Nanny 911. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ mean, even if I prove I’m as good at this job as he is, possibly even better, what good does that do me? If Captain Cutler and the guys resent that I’m there instead of him, that messes up our efficiency. I’d feel like a real usurper for being there. But if I transfer off the team, or get cut because Kincaid is a better man…”

      She turned off the hot water and hugged her arms around her naked body as the water ran down the drain and the locker room’s cool air raised goose bumps across her skin. If Dr. Kilpatrick wasn’t so good at her job, then Miranda might not still be shaking from the embarrassing accuracy of the psychologist’s next question.

      “Do these self-esteem issues go back to that incident this summer when the Rich Girl Killer attacked you?”

      “He wasn’t after me. He wanted Sergeant Delgado’s girlfriend—his wife now—because she could ID him.”

      “I read Delgado’s report myself. He said you slowed down the RGK long enough for him to get there to save his wife from being murdered.”

      Backhanded praise was no better than a reprimand. “My job wasn’t to slow him down. It was my job to stop him. I failed. He got the drop on me, bashed my head in and I failed.”

      “There’s a reason it’s called a team. It takes all of you, working together, to complete your mission. You’re there to complement each other’s strengths, and, on certain days, compensate for a weakness. Every man on that team knows that. Every man has been where you are. No one blames you for having an off day.”

      That indulgent, don’t-be-so-hard-on-yourself tone only made the self-doubts whispering inside Miranda’s head shout out loud. “You know it’s different when you’re a woman, Doc. ‘Good’ isn’t good enough. If I can’t perform when my team needs me to, then why the hell should Captain Cutler keep me around?”

      The psychologist jotted something on her notepad, then leaned forward in her chair. “SWAT Team 1 is your family, aren’t they? That’s why you’re being so hard on yourself, why you’re so afraid of making a mistake. You don’t want to lose your family again.”

      Stupid, intuitive psychologist! That was why the session with Dr. Kilpatrick had upset her so much today. She’d gotten Miranda to reveal a truth she hadn’t even admitted to herself yet.

      With her parents both gone and her older brother stationed in Afghanistan, Miranda had no one in Kansas City. No one, period. All she had was this job. Being a cop—a highly select SWAT cop—was her identity. It gave her goals, satisfaction, a sense of community and worth. If she screwed it up, then she’d really be up a creek. Of course, the holidays only exacerbated that reeling sense of loneliness she normally kept at bay.

      And she’d actually revealed all that to the doctor?

      “Ow!” The pinch of sanity on her scalp told her that (a), she was tugging too hard with the hairbrush, and (b), she needed to get a grip. If she wanted to make the claim that she was a strong woman who deserved to have the job she did, then she needed to quit wallowing in these weak, feminine emotions that felt so foreign to her, and get her head on straight.

      Decision made. Time to act. Emotions off.

      “Now get out of here, Murdock,” she advised her reflection in the mirror.

      After pulling her long, straight hair back into a ponytail, Miranda dressed in her civvies and bundled up in her stocking cap and coat to face the wintry air blowing outside. Night had fallen by the time she hurried down the steps toward the crosswalk that would lead her to the parking garage across the street.

      Heading south for half a block, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her navy wool peacoat and hunched her shoulders against the wind hitting her back. When she reached the crosswalk and waited for the light to change, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket to check the time. Great. By this hour on Christmas Eve, none of the usual restaurants where she liked to pick up a quick dinner would be open. She tried to picture her freezer and wondered what microwave choices she had on hand that she could zap for dinner, or if she’d be eating a bowl of cereal again. Why couldn’t she remember these things before she got hungry and the stores had closed?

      The light changed. She jumped over the slushy gray snow that had accumulated against the curb, and hurried across the street. That was another thing she missed with John being over in Afghanistan. Besides the bear hugs and patient advice, the man could cook. She’d never really had to learn because he had the gourmet talents and interest in the family. Miranda could easily recall the ham, mashed potatoes, baby asparagus, fruit salad and thick chocolate cake John had fixed for Christmas dinner last year. Her mouth watered at the memory of silky, semisweet frosting and light, moist layers of pure fudge heaven.

      Her bowl of cereal was sounding pretty sad right about now.

      She entered the parking garage and jogged up the ramp to the second level, where she’d parked her red pickup that morning, long before they’d gotten the call to the Gallagher Security Systems building. As the morning’s events passed through her mind, her thoughts took a left turn and landed on the image of GSS’s boss, Quinn Gallagher, running the show in his poshly furnished, high-tech penthouse office.

      The tailored suit and way he spoke, straightforward and concise, as though he was used to people jumping at his word, were clear indicators of his wealth and power. But the short dark hair with that one shaggy lock falling out of place onto his forehead, and those Clark Kent–ish black glasses said science geek. Surprisingly, there’d been muscles under that suit coat. She’d seen them flex and push at the seams of his jacket when he picked up his little girl. Quinn Gallagher was an odd combination of a man—a nearsighted nerd with guns and pecs hidden beneath his suit and tie.

      Miranda grinned at the inside joke of her own making. Did Mr. Gallagher even know that he resembled a famous comic book character?

      “What’s so funny?”

      Stifling the startled gasp that tried to escape, Miranda halted at the big man climbing out of a truck parked in the row across from hers. The black KCPD sweats marked him as a friend, but recognition made it difficult to keep her feet from dashing to her own vehicle. Talk about lousy timing.

      “Hey.” Lame greeting, but sufficient. Holden Kincaid needed no introduction. She shrugged off the sappy grin that had caught his attention. “Private joke. About a comic book.”

      “It’s Murdock, right?” He pointed to the proportionately sized silvery malamute circling the bed of his truck. “Yukon, stay.” Amazingly, the dog sat on his haunches as his master crossed the driving lane to extend his hand. “Holden Kincaid.”

      “I know who you are, Officer Kincaid.” There was nothing but polite friendliness in his demeanor, so running away from the man whose return to duty was giving her such fits about her job would only broadcast the insecurity she needed to hide. With the work-out sweats, stocking cap and scarf tucked around his neck, she could guess he wasn’t here to take her job this evening. “Going for a run?”

      He nodded, thumbing over his shoulder at the dog. “Ol’ Yukon there loves the snow, so any chance we can do a winter run, we go for it.”

      Keep it natural and conversational. “Even on Christmas Eve?”

      His laugh clouded the chilly air. “Liza said I needed to get out of the house for a couple of hours. I take it there’s some Santa Claus stuff in the works with her and my son. So I took the dog out for a run, then came here to lift weights in the fitness center. I figure they need about СКАЧАТЬ