The Doctor's Little Secret

“The problem is…”

He stopped.

Rachel waited for him to gather his thoughts. No hurry. Besides, she was enjoying the electricity in the air and the guy’s low-key yet unmistakable masculinity—a refreshing change from the macho specimens she knew.

“Lauren’s mother insists that she belongs in a family,” Russ explained. “She remembers me the way I was five years ago, not remotely ready for parenting.”

“How did you change her mind?” This ought to be interesting.

He cleared his throat. “I told her I was engaged.”

That was weird. “To who?”

“Well…you.”

Dear Reader,

The story of Russ and Rachel launches a new series about police officers and children. It actually began as two separate ideas.

First I pictured a woman who had survived a terrible car crash and was finally getting her life on track ten years later. She and her two closest friends volunteered at a homework center and became involved in the lives of needy children. At age thirty, they’d almost given up on love.

The second idea concerned three police officers (originally all male) who were reassessing their lives after narrowly escaping death. Each had to tackle an issue concerning children—perhaps a child given up for adoption, or a desire to have a child—now that life had given him a second chance.

These two ideas mingled in my mind until I realized that they belonged together. In the course of working out the stories, one of the officers became a woman—Rachel—and the man who’d given up a child for adoption became a doctor.

Subsequent stories concern Rachel’s friend Connie and her next-door nemesis, Hale; and Marta—the accident survivor—and the department’s Romeo, Derek. I hope you enjoy them!

Best,

Jacqueline Diamond

The Doctor’s Little Secret

Jacqueline Diamond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A former Associated Press reporter, Jacqueline Diamond has written more than sixty novels and received a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. Jackie lives in Southern California with her husband, two sons and two cats. You can e-mail her at [e-mail] or visit her Web site at www.jacquelinediamond.com.

Books by Jacqueline Diamond

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS

962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY

971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY

978—PROGNOSIS: A BABY? MAYBE

1046—THE BABY’S BODYGUARD

1075—THE BABY SCHEME

1094—THE POLICE CHIEF’S LADY*

1101—NINE-MONTH SURPRISE*

1109—A FAMILY AT LAST*

1118—DAD BY DEFAULT*

1130—THE DOCTOR + FOUR*

As always, for Kurt

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 Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Under other circumstances, Rachel Byers might have enjoyed being invited to a party by a couple of guys. Especially great-looking guys with guns.

Unfortunately, her buddies at the Villazon, California, police department thought of her as one of the boys, with maybe a few minor differences.

Take this request from Detective Hale Crandall, the beer-bash host: “Yo, Rache, how about bringing a DVD tomorrow night? A chick flick would be fine. Like the kind with mud wrestling.”

Fine. As long as he didn’t expect her to do the mud wrestling. Speaking of wrestling, she could pin Hale as often as not, and he knew it.

That might be, she supposed, part of her problem.

“Bring a couple of girlfriends, too,” suggested Officer Derek Reed, a Brad Pitt clone whose womanizing reputation had earned him the nickname Sergeant Hit and Run from the nurses at the local hospital. “You know my type. Big blond hair, big—” he made a descriptive gesture with his hands “—you get the picture.”

“If I had girlfriends like that, I wouldn’t let them anywhere near you clowns,” Rachel returned. “Excuse me. Some of us have to patrol. We can’t all work sissy desk jobs.”

Hale snorted. Derek, who seemed less than thrilled about his recent assignment as head of community relations and public information, scowled.

Rachel would hate flying a desk. She loved wearing a uniform and a gun, and enjoyed a little physical action now and then to set the juices flowing.

Too bad she wasn’t getting any physical action in her personal life. At five foot eleven, she either intimidated men or inspired them…to invite her to join their softball team. If she ever met Mr. Right, she’d have to arrest him to reach first base.

Wait. Scratch the reference to first base.

“I wish you wouldn’t encourage them,” muttered Elise Masterson, the other woman on the swing shift. “They’re sexist enough as it is.” She fell into step beside Rachel as they walked toward the back of the building.

“Were they being sexist?” Rachel had difficulty figuring out the finer points of political correctness.

She sympathized with Elise, whose efforts to skin back her blond hair in a bun did little to discourage the masculine attention she considered so annoying. Men had an amazing ability to detect curves even beneath a Kevlar vest.

“Never mind,” Elise answered. “We have more important things to focus on. Finding that lost kid, for instance.”

They’d been advised during briefing to watch for a three-year-old girl named Nina Franco who’d wandered away from her parents a few hours earlier. An intensive search was in progress around the park where she’d vanished.

With luck, some well-meaning civilian would bring Nina in before dark. The disappearance of a child was unusual in the Los Angeles suburb of Villazon. Although it had its share of burglaries and domestic assaults, by and large residents felt safe.

Outside, Elise strode off across the rain-dampened parking lot. A couple of male colleagues paused en route to their cars to study the sway of her butt, graceful despite the heavy lace-up boots.

In high school, Rachel had submitted to dance classes in an attempt to refine her own clunky strut. After she accidentally kicked a classmate and pulled the barre loose from the wall, the teacher had advised her to try the wrestling team. Good suggestion.

Glamour still evaded Rachel with a vengeance. A few months earlier, hoping to update her style, she’d dyed her brown hair to what was supposed to be auburn. It had emerged a brassy red that was still growing out.

Well, she had the right build and temperament for her dream job. What more could a girl ask?

The air smelled of wet asphalt, a testament to the February rains that had soaked Southern California for the past few weeks. Rachel tried not to think about the sodden slope behind her condominium or the risk of its collapsing. Out of her control, so why worry?

Her assigned car was a different matter. Rachel took nothing for granted. Before getting in, she checked the gas level and the tires, tested the lights and oil level, made a survey for any unreported dents and poked around the backseat to make sure some arrestee on an earlier shift hadn’t stashed contraband.

Satisfied, she stowed a gear-filled bag in the trunk and, beside her, secured a metal box containing paperwork and forms. She didn’t want stuff sent flying during a pursuit.

Then, strapping herself into the driver’s seat and switching on the two-way radio and the small computer screen known as a mobile data terminal, she called dispatch to report that she was in service.

Rolling out on patrol provided the usual burst of energy. Rachel treasured the independence and the challenge. On the street, she became her own boss.

Her assigned patrol area today encompassed the central section of Villazon. There was nothing flashy about Rachel’s hometown, she mused as she merged into the flow of traffic, her windows rolled down so she could monitor street noises. Despite its location within a dozen or so miles of Hollywood, movie stars never set foot here unless they got lost fleeing the paparazzi.

The community of fifty thousand offered a mix of shops and office buildings in its core area, along with blocks of Craftsman cottages dating back to the twenties and thirties. Cruising past yards filled with rosebushes and tricycles, Rachel enjoyed the town’s old-fashioned feel. Even its special events had an endearing corniness, she reflected.

Each May, the Pickle Parade celebrated the town’s former claim to fame as the site of a large pickling plant that had processed cucumbers from surrounding fields. The fields were gone, and the pickle factory survived as a farmer’s market that imported most of its produce from either Imperial County, California, or Mexico. Rachel wasn’t sentimental, though. She liked shopping for gifts at In a Pickle.

As she wove a random pattern through the neighborhoods and listened to the radio chatter, she kept watch for Nina. Three feet tall, twenty-five pounds, straight dark locks and brown eyes that smiled from the photo clipped to Rachel’s visor. Last seen wearing blue pants and a pink top with a white bunny on the front.

The searchers near the park hadn’t found her. One witness reported a child of a similar description entering a car driven by a gray-haired man. As Rachel noted the information, her heart squeezed. Kids that age were so helpless and trusting. The possibility of someone harming a child aroused a deeper anger in her than any other crime.

Rachel didn’t remember much from her own life at that age, and what she did recall, she preferred to forget. An alcoholic mother, absent father…Luckily she’d been adopted by a new family who provided as much love and support as a child could ask.

Nina’s image stayed at the forefront of Rachel’s thoughts. After pulling over and citing a gray-haired driver who’d run a red light, she visually inspected the car’s interior and asked him to open his trunk. He complied willingly once she explained the reason, and revealed nothing more threatening than a bag of groceries.

Later, she backed up another officer checking on an elderly woman whose daughter couldn’t reach her by phone. Rachel scanned the children who gathered outside to gawk at the squad car, but none resembled Nina. Indoors, they found the woman with a broken hip and requested an ambulance.

As Rachel returned to her car, early-winter twilight was closing in. On the radio, the exchanges about the search acquired a grim tone. With this lengthy an absence, the possibility of foul play increased.

Still, the story of the gray-haired motorist might be a red herring. If an older child had found Nina and invited her to play, perhaps they’d headed for a playground near the civic center.

Rachel checked out the nearest one, but the slides and climbing equipment stood empty. It was nearly six o’clock. If any children had been there earlier, they were long gone.

Frustrated, she cruised an alley behind the library, passed the post office and crossed the boulevard to the town’s medical complex. This late on a Friday, the doctors’ building beside the Mesa View Medical Center would be deserted, but she decided to make a circuit of the parking structure just the same. You never knew when you’d come across a stolen car listed on one of the hot sheets from briefing.

On the second level, past a support pillar, she glimpsed something that made her mouth go dry. A little girl, the bunny on her T-shirt smeared with dirt, sat on a car bumper while a man knelt on the concrete floor. He’d pulled up one leg of her blue pants and was holding her ankle.

All Rachel could observe of him was a tailored suit and powerful shoulders. Then, evidently hearing her approach, he glanced back. The flat overhead lighting showed nearly black hair graying around the temples.

As Rachel braked facing the suspect, adrenaline surged. She notified dispatch about the girl, the man and the location, and emerged ready for action.

First priority was to ensure the girl’s safety. Second, to secure the suspect. Mr. Power Suit had an inch or two on her, and judging by his muscular frame, he’d be no slouch in a fight. He might also be armed.

Releasing his grip on the girl, the man rose to greet Rachel. He made no sudden moves, but she noted tear tracks on Nina’s cheeks and a torn knee on her pants.

“Step away from the child, sir. Move to your right.” Although she strongly considered reaching for her gun, several recent scandals and a tarnished public image had inspired a departmental policy urging caution when confronting citizens.

That kind of caution could get cops killed. Still, Rachel restrained the impulse.

The man shifted a couple of steps, but irritation flashed in his slate-blue eyes. “I found her wandering in the garage, Officer. She said she hurt her knee.”

He gave the words a convincing, gruff inflection. The guy was attractive with a personable air. Well-dressed and accustomed to giving orders, not taking them, she judged.

To her, that made him all the more loathsome if he’d endangered the child.

“Sweetheart, come stand next to me,” she told Nina.

“He gave me candy,” the girl replied earnestly.

That didn’t surprise Rachel. “Is that why you got in his car?”

“Wait a minute!” the suspect snapped. “She was never in my car.” He glanced at child. “It’s okay, honey. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The youngster eased toward him, holding out a hand. That was too much for Rachel. “Move away from him, Nina!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, you’re scaring her!”

The girl had drawn close enough to be grabbed. Despite the shrill of an approaching siren, Rachel couldn’t wait for backup.

“On the ground!” she shouted. When the man failed to respond, she lunged forward, spun him around and slammed him against the vehicle. Before he could recover, she wrenched his arms back and reached for her cuffs.

With a shocked cry, the little girl retreated.

“You’ve upset her! Keep those things off me!” The man’s twisting motion threw Rachel against the pillar and sent a jolt of pain through her hip.

Breathing hard, the suspect held his position. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Officer, but nobody pushes me around.”

Rachel drew her gun. “Hands overhead. Face the car.”

Reluctantly he complied. When he glanced over as the screech of tires announced her backup’s arrival, he didn’t appear the least bit frightened.

Elise Masterson exited the cruiser. “Need help?”

“Officer, would you please talk sense to Ms. Byers?” The suspect must have read Rachel’s nametag. “I was walking to my car when I found this little girl.”

Nina merely stared at the three of them, eyes round as pepperoni slices. Rachel kept her weapon trained on the man. “He assaulted me.”

“That’s not true!” he answered tightly. “Besides, you had no business shoving me into the car.”

The matter wasn’t up for debate. “Hands behind your back!”

He looked to Elise, who produced her cuffs. “Do it,” she confirmed.

Resentment darkened his gaze. Mr. Power Suit was definitely used to running the show, Rachel mused. He’d better recognize who was in charge. In one more second, two policewomen were going to take him down.

The rumble of another car reached her ears. Good.

Then she heard a whole bevy of car engines, until the structure echoed like the parking lot of the Villazon Doughnut Emporium during a two-for-one sale. Which reminded her of another unwelcome change in her turf—under the new chief’s regime, officers were no longer allowed to accept free doughnuts.

As Elise clicked the cuffs into place, the cars bumped into view around a curve of the ramp. In the lead, Chief Willard Lyons halted his unmarked sedan. With the suspect under control, Rachel holstered her gun.

Behind the chief came a patrol unit, followed by a station wagon she recognized as belonging to Tracy Johnson, editor and lead reporter for the weekly Villazon Voice. In its wake rolled a van bearing the logo of an L.A. TV news program.

Busybodies from the press—ugh. Rachel loathed the spotlight, and she couldn’t allow them to talk to Nina, who had to be interviewed and driven to the hospital for an exam.

The suspect shook his head in disgust, as if the newcomers simply compounded an already obnoxious situation. For once, she and he agreed on something.

When the child sniffled, Rachel took her hand. It felt small and moist. “You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

“Big cars!”

“They sure are.”

“I’ll escort her to the hospital,” Elise said.

“Thanks.” Reluctantly Rachel surrendered her charge. She had work to complete here. Booking this suspect was going to be a pleasure.

Elise helped the tot into the cruiser. They had only half a block to drive, so with luck the girl would be reunited with her parents soon.

Chief Willard Lyons stepped out of his car. An imposing, barrel-chested figure with a thin mustache and close-cropped brown hair, he’d been hired the previous year, six months after the former chief retired under a cloud. Several embarrassing incidents had hurt the department’s reputation, and Lyons’s job description called for cleaning things up.

He crossed to Rachel and the suspect. “Who do we have here?”

“I haven’t had a chance to check ID,” she responded.

“My wallet’s in my jacket,” said Mr. Power Suit. “Upper left…” A frown. “I can tell it’s not there. I must have put it in my pants.”

Rachel patted him down for a weapon from shoulders to ankles, trying to ignore an unaccustomed awareness of the guy as a fine specimen of his gender. But fine specimens didn’t kidnap little girls. They also didn’t lie about having a wallet.

“No ID,” she reported.

“I must have left it at the hospital. This is my car, Officer. The registration’s in the—” He broke off as a camera operator hoisted a minicam. “What the hell?”

The chief signaled to a rookie. “Keep them behind that pillar, please. Tell them we’ll have a statement in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer marched toward the interlopers.

“Chief—You are the chief, right?” the suspect snapped. “I’d found this child right before your officer jumped me. I heard the Villazon cops were a bunch of cowboys, but Dr. Graves assured me there was nothing to the rumor.”

At the mention of the hospital administrator, the chief’s expression mutated into a frown. “You work for Dr. Graves?”

“I’m on the staff,” the man answered grimly. “My office is in the medical building here.”

He stood taller. Funny how a guy could appear in command despite having his hands cuffed behind him.

“You’re a doctor?” the chief asked.

A nod.

Okay, make that Dr. Power Suit, Rachel thought. No wonder he acted so arrogant. He wouldn’t be the first doctor to confuse himself with God.

“Nevertheless, we’re going to take you in,” Lyons responded.

Rachel expected the suspect to bluster. Instead, he glanced past them toward the reporters. “I think my ID just arrived—along with my alibi.”

She and the chief swung around. Waving at them from behind the rookie was Marta Lawson, a good friend of Rachel’s who ran the hospital gift shop.

“Dr. McKenzie!” The short, brown-haired woman hoisted a leather packet. “You left your wallet on the counter.”

A couple of newly obvious facts hit Rachel. For starters, the guy had honestly misplaced his ID. He’d probably stopped to buy a snack or a magazine on the way out.

Also, if he’d been working at the hospital, he had an alibi for his whereabouts this afternoon. Which meant he might be telling the truth about having spotted Nina in the parking structure.

Even though Rachel considered her actions justified, she’d picked on a big shot who was probably going to make trouble in front of the press. And trouble was the last thing the Villazon Police Department needed.

She knew as well as anyone that when push came to shove, the cop usually ended up taking the heat. The possibility of a sodden slope collapsing on her condominium suddenly seemed minor by comparison.

Chapter Two

Russ McKenzie had nothing against cops, but he hated bullies, no matter what form they came in. Being pushed around provoked him to a fighting rage. This made him doubly incensed because it meant losing control. In most respects, he kept his emotions under tight guard. Except with kids, of course. His warm response to children was part of the reason he’d become a pediatrician.

So when he’d heard a small, quavery voice asking for help and saw a rumpled child who complained of a sore knee, he hadn’t hesitated. To calm her, he’d offered a mint from his newly purchased roll, then checked her injury while asking where her parents might be. She’d explained, haltingly, that she’d followed a group of older children and lost her way.

He’d been relieved to spot an officer. But instead of receiving a thank-you for finding the child, he’d been roughed up and treated like a criminal until Marta and other hospital personnel had confirmed his whereabouts for the day. Russ didn’t like to think about how he’d have been treated had he met the child while arriving for work rather than departing.

He hadn’t had to go to the station, and he’d provided his statement and received an apology from Chief Lyons right there in the garage. Yet the perpetrator of the outrage stood scowling at him as if he were in the wrong. The officer might be pretty if she’d lose the pugnacious air and the odd, bicolored hair. Now that his initial anger had ebbed, he found her rather intriguing.

Leaning against a pillar, he rubbed one wrist where the cuff had chafed and tried to collect his thoughts. The last hour had sped by as more cops piled in, the media clamored for interviews and the little girl’s tearful parents arrived.

They’d been distressed to learn they had to wait for an all-clear from the hospital. Meanwhile, a detective had ushered them aside and plied them with additional questions. Russ was glad the police took the girl’s situation seriously. Her parents should have watched her more closely.

After obtaining the story, the news van and the local reporter had finally left. They’d treated Russ as a sort of hero, which he considered almost as ridiculous as being vilified.

Under the chief’s watchful eye, the truculent Officer Byers approached. “I, uh, guess I owe you an apology.”

Anger prevented a reply. He wasn’t ready to make peace yet.

“More,” said the chief.

“More what?” she inquired.

“You said you owe him an apology. You didn’t issue one.”

The woman’s jaw tightened until Russ feared she might require restorative dental work. In a strained voice, she uttered, “Sorry, sir. I was trying to protect the child.”

“She didn’t need protecting from me.” Russ supposed he ought to drop the matter, but her maltreatment had brought up deep-seated resentment. “When I moved here last month from west L.A., I hoped a small town would be a friendly place to live. Guess I was wrong.”

“We are friendly,” the chief protested. “Say, I have an idea how to atone for this misunderstanding. Rachel, why don’t you take the doctor on a ride-along tomorrow? It’s Saturday and maybe he’s off. He might enjoy a cop’s-eye view of Villazon.”