Takedown

Jillian’s breath caught in her chest.

Michael Cutler was striding down the hallway. Tall, intent, his black hair rumpled. Wearing his uniform and needing a shave. Walking straight toward her.

She ran right up to him and locked her arms around his waist. “Are you all right? The news about the hostages—”

“Damn it, woman, I’m worried about you.” He pressed his thumb against the swell of her bottom lip. “I don’t scare easily, sweetheart, but your messages…”

“I’m okay. Better, now that you’re here.”

Instead of giving a verbal response, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall. She quickly realized his pent-up desire had been intensified by fear and confusion and want. Because Jillian was feeling it, too.

Takedown

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Norbert Wenzl. A true gentleman, a fun guy,

a kind soul. And my friend.

And for Cheryl Schuett. A smart, classy, talented lady.

Thank you for the immeasurable positive influence you had on my son’s life by teaching him to read music.

I’d work on a show with you two any day.

Thanks for reading my books and loving theater.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Captain Michael Cutler —Commander of KCPD’s premier SWAT team. A single father and seasoned warrior used to leading men, saving lives and guarding his heart. After burying his wife, he’s not prepared to love again—especially a much younger woman.

Jillian Masterson —This physical therapist has fought hard to become a healthy adult—determined to make amends for the mistakes of her rebellious youth. Falling in love with the father of one of her patients isn’t part of her life plan. Neither is her mysterious “admirer” who seems intent on ruining any chance at a successful life—permanently.

Mike Cutler, Jr. —The captain’s teenage son has an attitude problem.

Troy Anthony —A patient of Jillian’s.

Dylan Smith —A coworker at the hospital physical therapy clinic.

Dr. Wayne Randolph —He helped Jillian turn the corner in rehab.

Blake Rivers —Jillian’s ex-boyfriend.

Isaac Rush —Drug dealer. A so-called friend from Jillian’s former life.

Mr. Lynch —Rush family enforcer. You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.

LaKeytah Anthony —An overworked, overworried grandmother.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

Jillian—

Your smile and your laugh light up a room even on the darkest of days. The rose I sent made you smile, I know. Perhaps white, the color of purity, would have been a more fitting choice, but I know that red is your favorite color. You look stunning in red.

Sometimes, I don’t know which I love more—your kick-ass body or that sweet personality. You can be one of the guys or the sexiest woman in the room with equal ease, and that always keeps me guessing—and wanting more of you.

Jilly, I know, too, that there’s something deeper inside you that most people don’t notice. Pain. Vulnerability. Need. I notice. I’ve felt those same things, too.

I want you to know just how much I care about you. I know where you’ve been—what you’ve had to overcome—the difficult path that lies ahead. I understand that we can show the world a strength we don’t necessarily feel inside. I admire that about you—how you always keep fighting, even when it’s tough—maybe especially when it’s tough.

I just want you to know that you don’t have to keep fighting alone. I’m here for you. If you need anything, you don’t even have to ask. I won’t let anything—or anyone—hurt you ever again.

My heart will always be true to you.

I am forever,

Yours

While the letter printed off, he picked up the snapshot of her unwrapping the ribbon and plastic from around the flower he’d had delivered, and pressed a kiss to her adorably surprised expression. Then he dug a pin from the desk drawer and gently tacked the photo on the wall above the computer beside the collage of similar images hanging there.

His favorite picture was one in faded black-and-white newsprint, something from a state high school basketball tournament. But he knew Jilly’s colors by heart. Long, dark brown hair. Eyes as bright and verdant as Celtic green.

And she was smiling. Right at him.

He smiled back and pulled the letter from the printer. Then, with clumsy gloved fingers, he pushed aside the gun and plastique, the ammo clips and clockwork devices, and cleared a spot on top of his desk to work. He folded the paper into three neat rectangles and stuffed it inside the matching envelope before rolling his chair away from the desk and heading out to deliver it.

Soon, she would know how much he had done for her, the risks he would take for her—all without complaint.

Soon, she would know how much he loved her.

Chapter One

“Nice shot, Troy!”

Jillian Masterson applauded as the basketball swished through the net.

Her young charge with the neat black braids pumped his fist in the air and whooped in victory. “Oh, yeah. I’m all that!”

“And a bag of chips,” she cheered. He pushed his wheelchair beneath the basket to retrieve the ball while Jillian turned to her other patient and smiled. “Come on, Mike. Your turn.”

“Basketball is lame,” he groused.

Ignoring his ironic choice of words, she let his blue-eyed hatred for the world bounce off her skin and reached for his arms. Clamping one hand firmly around each wrist and bracing her feet in front of his, she pulled him out of his chair and balanced him against her shoulder while his leg braces locked into place. “Well, unless you want to plant some grass and turn this gym into an indoor football field, we’re stuck with a basketball court. Let’s try one from the free throw line.”

“Why? It’s not even a real court. Troy’s baby brother could make a shot from that free throw line.”

“You afraid you can’t match up with an eighth grader?”

“I can do it,” he argued. “I just don’t want to.”

“Show me.”

“Jill…”

She stepped away, brushing the bangs from her eyes and shaking her ponytail down her back, forcing Mike Cutler, Jr.’s, reknit bones and weakened muscles to function on their own whether he liked it or not. She supposed the modified half-court in the university hospital’s physical therapy center couldn’t compete with the grass and fresh air and promise of the field where this high school athlete had once caught passes and run for touchdowns.

But she’d spare him the lucky-to-be-alive-get-over-yourself speech, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words. She understood the black hole he was fighting to crawl out of. She’d lost her dreams when she was a teenager herself. Or rather, after her parents’ tragic deaths in a plane crash, she’d single-handedly blown those dreams into smithereens, nearly ruining what was left of her older brother’s and sister’s lives as well as her own in the process.

Now, at twenty-eight, after rehab and long years of counseling and healing, she could look back objectively and see her mistakes, see that the love of her brother and sister, along with help and hope, had always been there for her. But Jillian would forever remember those dark days well enough to know that, at sixteen, Mike Cutler couldn’t yet see beyond the fear, despair, anger and resentment that clouded his young life.

Instead of lecturing him, she stuck to the job she’d been trained to do—helping rebuild the bodies of accident victims and medical patients through physical therapy. And she was counting on the innate competitiveness of his sports-loving nature to help get the job done. Jillian reached down beside him to pick up the stainless steel cane from the polished wood floor beside him. Then she held out her arm and the cane, giving Mike the choice of which way he wanted to get himself to the free throw line eight feet away.

One of the advantages of standing five foot eleven herself was that she could look Young Mr. Attitude in the eye and not be intimidated by the width of his shoulders or the glare in his expression. “You gonna put your money where your mouth is and make the shot?”

“Do it, man.” Troy Anthony put the ball in his lap and wheeled back over to their position. “If we don’t play, then we’ll have to go back to the weight room with the old farts and work out. I do not want to have Mrs. Hauser talking to me about her operation anymore. She smells like my great-grandmother used to. Creeps me out. And you know you don’t want Old Man Wilkins talking to you about the Chiefs’ off-season trades and recruitment again. That’d suck right down to your shorts.”

Apparently willing to do anything to shut up his young compatriot, Mike snatched the cane from Jillian’s hand. “Fine. I’ll shoot the damn ball.”

Jillian spared Troy a wink of thanks as Mike hobbled past her. She turned and studied the slight improvement in his jerky gait. A cataclysmic car crash had killed Mike’s friend and shattered his legs. According to the medical reports Jillian had studied before writing up a therapy plan, it was a miracle that Mike Cutler was alive, much less walking. Several surgeries, steel pins and one determined father had gotten him to this point. But it would take a lot of patience—and convincing Mike to apply that stubborn attitude to his own recovery—to get him back to some semblance of normal life again.

“Here, bro.” Once Mike had reached the free throw line and paused long enough to catch his breath, Troy shot him the ball.

Reading that split-second moment of terror in Mike’s expression, Jillian reached around him and intercepted the straight-line pass. In one smooth movement that didn’t allow either teen the time to feel embarrassment or regret, she tucked the ball against Mike’s stomach, forcing him to steady it with his own hand. In the next second she took his cane, watching the muscles beneath his jeans and T-shirt clench and adjust to maintain his balance.

Good. Use what you’ve got, kid. You can do it.

Mike’s athleticism would be as much a boon to his recovery as it had once been to her own. She’d remember to make good use of his natural balance and strength. Jillian bit down on the urge to cheer his success and pushed him a little further. “Dribble it.”

An answering groan filled Mike’s lungs with a deep, healthy breath. Jillian moved behind him, bracing his hips while he used different muscles and adjusted his equilibrium to control the bounce of the ball in front of him. She felt him tense his core muscles, stabilizing his body without any real help from her. Excellent! “Now shoot.”

The normal bend of the knees to make such a shot couldn’t yet happen, but the instincts were there. He raised the ball above his forehead, took sight of the net and pushed the ball off the tips of his long fingers. Jillian held her breath along with him as the ball arced through the air, hit the backboard and circled twice around the rim before dropping through the hoop.

“Yes!” She held up a hand and was rewarded with a high five. “Don’t tell me basketball isn’t your game.”

Mike grinned. Stood a little taller. “Told you I could do it if I wanted to.”

Uh-huh. Victory.

Troy rolled past him and the two teens touched fists. “Sweet, man.”

Unexpected applause startled Jillian and drew their attention to the sidelines and the man standing in the doorway. “Nice shot, son.”

Easy, girl. Flighty female had never been her style. She wasn’t going to let her sick new pen pal turn her into a woman who jumped at the sound of a man’s deep voice. Fixing a friendly smile on her face, Jillian calmed the startled leap of her pulse. “Captain Cutler.”

Michael Cutler, Sr., filled the entrance to the gym, his square, muscular frame cutting an impressive figure in his KCPD uniform—black from shoulder to toe, save for the white SWAT logo emblazoned on his chest pocket and ball cap, and the brass captain’s bars and KCPD badge pin tacked to his collar. His sturdy bicep was marked by a black armband, his long legs by the gun strapped to his thigh.

Talk about sweet.

“Jillian.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his cap and acknowledged her with a slight nod.

Though she guessed he had only a couple or three inches on her in height, and was probably fifteen years her senior, Jillian couldn’t stop the quiet little flutter of breath that seemed to catch in her throat each time the widowed cop came by to pick up his son after a therapy session. There was something overtly masculine about the military clip of his salt-and-pepper hair and the laser beam intensity of his dark blue eyes. Or maybe it was just the mature confidence of a man at ease inside his own skin, evident in every stride as he pulled off his cap and crossed the gym floor, that made Jillian’s neglected feminine hormones stand up and take notice.

Objective appreciation, she told herself. An attractive man was an attractive man at any age—especially one who kept himself in as good a shape as Michael Cutler.

“Ow.”

His son, Mike, Jr., pinched Jillian’s shoulder in a painful squeeze, jerking her from her wandering thoughts. “I need to sit down,” he whispered between gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Of course.” Jillian hid the blush warming her cheeks by helping Mike walk toward the chair. It was less embarrassment than guilt at being distracted from her job that had her sliding her shoulder beneath his arm and anchoring her hands at his waist to guide him to his seat. Mike’s balance might not be rock steady yet, but he was doing the bulk of the work, moving as quickly as his clumsy legs would let him. Maybe something had seized up with a cramp.

“Are you in pain?” his father asked, instantly standing behind the wheelchair like a wall of black granite to keep it still while Mike turned and plopped onto the seat.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Mike insisted, shrugging off his father’s hand while Jillian knelt down to adjust the foot rests and position his feet. She glanced up into the teen’s downturned expression. Just as she suspected. The only thing cramping was Mike’s attitude.

His father must have sensed it, too. With a measured sigh, he moved away from the chair and turned to greet Troy. He shook the young man’s hand. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s your brother? Dex, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. He made the honor roll last semester.”

“Good for him. Good that he’s got a big brother like you in his corner. And your grandmother?”

“Working. Two jobs. Like always. I might be getting a job pretty soon, too. As soon as I get this thing all figured out.” He spun his chair in a tight circle, proving that, physically, at any rate, he was closer to healing than Michael’s son. “I’m trying to finish my GED, too, but the math sucks.”

Michael inclined his head toward his son. “Mike’s pretty fair with numbers. He’s in geometry at William Chrisman this year. Maybe he can coach you.”

“Dad!”

Troy shrugged off Mike, Jr.’s, shut-up-and-don’t-volunteer-me-for-anything reprimand, his own tone growing a little more subdued. “I’ll get it figured out.”

“I like hearing that. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

Jillian stayed down longer than necessary so that she wouldn’t interrupt the man-to-man interchange that Troy got far too little of in his life. Even paralyzed below the waist and struggling to be the man in his family, Troy Anthony was still a big kid at heart. He beamed at the paternal approval in Captain Cutler’s voice before wheeling over to Mike’s side and thumping him on the arm. “Hey, will you be back on Monday, bro?”

Mike rolled his eyes, as if the Monday-Wednesday-Friday sessions he’d been attending for the last month and a half since mid-February would go on forever and ever. “I dunno.”

“Jillian said if enough of us got together, we could play some hoops. She says there’s a whole wheelchair league in Kansas City.”

Go, Troy. Jillian had hoped that pairing up her two youngest charges in therapy sessions would boost their mental outlooks as well as their physical training. “With that upper body strength and the hands you’ve got,” she observed, “you’d be a natural.”

If anything, Mike grew even more sullen at her compliment. “I told you I hate basketball.”

“Mike—” his father scolded.

But Troy was back in can’t-touch-this form. He knew how to push Mike’s buttons. “You hate losing, too?” He spun his chair toward the exit and took off. “Last one to the machine buys the pop.”

A beat of silence passed before Jillian coyly prodded Mike. “Didn’t you buy the sodas last time?”

“Hey!” With a sudden burst of movement, Mike raced after the other teen, his hands gliding along the wheels of his chair. “Get back here, loser.”

“I ain’t the one in last place, loser.”

“Shouldn’t you be walk—”

Jillian grabbed Michael, Sr.’s, arm, stopping him from going after the boys. His forearm muscles bunched beneath her fingers before he swung his attention back to her. “Shouldn’t he be walking to build up his leg strength instead of getting more used to that damn chair?”

Jillian drew her hand away from the crisp sleeve and the solid man inside the uniform before her curious fingers dug into that warm flex of muscle. “Let him have a little fun. He’s already put in a decent workout session today. Physically, he’s reached a plateau and I don’t want to burn him out.”

Michael Cutler’s eyes, as blue and dark as a twilight sky, assessed the shrug of her shoulders before zeroing in on her expression. “He’ll continue to improve, won’t he?”

“His doctors seem to think so.” Jillian reminded him of the good news without sugarcoating the bad. “Mike needs to build his self-confidence as much as anything right now. He needs to care about moving on to the next stage of his recovery before more strength and coordination training will do him much good.”

Michael, Sr., rubbed his palm over the top of his hair, making the black and silver spikes spring up in the wake of his hand. “Sorry. It always comes down to the mental game, doesn’t it?”

Jillian nodded.

“I just get frustrated that he’s missing out on so much. He’s still only sixteen.”

“Think about his frustration.”

“He won’t even talk to me about the night of the accident. I had to read the details in a police report.”

“Does he share with his trauma counselor?” Jillian’s own sessions with Dr. Randolph, the psychologist who’d helped her through rehab at the Boatman Clinic eleven years ago, and who remained a friend and occasional father confessor to this day, had been invaluable to her mental recovery as a teenager.

“Not much. You seem to be the only person he opens up to.” Captain Cutler worked the brim of his cap with long, strong fingers before everything about him went utterly still—as if he’d suddenly realized his emotions were showing and he’d shut them down. Such precision, such control. No wonder other cops snapped to his commands. Stop noticing details about the man, already. Jillian focused on what he was saying, made sure she was listening as he slid the cap into his hip pocket and continued. “He doesn’t have to play football anymore, or go to Harvard or get rich. I’d just like him to leave his room once in a while and walk without those damn braces—meet girls and hang out with his buddies and be a teenager again.”

“Trust me, it’ll happen.” Jillian went to retrieve the basketball Troy had left on the floor. She knew that damaged people healed at different speeds, and that not even a father’s unflinching support could force the process to go any faster. “He just needs time.”

“Well, I’m glad you have the patience to deal with him. You had him smiling and trading high fives before he knew I was here. Seems everything I say or do ends up in a shouting match or him closing the door and not saying anything at all.”

Jillian opened the storage bin outside the equipment closet and dropped the ball in. “Just doing my job.”

Michael Cutler was there to close the lid for her. His piercing eyes seemed to catch the light, even in the shadows from the stands and supports above them. “Working magic is more like it. He likes you. Likes coming here. It’s just me at home since his mom passed away. Some nights, when he’s shut up in his room and I can’t figure out what he needs, it feels like he doesn’t have anybody. I’ve thought about taking another leave of absence from work—like I did right after the accident—but then I think he prefers the time away from me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t count on it. I’ve negotiated with crazy people, talked kidnappers into releasing their hostages and convinced murderers to put down their guns. But I can’t get my own son to open up to me. Pam—Mike’s mother—she would have known how to talk to him, how to reach him.”

A wistfulness briefly hushed his succinct tone at the mention of his late wife, making Jillian suspect that the father was missing the woman who’d been lost to cancer two years ago just as much as the son. Though she didn’t know the details of Pam Cutler’s death, Jillian knew the basics after discussions with Mike, Jr.’s, doctor when they’d been planning his physical therapy. And she understood down to her bones how the loss of loved ones could wreak havoc on the family left behind.

The urge to reach out and offer a comforting touch was powerful. But Jillian reminded herself that they were little more than friendly acquaintances—that it was this man’s son she cared about—and stuffed her wayward fingers into the pockets of her khaki slacks, instead.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Captain.” She called the cops she knew by rank or nickname, the same way her brother, an investigator for the district attorney’s office, her sister the M.E., her sister-in-law the police commissioner and her KCPD brother-in-law did. “I know how hard it can be on family to see someone you love hurt like that. You want to help him—make things right. But you can’t. The reality is, accident or not—Mike’s still a teenager. He’s going to have moods. And he’s going to have to figure out for himself how to make this work. In the end, the best thing you can do for him is love him.”