One Good Man. Julie Miller

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      His lean years growing up in a decaying neighborhood north of downtown Kansas City had taught him to recognize some basic tricks of survival. Attacking before the enemy could identify your weakness was a classic.

      Uptown or down, Mitch recognized vulnerability.

      “So why would Commissioner Reed think anything was wrong here?” He nudged the cane out of sight with his toe, allowing her the security of hiding the extent of her disability from him.

      He turned, catching the startled expression on her face before she quickly replaced it with that stoic mask. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he didn’t call me himself.”

      “He probably figured you’d lie and say everything was all right so he wouldn’t worry.”

      She shrugged. “Everything is all right. Other than you breaking down the door.”

      He stepped toward her. “Something scared the hell out of you tonight.”

      “You did.”

      “No. Before I showed up, something wasn’t right.” He advanced farther, and enjoyed the transient satisfaction of seeing her mask slip a little.

      Even at the cusp of winter, the mansions in this oldmonied neighborhood had an unlived-in perfection about them. Lawns were manicured, homes and fences were decorated for the holidays and welcoming lights blazed from crystal-clear windows and porches.

      But not the Maynard estate. The imposing structure was half-hidden behind a high granite wall and black wrought-iron gate. Inside that barrier, ancient oaks lined the driveway, casting shadows across the yard that even twin porch lights couldn’t illuminate. One wing of the house was closed off. The interior had been dark. The items he’d stumbled over in the hallway and in this room were arranged in pristine, untouched perfection.

      So who kept the princess locked in the tower?

      Fairy tales had never topped Mitch’s reading list, but he couldn’t think of a better analogy. Where was the family the commissioner had asked him to check on? He’d bet his next paycheck that she lived alone in this overbuilt monstrosity.

      “Are you married, Ms. Maynard? Live with a boyfriend or fiancé?”

      He interpreted the sharp, humorless sound that passed as her laugh for a no.

      “What about your parents?”

      “I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Taylor. I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore.”

      Touché. So he wasn’t the only one who resorted to sarcasm under pressure.

      “Where are they?” He took another step.

      “Now that they’ve retired, they spend their winters in a warmer climate.” Not much of an answer, so he switched tactics.

      “Why did you attack me?” He reached her desk.

      “I thought you were an intruder.” She squared her shoulders. “Most visitors ring the buzzer at the gatehouse before I send them on their way.”

      He ignored the obvious hint. He braced his hands on the desktop and leaned toward her. “I said I was a cop.”

      She tilted her chin upward. “I don’t care if—”

      Garbled voices from the front of the house interrupted their standoff. By the time he spun around, two uniformed patrolmen had entered the room, positioning themselves with guns drawn and pointed straight at him.

      “Hold it right there,” one of the officers commanded.

      Mitch calmly raised his hands. He heard a strangled gasp behind him, a soft, barely audible sound of despair. He glanced back at Casey. If possible, her fine porcelain skin had blanched even further.

      Guns? Cops? Or men in general?

      Something about the blue-suits, something about him, terrified her. Not because she thought he was breaking in. Not because she valued her privacy.

      Him.

      The discovery hit Mitch in the gut with all the force of her cane smacking his face. She was afraid of him. And fighting like a regal hellcat to prove she wasn’t.

      Ungrateful though she might be for his help, the need to protect surged through him. Despite her proud and prickly demeanor, she looked too weak to deal with more unexpected visitors. And rule number one in his self-written code of ethics was to always defend the underdog.

      So Mitch took up the banner for her. He pointed to his badge and identified his rank.

      “Captain?” The officer who had spoken earlier couldn’t hide his embarrassment. Once they’d both holstered their weapons, Mitch dropped his hands and moved toward them. He had no desire to chew their butts for the honest mistake. They’d simply been doing their job. Answering a call with promptness and authority.

      “I’ve got everything under control here. I’m guessing it was a false alarm.” The best way to salvage a man’s pride was to give him something worthwhile to do. “It wouldn’t hurt to check the grounds, though, see if anybody’s been snooping around. And find something to patch the front door with.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      With curt nods, they exited the room. Mitch turned around in the doorway and studied Casey. She’d closed her eyes and was breathing deeply. She seemed small and out of place in the huge dimensions of the room. He could see now it was a library, lined on three walls with recessed bookshelves. The row of windows on the fourth wall overlooked a dead garden. Her desk stood like an island in the center of the room, covered with neat stacks of paperwork, a computer system, a fax machine and a telephone.

      He wondered if she lived in this lonely sanctuary by choice, or if someone had tucked her away and forgotten her there.

      “What are you staring at?” Casey’s pointed question intruded on his thoughts. The prickly princess was back in place, and Mitch couldn’t help smiling.

      “Quite possibly the prettiest waste of an evening I’ve ever spent.”

      She arched one eyebrow, and Mitch imagined the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

      “I’m not sure. Do you take compliments?”

      “Don’t let me keep you from any real police work, Captain.”

      Oh, man, she was good. Mitch let the cutting edge of her tongue bounce off his well-worn hide. He’d been made this family’s scapegoat for the last time this evening. “Don’t worry. Your uncle has already seen to that.”

      “He’s not really my uncle. Just an old family friend.”

      Mitch’s retort about missing the point died on his lips.

      She anchored her hands on either arm of her chair and stood, wavering for an instant until she found her balance. She breathed in deeply, turned on her exhale and limped toward the couch. She stepped gingerly on her right foot. The whole leg seemed to buckle each time СКАЧАТЬ