Kansas City Cop

“Stay inside the house!” a man yelled. “Away from the windows.”

She saw silver running pants and black shoes stomping through the snow toward her. Gina tried to find her gun.

“Officer?” The tall jogger with the sexy beard scruff came into view as he knelt in the snow beside her. “It’s okay, ma’am.” His eyes were hidden behind reflective sunglasses, and he clutched a cell phone to his ear, allowing her few details as to what he looked like. He picked up her Glock from the snow where it had landed and showed it to her before tucking it into the back of his waistband. “Your weapon is secure.”

She slapped her left hand against his knee and pulled at the insulated material there. “You have to stay down. Shooter—”

“He’s driving away,” the man said. She wasn’t exactly following the conversation, but then he was talking on his cell phone as he leaned over her, running his free hand up and down her arms and legs. “No, I couldn’t read the license. It was covered with mud and slush. Yes, just the driver. Look, I’ll answer your questions later. Just get an ambulance here. Now!” He disconnected the call and stuffed the phone inside his pocket. He tossed aside his sunglasses and looked down into her eyes. Wow. He was just as good-looking up close as he’d been from a distance. “You hit twice?”

Gina nodded, thinking more about her observation than her answer. She reached up and touched her shaking fingertips to the sandpapery stubble that shadowed his jaw. “I know you.” Before her jellified brain could place why he looked so familiar to her, he grabbed her keys off her belt and bolted to his feet. She turned her head to watch him unlock the trunk to get the med kit. How did he know it was stored there? He was acting like a cop—he’d provided the squad car number and street address on that phone call. He knew KCPD lingo and where her gear was stowed. “Captain Cutler?” That wasn’t right. But the blue eyes and chiseled features were the same. But she’d never seen the SWAT captain with that scruffy catnip on his face.

She wasn’t any closer to understanding what she was seeing when he knelt beside her again, opening the kit and pulling out a compress. She winced as he slipped the pad beneath her vest and pressed his hand against her wound to stanch the bleeding. The deep, sure tone of voice was a little like catnip to her groggy senses, too. “I’m Mike Cutler. I’ve had paramedic training. Lie still.”

Why were her hormones involved in any of this conversation? She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate. She was a KCPD police officer. She’d been shot. The perp had gotten away. There was protocol to follow. She had a job to do. Gina opened her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pressure on her chest and the fog inside her head. “Check my partner. He’s hit.”

“You’re losing blood too fast. I’m not going anywhere until I slow the bleeding.” The brief burst of clarity quickly waned. The Good Samaritan trying to save her life tugged on her vest the moment her eyes closed. “Officer Galvan? No, no, keep your eyes open. What’s your first name?”

“Gina.”

“Gina?” He was smiling when she blinked her eyes open. “That’s better. Pretty brown eyes. Like a good cup of coffee. I want to keep seeing them, okay?” She nodded. His eyes were such a pretty color. No, not pretty. There wasn’t anything pretty about the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He certainly wasn’t from this part of town. She’d have remembered a face like that. A face that was still talking. “Trust me. I’m on your side. If I look familiar, it’s because you’re a cop, and you probably know my dad.”

Mike Cutler. My dad. Gina’s foggy brain cleared with a moment of recognition. “Captain Cutler? Oh, God. I’m interviewing with him... Don’t tell him I got shot, okay?” But he’d left her. Gina called out in a panic. “Cutler?”

“I’m here.” Her instinct to exhale with relief ended up in a painful fit of coughing. “Easy. I was just checking your partner.”

“How is he?”

“Unconscious. As far as I can tell, he has a gunshot wound to the arm. But he may have hit his head on the door frame or pavement. His nose is bruised.”

“That was...before.” She tried to point to the house.

“Before what?”

The words to explain the incident with Gordon Bismarck were lost in the fog of her thoughts. But her training was clear. Derek was shot. And she had a job to do.

“The prisoner?” Gina tried to roll over and push herself up, but she couldn’t seem to get her arm beneath her. The snow and clouds and black running shoes all swirled together inside her head.

“Easy, Gina. I need you to lie still. An ambulance is on its way. You’ve injured your shoulder, and I don’t see an exit wound. If that bullet is still inside you, I don’t want it traveling anywhere.” He unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it. He draped the thin, insulated material over her body, gently but securely tucking her in, surrounding her with the residual warmth from his body and the faint, musky scent of his workout. “The guy in the backseat is loud, but unharmed. The lady at the front door looks scared, but she isn’t shot. Lie down. You’re going into shock.” He pulled her radio from beneath the jacket and pressed the call button. “Get that bus to...” Gina’s vision blurred as he rattled off the address. “Stay with me. Gina?” His warm hand cupped her face, and she realized just how cold she was. She wished she could wrap her whole body up in that kind of heat. She looked up into his stern expression. “Stay with me.”

“Catnip.”

“What?” Her eyelids drifted shut. “Gina!”

The last thing she saw was her blood seeping into the snow. The last thing she felt was the man’s strong hands pressing against her breast and shoulder. The last thing she heard was his voice on her radio.

“Officer down! I repeat: officer down!”

Chapter Three

Six weeks later

“He shoots! He scores!” The basketball sailed through the hoop, hitting nothing but net. Troy Anthony spun his wheelchair on the polished wood of the physical therapy center’s minicourt. His ebony braids flew around the mocha skin of his bare, muscular shoulders, and one fist was raised in a triumphant gloat before he pointed to Mike. “You are buying the beers.”

“How do you figure that?” Mike Cutler caught the ball as it bounced past him, dribbled it once and shoved a chest pass at his smirking competitor. It was impossible not to grin as his best friend and business partner, Troy, schooled him in the twenty-minute pickup game. “I thought we were playing to cheer me up.”

Troy easily caught the basketball and shoved it right back. “I was playing to win, my friend. Your head’s not in the game.”

Mike’s hands stung, forgetting to catch the pass with his fingertips instead of his palms. He was distracted. “Fine. Tonight at the Shamrock. Beers are on me.”

He tucked the ball under his arm as he climbed out of the wheelchair he’d been using. Once his legs unkinked and the electric jolts of random nerves firing across his hips and lower back subsided, he pushed the chair across the polished wood floor to stow the basketball in the PT center’s equipment locker. At least he didn’t have to wear those joint pinching leg braces or a body cast anymore.

But he wasn’t about to complain. Twelve years ago, he hadn’t been able to walk at all, following a car accident that had shattered his legs from the pelvis on down, so he never griped about the damaged nerves or aches in his mended bones or stiff muscles that protested the changing weather and an early morning workout. As teenagers, Mike and Troy had bonded over wheelchair basketball and months of physical rehabilitation therapy with the woman who had eventually become Mike’s stepmother. Unlike Mike, because of a gunshot wound he’d sustained in a neighborhood shooting, Troy would never regain the use of his legs. But the friendship had stuck, and now, at age twenty-eight, they’d both earned college degrees and had opened their own physical therapy center near downtown Kansas City.

“C’mon, man. Don’t make me feel like I’m beatin’ up on ya. I said you didn’t have to go back to the chair to play me. I could beat you standing on your two feet. Today, at any rate.” Troy pushed his wheels once and coasted over to the edge of the court beside Mike. His omnipresent smile and smart-ass attitude had disappeared. “Losing that funding really got to you, huh? Or is this mood about a woman?”

He hadn’t put his heart on the line and gotten it stomped on by anyone of the female persuasion lately. Not since Caroline. “No. No woman.”

Troy picked up a towel off the supply cart and handed one to Mike, grinning as he wiped the perspiration from his chest. “No woman? That would sure put me in a mood.”

“You’re a funny guy, you know that,” Mike deadpanned, appreciating his friend’s efforts to improve his disposition. But he couldn’t quite shake the miasma of frustration that had plagued his thoughts since opening that rejection letter in the mail yesterday. “I had a brilliant idea, writing that grant proposal.” Mike toweled the dampness from his skin before tossing Troy his gray uniform polo shirt. “We had enough money from the bank loan and our own savings to get this place built. But it’s hardly going to sustain itself with the handful of patients we have coming in. If we were attached to a hospital—”

“We specifically decided against that.” Troy didn’t have to remind him of their determination to give back to the community. Mike opened the laundry compartment on the supply cart and Troy tossed both towels inside. “We wanted to be here in the city where the people who needed us most could have access to our services.”

“I still believe in that.” Mike stared at the CAPT logo for the Cutler-Anthony Physical Therapy Center embroidered on the chest of his own shirt before pulling it over his head and tugging the hem down to cover his long torso. “But those are the same people who don’t always have insurance and can’t always pay. I was certain that urban development grant for small businesses would help us.”

“There’ll be other grants.” Troy donned his shirt and peeled off the fingerless gloves he wore when he played anything competitive in his wheelchair. “Caroline said she’d fund a grant for us. To thank you for being there when she needed you.”

“And that would be right up until the night she turned down my proposal?” The fact that he could talk about it now told Mike that his ego had taken a bigger blow than his heart had. But that blow had been the third strike in the relationship game. He had no plans to step up to the plate and put his heart on the line anymore. If he couldn’t tell the difference between a friends-with-benefits package and a connection that was leading to forever, he’d do well to steer clear of anything serious. He’d been the shoulder to cry on, the protective big brother and the best friend too many times to risk it. He could rely on his principles, his family and friends like Troy. But he wasn’t about to rely on his heart again. “No. No asking Caroline. I didn’t propose because I wanted her money, and I’m not going to take it now as a consolation prize.”

Troy knew just how far he could push the relationship button before he made a joke. “Maybe you could hock the engagement ring. That’d keep us open another month.”

Mike glared down at his friend for a moment before laughter shook through his chest. “More like a day and a half.”

“Dude, no wonder she said no.”

The shared laughter carried them through the rest of putting away the equipment they’d used and prepping for their first—and, as far as Mike knew, their only—appointment of the morning. But even Troy’s mood had sobered by the time they headed toward the door leading into the entry area and hallway that led to a row of offices and locker rooms. “You’re a smart guy, Mikey. You’ll figure out a way to keep us solvent.”

“Without losing your apartment or my house?”

“I’d be happy to go out and recruit us more female clientele. It’s Ladies’ Night at the Shamrock tonight. I can pour on some of that legendary Anthony charm.”

“Creeper.”

“You got a better plan?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You’re thinkin’ too hard on this, Mike. We haven’t even been open a year. We’ll get more paying customers soon. I feel it in my bones.” He held up a fist and waited for Mike to absorb some of his positive thinking.

Trusting his friend’s outlook more than his own, Mike bumped his fist against Troy’s. “I just have to be patient, right?”

“Nobody waits out trouble better than you.”

Mike shook his head. “Is that supposed to be a compli—?” The door opened before they reached it, and the center’s office manager, Frannie Mesner, stepped into the gym. “Good morning.”

“Hey, Sun...shine.” Troy’s effusive greeting fell flat when they saw the puffy, red-rimmed eyes behind Frannie’s glasses. He rolled his chair over to get a box of tissues off the supply cart and take them to her. She sniffed back a sob as she took the box.

Was she hurt? Had she gotten some bad news? Mike moved in beside her and dropped a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders. “Frannie?”

The flush of distress on Frannie’s pale cheeks made her freckles disappear. She pulled out a handful of tissues and dabbed her eyes before blowing her nose. “Leo gets released on parole today.”

Her ex. She wasn’t hurt. But definitely bad news.

“Has he contacted you?” Mike asked.

“He’s not supposed to.”

“Has he contacted you?” he repeated, articulating the protective concern in his voice. Frannie shook her head, stirring short wisps of copper hair over her damp cheeks.

Troy set the tissue box in his lap. “Is the restraining order still in effect?”

Mike watched the confidence she’d built over the past few months disappear in the span of a few heartbeats.

When she didn’t answer, Mike pulled away to face her. “Take a few minutes to call your attorney and make sure it is. If not, make an appointment to get it reinstated. Troy or I can go with you, if you want.”

Troy slid Frannie a worried glance before spinning away from the conversation to return the box to its shelf. “Yeah. I can do that. We’d have to take my van, though. If you don’t mind riding shotgun. And you trust my driving.”

What happened to that legendary Anthony charm? The Troy he knew was all mouth and swagger 99 percent of the time. Except when it came to the office manager Mike had hired for their fledgling physical therapy center. Frannie had been their first client. But more than rebuilding her physical strength after a beatdown from her ex that had cost her the sight in one eye, she had needed a job, and Mike and Troy had provided it. He suspected she also appreciated the office’s predictable routine and the haven of a well-built workplace run by the son of a cop and a paraplegic, whose friends were also cops.

Mike might not carry a gun but, because of his dad and friends at KCPD, he knew how to keep a woman safe. Avoiding dangerous situations in the first place was rule one. “You know we’ll give you the time off for personal business like that. Make sure that protection order is in place. Beyond that, Troy or I will escort you to your car and follow you home. You notify the police if he calls or you see his face anywhere close to you.”

“I can swing by your place and double check the locks on the windows and door,” Troy offered.

Mike nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

“My building isn’t handicapped accessible.” Frannie sniffed away the last of her tears and dabbed at the pink tip of her nose. “I’m sorry.”

Troy shrugged, then reached for her hand. There was definitely something going on with him where Frannie was concerned. “Don’t you apologize for that.”

Mike wasn’t sure how to help his friend, other than alleviate his concern about Frannie. “I’ll stop by after work, then.”

At least she felt safe here at the clinic. She tucked the used tissues into the pocket of her khaki slacks and dredged up a shy smile. “You guys are the best bosses ever. Thank you.” Although she’d started the job with no secretarial experience, Frannie had eventually found her feet and her own system of organization that worked—for her. And, when she wasn’t afraid for her life like she was this morning, she was a friendly, quiet presence who made their patients feel welcome at the clinic. She wound her arm around Mike’s waist and squeezed him in a shy hug. “Thanks.” She turned toward Troy with her arms outstretched and leaned over to give him a hug, too. “Thank you.”

Troy turned his nose into her hair, breathing deeply. “No sweat, Sunshine.”

Either sensing Troy’s interest or feeling a similar longing herself, Frannie quickly pulled away and tipped her face to Mike. “Your eight o’clock appointment is here. He’s already changing in the locker room.”

Chaz Kelly, a retired firefighter with a new knee, opened the door behind Frannie, startling her. “Hey, pretty lady. You weren’t at your desk to greet me this morning when I checked in.” Bald and blustery, his gaze darted over to Troy and Mike. “Morning, boys. Ready to put this fat old man through his paces?”

Frannie’s body visibly contracted away from Chaz’s pat on her shoulder. Uh-huh. So much for feeling safe. She scooted closer to Troy’s chair and didn’t look any more comfortable there. “Your dad is here, too, Mike.”

“Here?” It was rarely a good thing for the supervisor of KCPD’s SWAT teams to make a surprise visit. Mike’s concern instantly went to his stepmother and much younger half brother. “Is everything okay? Jillian? Will?”

“He didn’t say. But I think it’s work related. He’s in uniform. There’s someone with him. I put them in your office. I’ll go start a pot of coffee.” Her hand went self-consciously to one tear-stained cheek. “And wash my face.”

As Frannie left, Mike pulled his phone from his pocket, wondering if he’d missed a text or call during the basketball game. The lack of messages altered his concern into curiosity.

Troy tapped his fist against Mike’s arm and pointed at the door. “I got this. Better not keep the captain waiting.” Troy spun his chair around toward the door on the far side of the half gym that led to the equipment room and treatment tables. “Come on, Chaz. Let’s get you on the treadmill and get you warmed up. Did you stick to that diet we gave you?”

Their conversation faded as Mike hurried down the outer hallway to his office. “Dad?” Michael Cutler Sr. was on his feet to greet him with a handshake and a hug when Mike rounded the corner into his office. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Not to worry. I’m fine. The family’s fine.”

Both standing at six-four, father and son looked each other in the eye as Mike pulled away. “What’s up?” His eyes widened when he saw the petite woman waiting behind his father. “Officer Galvan.”

Her dark eyes shared his surprise. “Catnip...” Mike arched his brows at her stunned whisper. She blinked away the revelation of emotion. “It was you.”

“Excuse me?”

Gina Galvan was shorter than he remembered. Of course, his perspective was a little different, standing upright versus kneeling over her supine body. Without the hazards of gunfire or a medical emergency to focus on, Mike stole a few seconds to take in details about his visitor. She’d changed her hair. Instead of a long ponytail spilling over the snow, short, loose waves danced against the smooth line of her jaw. She wore a black sling over her right shoulder, keeping her arm immobile against her stomach. And he shouldn’t have noticed the athletic curves arcing beneath the narrow waist of her jeans. But he did.

“The day I got shot—you were the runner who stopped to help us.” Her gaze shifted between Mike and his father. “You two look so much alike, I guess I convinced myself I’d hallucinated you.”

Mike chuckled at her admission. Although there was a peppering of gray in his dad’s dark brown hair and Mike didn’t shave as closely as KCPD regulations required, it wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for his father. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s hallucination before. Fantasy, maybe, but...”

She frowned as if she didn’t get the joke. His father looked away, embarrassed at his lame attempt at humor. Right. Leave the jokes to Troy.

The proud tilt of her chin and intense study from her dark eyes warned him that Gina Galvan wasn’t inclined to laugh at much of anything. Which was a pity because he suddenly wondered what those pink lips would look like softened with a smile.

Reel it in, Cutler. Clearly, this wasn’t a social call. And he already had enough on his plate without letting his errant hormones steer him into another misguided relationship.

Starched and pressed and always in charge of the room, Michael Sr. turned to include them both. “I wasn’t sure you two would remember each other after a meeting like that. I guess there’s no need for introductions.”

“No, sir.” Off-duty and out of uniform, she still talked like a cop.

“Nah.” Mike invited them both to sit in the guest chairs in front of his desk before circling around to pull out his own chair. “How’s the recovery going?” Gina’s gaze drilled into his. He interpreted that as a Don’t ask. “Did they catch the guy who did it?”

“No.”

He’d suspected that was the case, or else a detective or investigator from the DA’s office would have been back to question him on his account of the incident. “Sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry I couldn’t give KCPD a better description of the shooter’s SUV or license plate. The whole back end was covered in frozen mud and slush.”

She nodded. “He probably went straight to a car wash afterward so we couldn’t even look for a dirty vehicle.”

“Probably. How’s your partner?”

“Back on active duty.”

“That’s good news.” Or not, judging by the scowl that darkened her expression. Even with a frown like that, Mike had a hard time calling Gina Galvan anything but pretty. High cheekbones. Full lips. Dark, sensuous eyes. Hair the color of dark-roast coffee. “You cut your hair since I saw you last.”

“I was bleeding in the snow when you saw me last.” The subtle warmth of an accent made an intriguing contrast to the crisp snap of her words.

“I like it—the hair, not the blood. I didn’t realize how wavy your hair was.”

“Well, long hair is hardly practical with—” she gestured at her arm in the sling “—this. And I am not going to rely on my aunt or my sister to put my hair up every day.”

“Sounds smart.”

“Why are we talking about my hair?” The accent grew a little more pronounced as a hint of acid entered her tone. Was that anger? Frustration? A clear message that she wasn’t interested in his compliments or flirtations—idle or otherwise. She froze for a moment before inhaling a deep breath. Then, oddly, she crossed her fingers and brushed them against her lips and heart before settling her hand back into her lap. He thought it must be some kind of calming ritual because her posture relaxed a fraction and the tension left her voice. “I owe you for saving my life, Mr. Cutler. Thank you.”

He’d heard the gunshots on his morning run through the neighborhood just a mile or so from the clinic. What else was he supposed to do besides try to help? “It’s just Mike. And you’re welcome.”

Was that what this visit was about? A proud woman wanting to thank him? But she’d indicated that she hadn’t remembered him.

Mike’s father clearly had a purpose for coming to the clinic. “Could you give us a few minutes, Galvan?”

Gina popped to her feet, eager to please the captain or simply eager to escape the uncomfortable conversation. “Yes, sir.”

Mike stood, too, as Frannie stepped into the room carrying a tray of steaming coffee mugs with packets of sugar and creamer. He scooted aside a stack of bills for her to set the tray on his desk. “Thanks. Why don’t you give Officer Galvan a tour of the facility while Dad and I talk.”

“Okay.” Frannie’s eyes were still puffy behind her glasses, but the pale skin beneath her freckles and pixie haircut was back to normal. She smiled at Gina and led her into the hallway. “We can start with the women’s locker room.”