Strength Under Fire. Dana Nussio

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Only Lieutenant Peterson was noticeably absent.

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

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

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

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

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

      Now that she couldn’t explain at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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