considered contacting her court-appointed attorneys in Utah. It occurred to me they could attach a clause in a plea bargain that’ll free Jeremy up for adoption.”

Regan stared into the guileless brown eyes, feeling a muscle jump in her jaw. She’d heard a rumor to the effect that Odella’s mission in life was to see all children in the foster-care program adopted into good homes. An impossibility, of course, for any number of reasons. But a worthy endeavor. One to which Regan subscribed—the operative word being good. She might add loving and nurturing to that. “Hmm, Nathaniel mentioned how successful you’ve been, Odella, in acquiring adoption permission for formerly unadoptable foster kids. Do you have a minute to step into my office to discuss that in general and, more specifically, Jeremy’s case?”

“I’d love to.” The older woman gave Regan time to collect her briefcase, and the two strolled out leaving the other caseworkers grumbling over Regan’s proposed lecture on Monday.

Once they’d entered Regan’s office, Odella asked her a personal question—something no staff member had done since Regan assumed her post. “I used to see you jogging in Riker Park each morning. Have you stopped or are you going there earlier? I hope you’re not going before daylight. Riker isn’t the safest park in the city.”

Regan bit her lower lip. “I’ve switched to the track at the high school. It’s closer to my apartment. Plus, there are fewer people to contend with. I’m sorry, I don’t recall seeing you in the park.” Regan felt bad about not recognizing Odella, although she rarely noticed people when jogging, unless they had dogs. It seemed the majority of joggers in Riker Park did have them. Big ones. Now that Odella mentioned it, her decision to change locations probably had to do with the safety issue.

Odella laughed heartily. “The morning-me in no way resembles the workplace-me. When I’m running, I wear baggy sweats and have my hair tucked under one of my husband’s old army caps. Add to that a set of earphones and dark glasses the size of saucers. You, on the other hand, could pass for Barbie’s sister in your matched pink baseball cap, spandex bike shorts and T-shirt.”

Regan flushed at the apt description.

“That was meant as a compliment, Regan,” Odella said as they each claimed a chair and sat. “You looked fashionable, and I envied you. I’m such a mess in the mornings. Oh, and you have a great jogging pace. You don’t run like I’m almost sure Barbie—or any member of her family—would run.”

That garnered a laugh from Regan. “My former fiancé ran five miles every morning before he went to the gym. He couldn’t stand the thought of me sleeping in while he went out to sweat. I learned to keep up. It was either that or forever after listen to how weak women are.”

“Nice guy. Is that why he’s your former fiancé?”

Realizing she’d let something private slip, Regan dropped her affable manner. “I believe we came here to discuss Jeremy Smith’s situation and that of other children stalled in the foster-care system.”

The glimmer of interest aimed at Regan stayed in Odella’s warm brown eyes for another moment. “Before we get down to business, let me extend an invitation to meet me anytime to jog, hike or bike. My kids are grown. They’re all too busy with their own lives to join me anymore. Roger, my husband, said he had to punish his body every day of the twenty-five years he served Uncle Sam. Now that he’s retired, he prefers getting his exercise pruning our cactus. I guess you know how slowly cacti grow.”

“I don’t enjoy hiking alone,” Regan murmured. “In Phoenix I had friends who regularly hiked Squaw Peak. Or sometimes we’d drive to Prescott on the weekend to climb Thumb Butte. I haven’t inquired about trails here.”

“There are some nice ones in the Catalina Foothills. Mount Lemmon offers more strenuous routes.” Odella pulled a business card out of her suit pocket and shoved it across Regan’s desk. “I won’t bug you. But here’s my home phone number if you’re ever in the mood. And, Regan, for the record, I leave work at the office.”

Regan turned the business card over in her fingers several times before relaxing enough to tuck it into her pocket. “I’ve missed hiking. The weather lately has been perfect for it. There’s something about mountain air—it refreshes the mind and rejuvenates the soul. We’ll have to set something up for a weekend soon. I’ve been spending far too much time inside since I moved to Desert City.”

“Good.” Odella leaned forward. “Now, about Jeremy’s current status—” She was interrupted by a heavy footfall outside the door, followed by feminine giggles and deeper male laughter.

“Let me shut my door so we’ll have more privacy, Odella.” Regan rose and circled her desk. She’d gripped the knob, starting to pull the door inward when pointed black ears, a dark muzzle and lolling pink tongue appeared in front of her. Regan felt the floor shift and spin. Her legs refused to carry her backward as her mind screamed at her to do it and do it quickly.

Odella, who’d rotated in her chair, clucked happily. “Well, if it isn’t the Tasmanian Devil himself.” Climbing to her feet, she hastened across the room to rub the dog’s head and pat his wriggling hindquarters. “Is that your handsome master causing a ruckus in the hall? Where Taz is, Ethan’s not far behind,” she said, aiming a broad smile at Regan. Her eyes encountered a blank stare and a body so stiff it could have been carved from marble.

“Regan?” The question fell on deaf ears.

Ethan had paused across the hall at the open lounge door to chat with Nicky Mason, who was on her way out with a full cup of coffee. He spun when he heard his name. Realizing Regan’s door stood open, he excused himself from Nicole and called Taz sharply to heel.

The dog appeared on cue and sat. But rather than a furious Regan Grant flying out of the supervisory office, Odella Price emerged wearing a panicked expression. Ethan knew what had caused the look, and he suffered a stab of guilt. He’d intended to leave Taz in the SUV. He’d forgotten and had let the dog follow him inside the building out of habit.

“Nicky, could you keep Taz at the reception desk while I complete my business with Regan? I won’t be long.” In truth, Ethan couldn’t remember why he’d come. He’d been visiting schools today…. Oh, yes, the recipe she wanted. Yet he certainly hadn’t planned to make a special trip to CHC for that. He could, he supposed, blame it on a slow morning. Mitch had an early-morning court appointment to testify in the case of a local car salesman who’d been jailed for being drunk and disorderly. The guy had smacked his girlfriend around a bar parking lot. It was the joker’s third arrest in six months for the same thing. Different girlfriend, same charge. Mitch hoped to accomplish more than put the jerk on probation this time.

“Sure, Ethan. I love Taz. Hey—I heard you and Taz are participating in another endurance test.” Her red-slicked mouth formed a pretty pout. “If it’s this weekend, I’m free to be your cheering section.”

“Uh…it’s not that soon.” Ethan stumbled over his tongue. By now he’d reached the doorway where Odella stood. Behind her, Ethan saw the white-faced woman he’d considered inviting to go with him to Taz’s Schutzhund. Ever since Regan had refused to get out of her car until he’d restrained Taz, Ethan entertained a crazy notion that watching the dogs work might shake Regan Grant out of her nutty fear.

Observing her statuelike pose and her sightless eyes, Ethan quickly dismissed his plan. Nutty her fear might be to someone like him, but Regan’s terror was certainly real to her.

Ethan moved in close to her rigid body. Not positive she’d heard Taz’s receding pad-pad as the dog followed Nicole around the corner, Ethan felt a need to reassure Regan. “It’s okay. He’s gone. The dog left.” Ethan spoke softly and touched her chin, bringing the glassy blue eyes level with his own.

Regan identified Ethan Knight through a haze of fear. Her right hand curved tightly around her neck, hiding the thin scar she knew tended to stand out more when color flooded her face. She knew because Jack said people wouldn’t notice her disfigurement if she didn’t draw attention to it. It wasn’t until after their split that Regan realized Jack Diamond surrounded himself with perfection. She did owe him something. If not for his constant badgering, she’d never have had the last plastic surgery. Thanks to new laser techniques, what had once been ugly red welts were now faint white lines. But not even lasers were effective against unseen damage.

Her feelings surrounding the long-ago incident left her weak and vulnerable in areas she didn’t wish exposed to co-workers. Or to the likes of Ethan Knight. Wearing his uniform today, he looked especially imposing and very male. Too male.

Collecting her wits, Regan released her grip on the doorknob. She stepped back in an attempt to gather her tattered nerves. “Who’s gone?” she queried coolly. “Odella and I were trying to have a private conversation. Your dilly-dallying in the hall with Nicole disturbed us. If you’ll excuse us, we’d like to get on with our business.” Edging him into the hall, Regan began closing Ethan out.

He and Odella exchanged questioning glances. “I, uh, thought you might be concerned about seeing Taz close-up again.”

“I don’t like to be sniffed and licked, that’s all.”

Ethan donned a reckless seductive grin. Ignoring Odella, who watched his antics with interest, Ethan propped a broad shoulder against the door casing, crowding Regan in a way that was masculine and intimate. “Now if that was a true statement,” he said pleasantly, letting a lethally hot gaze follow the tip of his forefinger as he dusted the top three pearl buttons of Regan’s white blouse, “you wouldn’t buy perfume designed to turn a man’s insides out. Or man-tailored blouses that leave a guy itching to know what’s underneath.”

Despite the tight rein Regan had clamped on her nerves, she wasn’t able to prevent a surge of heat from racing to her stomach. For all that she didn’t miss about her former fiancé, she’d enjoyed the sex. Or she had until the extent of Jack’s infidelities came to light, forcing her to undertake the humiliating experience of explaining to her doctor why she needed HIV testing. If seeing her name on the vials of blood wasn’t sobering enough, the weeks of waiting for the tests to come back clear should have made her swear off men. Especially men whose egos seemed to need proof that they could conquer every woman they met. And policemen headed the list. Hadn’t Ethan Knight just been in the hall putting moves on Nicole Mason?

Commanding her own racing blood by issuing a dismissive gesture, Regan marched to her desk and sat in her swivel chair. “It may come as a shock to you, Detective, but not all women buy perfume and clothing to tempt men. I buy what pleases me. If you can check your juvenile hormones at the door, you might find what Odella and I were discussing to be of interest.”

“Yes, ma’am. But don’t forget that I grew up in a household of six women. Seven, counting my mom. I’d say I have a fair insight into what motivates a woman’s purchases.” Finding Regan’s prim speech amusing, Ethan winked at Odella as he shut the door behind them and pulled out her chair.

“Six sisters?” Regan wore a surprised, almost wistful expression.

“Yep. And two brothers.” Ethan dragged his own chair closer to Regan, spun it around and straddled it. “Never a dull moment in the Knight household. I miss it sometimes,” he said reflectively. “All except the part about taking a number to get your turn in the bathroom.”

Odella chuckled. “That also happens when you only have four kids. And whoever said boys take less time primping for dates than girls was dead wrong. When my oldest boy hit puberty and started taking forty-minute showers every morning, Roger called a builder and added a master bath off our bedroom. Smartest thing the man ever did, outside of marrying me.”

Regan smiled, finding pleasure in listening to them talk about their families—until suddenly Ethan pinned her with a searching look. “Feel free to jump in here and complain about your siblings, Regan.”

Wiping the smile from her lips, Regan fiddled with the ruby ring her father had sent her the Christmas she turned eighteen—one of the many holidays she’d spent alone at boarding school. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, but after the split with her mother, he needed to keep busy in order to forget the divorce. After five years of burying himself in the consulting firm he owned, Gerald Grant found a new love. Dee Dee was closer to Regan’s age than Gerald’s. At the beginning, she didn’t want any reminder of her older husband’s first marriage. Once they had Blair, Dee Dee started inviting Regan home to baby-sit.

“Well, are you an only child or what?” Ethan prodded.

“I have a stepsister. She just turned sixteen. I’d left home long before she began dating or primping in the bathroom. Anyway, the house my dad bought when he and Dee Dee got married has five bathrooms.”

“Five,” Odella breathed in awe, at the same time as Ethan exclaimed, “My house is big and I only have two bathrooms. You must have grown up in a damned hotel, Grant.”

Regan flushed. “I didn’t grow up there. Anyway, it isn’t a house that’s important, but the people living in it.” Nevertheless she made a mental note to phone Blair after work—just to see how she was getting along. Straightening, Regan swung her gaze from Ethan’s frankly curious look to Odella. “Inform Detective Knight of what you told me about Jeremy Smith’s mom.”

“It’s Ethan,” he reminded her. Then, turning to face Odella, he frowned. “Don’t tell me Shontelle’s back in town. Jeremy’s only started to relax in the last few months—since she quit showing up at his school, high, soused or hitting him up for money.”

Odella explained about the fax the department had received. She asked what Ethan thought their chances were of freeing Jeremy up for adoption in a plea bargain.

“The folks are still eager to adopt Jeremy. But you know my dad had a mild heart attack five or six months ago. He’s only just gone back to work full-time, so I’d hate to cause him stress if the adoption didn’t pan out—again”

“I’d heard,” Odella murmured sympathetically. “Roger and I were so surprised. We thought Joe was about as fit as any man we’ve met.”

Regan flipped open Jeremy’s file. “There’s no notation here about Jeremy’s foster dad suffering a heart ailment.”

“Is that something you usually log in a foster kid’s record?”

“Yes. Especially something that major. An effective caseworker is on top of any situation that may force a change in a client’s living conditions.”

“Change, how?” Ethan stretched out one leg and began to drum his fingers on his knee. “Even if, God forbid, my father had died, Jeremy would still have a roof over his head, food in his belly and a loving mother to listen to his woes.”

Regan reacted to the agitation she heard in his voice. “You can’t guarantee that. If your mother became suddenly widowed, or if your dad had a series of heart attacks leaving him in need of nursing care and unable to work, Elaine might not have time for Jeremy.”

“Bullshit.” Ethan scooted to the edge of his chair and leaned belligerently forward, bracing one hand on a tense thigh. “You have some funny ideas about a person’s commitment to family. If something had happened to either Mom or Dad while any of us nine kids still lived at home, do you think the surviving parent would have thrown us out?”

“That’s hardly the point. Jeremy isn’t of their blood.”

“Gosh, you’d better tell them that. I don’t think they’ve noticed. He’s been there five years, after all.”

“You may find this something to joke about, Detective. I don’t. Odella, please hold off talking to the attorneys about the possibility of Jeremy’s adoption until after I’ve had a chance to run this by Nathaniel. Serious illness of a foster parent throws a different slant on this case. I’ll ask you to keep news of the fax to yourself for the time being, Detective Knight. I’d hate to needlessly raise Jeremy’s hopes.”

“Ethan. Call me Ethan.” He uncurled his long frame from the chair. His badge caught a shaft of sunlight streaming in the window, causing Regan to wince. “I’d cringe too,” Ethan snapped, “at the prospect of sitting down across from Piggot while he rides the fence on an issue that means everything to a kid. You disappoint me, Regan. I’d pegged you for a woman like Anna. One with the confidence to make her own decisions and the guts to advocate for kids who have damned few champions.”

“With this position come certain difficult responsibilities,” Regan pointed out. “There are proper channels to navigate. Established rules to follow.”

Ethan sent her a pitying look from the door where he stood, tugging on the hat he’d removed on entering her office.

He looked imposing in his khaki uniform. Regan glanced away to avoid the censure she knew lurked in his expressive eyes. Why was she always trying to please men who didn’t think she quite measured up to their expectations? Among them, her father, Jack Diamond and now Ethan Knight. But that was silly! She barely knew Ethan Knight. What did it matter whether he approved of anything she chose to do?

Odella seemed torn between staying to talk further with Regan and walking out with Ethan. In the end she got to her feet and trailed after him. “I’ll touch base with you tomorrow, Regan,” she said. “Need I remind you that timing is critical here? If Shontelle’s attorney is going to offer a plea bargain in hopes of getting her sentence reduced, he’ll do it soon after the arraignment. That’s Monday, according to the fax.”

“Save your breath, Odella,” Ethan advised loudly enough for Regan to hear. “Crossing all the t’s and dotting every i takes time. If you miss the boat while Regan’s dithering, no one’ll fault you. I mean, you were just following the rules.” He shut the door with such force the glass panel shuddered.

So did Regan. Damn, but that man rubbed her wrong. He had some nerve implying that taking the proper steps meant Jeremy might lose out on his chance to be adopted by the Knights. Who would suffer the repercussions if she circumvented the red tape, only to have Joe Knight keel over from a bad heart? Ethan couldn’t guarantee that his mother wouldn’t see it as an opportunity to break free of domestic obligations. Think of the damage to Jeremy then. And it could happen. Ethan might believe that because Elaine was a devoted mother, that she would never put her freedom first. Regan knew better. Victoria, her own mother, had done exactly that.

Though more men than women opted out of parenting and simply walked away, Regan had handled caseloads that dealt with both. When it came to ensuring that kids didn’t get the raw end of the deal, no set of rules was too involved or too tedious, in her estimation. That cop could sneer all he liked; Regan had unwritten promises to uphold. Promises she’d made long ago on behalf of kids who had no other advocate.

ETHAN HAD BEEN so irritated with Regan Grant when he left her office, he’d completely forgotten the reason he’d dropped by in the first place. He didn’t recall until he’d put Taz in his patrol car and driven off. As he braked for the first stoplight, the crinkle of the recipe card in his pocket reminded him he hadn’t delivered it.

He’d parted from Odella in the hallway. He’d been so hot under the collar because of Regan that he’d flirted shamelessly with Nicole when he stopped to collect Taz at the reception desk. Though he found her immature, he’d actually let her wiggle out of him the date of the next Schutzhund competition. Ethan’s initial plan had been to invite Regan Grant to attend. Well, forget that!

It was beyond Ethan how a woman he barely knew could alternately stir his pulse and push so many of his buttons. Before they parted, Odella had casually mentioned that Regan jogged every morning at 6 a.m. She even dropped the name of the high school where Regan used the track. Perhaps he ought to try to connect with her on some level other than work. It was obvious they were miles apart on that.

Jogging was good.

Healthy. Fresh air worked up a sweat and an appetite—for a lot of things. Ethan abandoned himself to a vision of what it would be like to take the cool CHC supervisor back to his house after a sweaty run, where they’d add to the sheen of sweat by tumbling across the sheets. He practically drooled on the steering wheel picturing the steam they could create if the lady wrapped her long legs around his naked hips. He sizzled thinking about it.

Taz barked in his ear, and Ethan realized he’d been sitting at a light well after it had turned green. People around him, heeding his marked car, hesitated nervously, as if expecting some calamity to unfold in the vicinity. Gritting his teeth, he looked neither right nor left, gunned the engine and took off.

“Sheesh, Taz, I’m some kind of cop. Here I am daydreaming about Regan Grant like some high-schooler.” He had been so busy categorizing the lady’s attributes, he’d have missed a bank robbery if it’d been going down on that very corner.

The dog placed a paw on Ethan’s shoulder and licked his cheek. While Ethan dipped his head to the side and rubbed his chin across the soft fur, Taz uttered a throaty whine of sympathy.

“Yeah, pal, not only do I strike sparks off her, she’s not too crazy about you, either. I think it’s plain fright, even if she tries to gloss over it.”

Ethan pulled up behind the courthouse at a site where he’d arranged to meet Mitch. “Maybe I should give her up as a lost cause, Taz.” He and Taz came as a pair. “Yeah,” he said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “It’s a case of love me, love my dog.”

Mitch opened the passenger door in time to hear the last of Ethan’s comment. “What, or maybe I should say who, has you talking to yourself, buddy?”

“Nobody.” Ethan fought a flush. “You know I always talk to Taz.”

“Right. Except this time you sounded like a lovesick moose. ‘Love me, love my dog,’” Mitch chirped in falsetto.

“Buckle up and shut up,” Ethan growled. “Since I know you won’t quit until you worm it out of me, I’m thinking about setting up an accidental meeting with Supervisor Grant tomorrow morning.” Ethan proceeded to tell his friend how, on a couple of occasions, Regan Grant had reacted oddly to Taz.

Mitch whistled. “If you want my advice—which you never take but which I’ll give you, anyway—write her off. She sounds phobic. You have about as much chance of a zebra losing its stripes as you do of unscrambling someone’s phobia.”

“You may be right,” Ethan mumbled. But he knew there was something about Regan that made him want to try.

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