Undercover Protector

“Because I want to talk to you.”

If she invited him inside, the old wounds would rip open, exposing her heart to more devastating hurt. “We have nothing to say.”

“Fine.” He gave a quick nod. “I’ll wait out here until you’ve spoken to Lionel.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“Ask him.”

“Damn it, I’m asking you.” She had a million questions for him. Why did you leave me? Why did you shred my heart like a paper valentine? Unprepared to talk about his long ago betrayal and her pain, Annie decided to leave the past untouched. It was ages ago, and she didn’t know the man Michael had become. “Why are you here? Did Lionel invite you?”

“May I come in?” he repeated.

“Why should I trust you? You might be as dangerous as that creep out on the street.”

“Will you open the door?”

“Fine.” She shoved open the screen door. Immediately she realized that she’d used too much force. The door was going to smash into Michael and probably break his perfect straight nose. She made a frantic grab for the handle.

Michael stepped aside as the door hurtled past. He caught the edge and entered the foyer.

Suddenly they were standing less than a foot apart—near enough to touch. When she looked up into his coffee-brown eyes, she catapulted back in time, remembering his caresses, his strength, his warmth. He was the first man she’d ever really kissed. That long hot tantalizing kiss had transformed her from a sixteen-year-old tomboy into a woman. The memory of sweetly awakening passion spun through her like a cyclone, lifting her off the ground into clear blue skies.

Michael cleared his throat. “How have you been?”

“Fine.” She thudded back to earth. Both feet on the ground, she hardened herself, sealed off her emotions. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. He’d get nothing else from her. Nothing. Coldly, she asked, “And you? Are you well?”

“I’m okay.”

“How nice.”

“I guess so.” Michael’s smile felt rigid as a death mask. He hated the stiff formality of their conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Annie.”

“I’m surprised you even recognize me.”

He could never forget her. His gaze lingered on her. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her lips were full and pink, untouched by lipstick. Light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need makeup to highlight blue eyes that shone with honesty and, at the moment, hostility.

He’d always thought she was incredible. In all the years they’d been apart, he’d never stopped wondering about Annie, about the budding love he’d sacrificed. Regret burned within him. He still carried a battered photo of a sixteen-year-old Annie in his wallet. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared.” Briskly she walked away from him, heading into the front parlor, where she turned on a brass table lamp. Apparently, she wasn’t going to bring up the past.

Following her, he was amazed by how little the room had changed. The claw-foot brown velvet sofa was in the same place. The same framed photographs hung on the wall. The only difference was an air of neglect. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the hardwood floors could use a buffing. When Annie yanked the drapes closed, a cloud of dust escaped.

“The old place is looking a little…”

“Shabby?” she snapped. “You’ll have to pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

On the opposite side of the room, she turned to face him. “You’re right, Michael. Lionel hasn’t been keeping up with repairs. But I’m going to be here for a month, and I’ll get everything shipshape again.”

He wanted to help. He’d always liked this pleasant old house on Myrtlewood Lane. For the first seventeen years of his life he’d ached to live in an orderly neighborhood like this one—a safe haven where nobody drank too much or yelled all the time.

“It’s been eleven years,” Annie said as she came toward him. “I believe this is the first time you’ve come home.”

“Bridgeport was never my home. I just lived here.”

She stopped a few feet away from him. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded. “Who is Drew Bateman? What does he have to do with my grandpa?”

“What did he say to you?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question. You knew him right away. Who is he?”

“Somebody who used to live around here.”

“A logger?”

“I don’t think he ever worked at the mills.” Bateman had probably never worked at all. His profession was criminal.

Curtly she nodded encouragement. “What’s with the chewing gum?”

“He has a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“That’s good to know.” In spite of her visible anger, she eased into an interrogation mode. Like a good cop she used the slight information she’d garnered to push him toward more revelations. “And why was Bateman in prison?”

“Aggravated assault on a police officer. He shot a cop.” Though Michael didn’t want to scare her, she needed to understand that Bateman was a serious criminal, not just a small-town bully. “Annie, I think Lionel should be a part of this conversation.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to upset him.”

“He has a right to know.”

When Michael had arrived at the house half an hour ago, he’d been shocked by Lionel’s frail emaciated appearance—so different from the gruff invulnerable man who’d coached him in football and taught him the meaning of honor that went deeper than sportsmanship. It hadn’t taken long for Michael to realize that Lionel’s willpower and dignity were still there, stronger than ever. A lesser man would’ve given up and died. Lionel was alert enough to know he needed help, wise enough to call on Michael.

Michael turned to Annie and said, “You can’t treat your grandpa like a helpless invalid.”

“Excuse me.” Her voice turned hard and brittle. “You know nothing about what’s gone on here. You’ve been gone for eleven years, Michael. Why now? Why are you here?”

“Because your grandpa needs me.”

“Are you telling me what Lionel needs? Are you suggesting that you know how to take care of my grandpa?”

“I guess I am.” Giving orders came naturally to him, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women. He probably needed to be more careful about how he phrased things. “Let’s go see Lionel.”

“Just a minute.” She dug in her heels. Though she wanted to resist anything Michael suggested, Annie knew he was right about her grandpa. She had to protect him without smothering him. Still, she didn’t want him to worry. He needed to concentrate on getting better. “Lionel has been hurt enough.”

“He’s still a man.”

“Don’t I know that,” she said. “An ornery old buzzard, if you ask me. When he was in the hospital, he refused to take his medicine. And he bribed one of the orderlies to bring him one of those big stinky cigars he loves so much.”

Actually it had done her heart good to walk into his sterile white hospital room and see Lionel with a naughty grin on his face, puffing away like a chimney. “He’s a man, all right. Grumpy. Inconsiderate. Stubborn.”

“That’s exactly what he needs to make him well.” Michael gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”

“I suppose. If that’s the only way I’ll get straight answers.” She crossed the foyer and automatically reached for the railing with her right hand. When she bumped the splint, she winced.

“Looks like you’ve been hurt, too,” he said.

“I got mugged.”

“I know. A mild concussion and hairline fracture.”

She figured Lionel had told him. “It could’ve been a lot worse. I was lucky that a good Samaritan stopped to help me.”

“Lucky? I don’t think so. This so-called Samaritan didn’t come fast enough.”

“He saved my life. And I never had a chance to thank him. He took off when the paramedics arrived.”

She didn’t expect him to understand, didn’t expect anything from Michael Slade but lies and a tendency to run away when the going got tough. Turning her back on him, she hiked up the stairs and crossed the upstairs landing to her grandpa’s bedroom.

In the doorway she stopped in her tracks and stared. Then she beamed a wide grin, delighted by what she saw. Lionel was out of bed. He was sitting in the easy chair by the bay window. Though the weakened left side of his body slumped, he looked like his old self. “Grandpa, how did you—”

“Mikey helped me get over here. You two want to tell me what the hell was going on outside?”

Her anger was completely disarmed. Having Michael pay a visit might be sheer agony for her, but his presence seemed to have had a positive effect on her grandpa. It had gotten him moving. “Grandpa, what is Michael doing here?”

“First things first,” Lionel said. “Who was that guy on the street?”

“Drew Bateman,” she said.

Lionel exchanged a meaningful glance with Michael. “I haven’t heard that name in a while.”

“He’s an ex-convict,” Annie said, “and he seems to blame you for keeping him in jail.”

“Well, he’s right about that. If it was up to me, I’d lock him up and throw away the key.”

“I didn’t recognize him.” And she surely would’ve remembered somebody so ugly. “Is he from Bridgeport?”

“He’s from Wayside, over on the coast.”

“Why does he blame you?”

“I helped get him convicted.”

That didn’t make sense. As municipal judge, her grandpa hadn’t dealt with felony crime. A serious criminal like Bateman wouldn’t have been arraigned in Lionel’s makeshift courtroom at the back of the police station. So how was he involved with a case that included aggravated assault on a cop? She drew the obvious conclusion. “You were a witness at his trial. You testified against him.”

“That’s right.” He held out his right hand toward her. “Come here, honey.”

She went to him and perched on the arm of his chair, gazing fondly at him. Though his cheeks were sunken and his body ravaged from the stroke, she still saw him as the strong kind man who’d taken her in and raised her after her parents were killed in a boating accident. She’d been only ten years old. If it hadn’t been for Lionel, Annie didn’t know what would have become of her. He’d been her solace and her inspiration. Everything she was she owed to him.

He gently patted her arm. “Did he scare you, Annie?”

“Grandpa, I’m a cop.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She wouldn’t tell him about the flashback of rain and fear. Annie didn’t understand the sudden panic attack herself, and she surely didn’t want to worry her grandpa. “I’m all right.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“He did the opposite. He said he wouldn’t touch me because that might get him arrested. At the same time he promised to always be around, watching.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. Bateman is my problem.”

Once upon a time she would’ve left all the worry to him. She’d believed her grandpa could do anything. He could chase away the monsters under the bed and keep her safe. But it was her turn now. She was the caretaker.

“Bateman is our problem.” She lifted his hand to her lips and planted a little kiss on the knuckles. “Tomorrow morning I’ll stop by the police station and take out a restraining order. Is Derek Engstrom still running things?”

“For the past six years,” he said. “You’re a good kid, Annie.”

“So are you.”

“By the way,” her grandpa said, “Michael is going to be staying with us for a couple of days.”

“What?” She bounced to her feet.

“Or maybe a week,” her grandpa said.

A week? She couldn’t stand to have Michael here for a week. It would be too strange. Though she didn’t want to push Lionel or dampen his positive mood, Annie had to be direct. “Since you’ve mentioned Michael, I’d like very much to know how you happened to get in touch with him.”

“Well, that’s an easy question. We talked on the telephone.”

“Just like that? After all these years?”

“I’ve kept track of Michael,” her grandpa admitted.

If Annie had heard those words eleven years ago, possibly even eight or seven years ago, she would have been devastated. Michael had meant so much to her. He was the only person, other than Lionel, she’d trusted after the death of her parents. When Michael had abandoned her without a word, she’d lost her first true love and her best friend.

But she’d made her peace with the past and had moved on with her life. If her grandpa and Michael had been pen-pals, and kept it from her, she wouldn’t let it matter. But she still didn’t want him staying at the house, raking up old memories. “Grandpa, this isn’t a real convenient time for Michael to visit.”

“You misunderstand, Annie. He’s not here for a visit. Michael came here to help take care of me. Just until I get rid of this dang clumsy walker and can stand on my own two feet.”

She glanced at Michael, who stood with infuriating calm, observing their conversation. Annie tried to equal his cool detachment. She knew nothing about him. They’d been apart far longer than they’d been together. “Are you some kind of medical professional?”

“No,” he said.

“Not a doctor or a male nurse?”

“No.”

She turned back to Lionel. “We don’t need Michael. You have a physical therapist coming by three times a week, and I’m here. Grandpa, that’s why I took a leave of absence. To help you.”

“Well, honey, I’m just not comfortable with you doing some things for me. It needs to be another man. I got to have help getting dressed. Getting in and out of the bathtub.”

“I can do those things,” she protested. “My arm is going to be healed in no time, and I’m plenty strong.”

“That’s not the point, Annie.”

It sure as heck was! “We don’t need—”

“I want Michael to stay.”

Too agitated to stand still, she crossed the room to his rumpled bed and began pulling the covers together. “If you really need a man to help, we can hire somebody. Maybe one of the football players from the high school.”

“No,” Lionel said firmly. “That’s not who I am in this town. I can’t have folks thinking of me as a helpless old codger. I got plans for the future, and they don’t include being tended to by some teenager I don’t even know.”

“I won’t get in the way,” Michael said smoothly. “Lionel says you have a guest bedroom downstairs.”

Viciously she plumped the pillows on his bed. Their plans were made. She had no choice but to accept Michael’s presence, but she didn’t have to like it.

The telephone on the bedside table rang, and Annie snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Annie. I heard you were back in town. This is Jake Stillwell. Remember me?”

“Of course I do.” She could hardly forget Jake Stillwell. Not only was he blond and good-looking, but he was the only son of the richest family in Bridgeport, the owners of the last remaining lumber mill.

“I’d like to get together while you’re in town. Maybe tomorrow night?”

But he was married to Candace Grabow, the most popular girl in school and the bounciest cheerleader in the history of the Bridgeport Badgers. And, Annie remembered belatedly, Candace was the daughter of Edna who ran the local minimart. “You’re married, Jake.”

“Divorced,” he said. “How about it, Annie? We can have dinner. I know a nice little place on the coast.”

“Sounds lovely, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Until my grandpa is settled in, I don’t want to be away from the house for too long.”

“I understand,” he said. “Give me a call when you’re ready to go out.”

“Sure thing.”

She hung up the receiver. Both Lionel and Michael stared at her with wary eyes.

“Jake,” Michael said disgustedly. “Was that Jake Stillwell?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You can’t go out with him, Annie.”

She gaped, unable to comprehend his colossal arrogance. “Are you presuming to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

“All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t date any of the guys in town until we know what’s going on with Bateman.”

“Get real! There’s no way scum like Bateman is somehow involved with the Stillwell family.”

“We don’t know,” Michael said. “You were attacked four days ago in Salem. Was it Bateman?”

That thought had been gradually forming in the back of her mind. Her confrontation with Bateman on the street had been very similar to the mugging. It felt the same. But the shapeless poncho had disguised her assailant’s girth, and his face was distorted by the nylon stocking. “I can’t make a positive identification.”

“Could it have been someone else?”

“Yes,” she conceded. “But it seems unlikely, especially since Bateman has a history of attacking police officers.”

Lionel said, “Bateman might be working with somebody else. A long time ago, when he was arrested, he was part of a gang. Michael is right. Until we know what’s going on, you should be very careful about who you spend time with.”

Once again the two of them had united against her with an outrageous plan. She glanced between them. “Well, boys, if Bateman is part of some sort of conspiracy, I suggest you leave the detective work to me. After all, I am a trained policewoman. You, Lionel, are a retired football coach, and you…” She focused on Michael. “I don’t know what you are.”

“I captain a charter vessel based in Seattle.”

“So, you’re not a professional detective.” She made a slashing motion with her good hand. “End of story. If anybody is going to be investigating around here, it’s me.”

“You and Mikey could work together,” Lionel said. “Like partners.”

“I don’t think so.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. “I’ll be in my bedroom.”

“What about dinner?” Lionel asked.

“Michael wants to be your little helper. Let him cook.”

Head held high, she crossed the upstairs landing to her bedroom, closed the door and fell backward across the hand-stitched blue-and-white quilt. She stared up at the ceiling. Less than an hour ago she’d seen Bridgeport as a peaceful sanctuary with sheltering forests and hummingbirds sipping nectar. Now it was chaos. Her inner turmoil twirled like a kaleidoscope centered on the flower-patterned light fixture.

She closed her eyes, settled down and almost immediately realized she was hungry. Unfortunately, after her high-handed exit, she didn’t feel ready for another encounter. She’d wait to eat until after Lionel and Michael had gone to bed.

She checked her wristwatch. It was only half-past seven. How late would they stay up?

After taking a shower, washing her hair, adjusting the splintlike cast on her arm and dressing for bed in a satin pastel nightgown, which was—as she readily admitted—an overly feminine reaction to her daytime uniform, she could still hear the rumble of male voices from the bedroom across the hall. There was also laughter. Her grandpa and Michael were sharing a joke. No matter what else she thought about Michael Slade, he was good for Lionel.

There had always been a bond between the two males. Annie remembered teen-aged Michael, tall and lithe, with his untrimmed black hair flopping across his forehead and his eyes squinted in concentration as he ran patterns across the backyard while her grandpa threw spiral football passes. Though Michael had a reputation as a tough kid, he’d followed all of her grandpa’s team rules and restrictions. Except for one. Keep away from my granddaughter. Lionel had warned all the guys on the team. Only Michael had disobeyed.

Their stolen moments together were poignant and sweet. She’d been touched that he would risk his position on the team in order to spend time with her.

Was he still a rebel? He was certainly more solidly built, more manly. His appearance impressed her. And he seemed to have done well for himself, becoming the captain of a charter vessel in Seattle.

But she didn’t like his arrogance. Ordering her not to date anybody in town? Ridiculous! If Michael thought he could swagger in here like the prodigal hero and expect her to salute, he had another think coming.

His suggestion that Bateman wasn’t acting alone was fairly ludicrous. Unless…

The man who attacked her in the parking lot had said it was “nothing personal.” Bateman might have hired him. Newly released from prison, he had the necessary criminal contacts to locate a hitman.

But why would Michael leap to that conclusion? Maybe it was because he knew more than he was telling. The more Annie thought about it, the more certain she was that Michael had inside information about Bateman. But what? And why?

She slipped between the sheets and turned off the light. The clock beside the bed read nine-thirty-three. It was past time for Lionel to be asleep.

In the dark she listened. The voices from across the hall went quiet. She’d give it a few more minutes, then sneak downstairs for a snack.

As she eased one toe out of the bed, her door opened a crack. “Michael?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was checking to make sure you were all right before I went to sleep. Do you need anything?”

The sound of his deep voice was pleasantly reassuring. She lay back on the pillows. “I’m fine.”

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

His voice…

“Good night, Annie.”

“G’night.”

The bedroom door swung closed with a click.

Her mind was racing toward a conclusion, but she didn’t know what it was. All thought of food vanished as she concentrated with all her might, reaching for an answer that was just beyond her grasp. What was it?

Moments passed as she searched the corners of her mind. What had he said?

Annie bolted upright on the bed. His voice! She’d heard his voice in the rainy darkness four days ago.

Michael had been the good Samaritan.

Chapter Two

Michael descended the staircase, thoughts of Annie lingering in his mind. He tried to match his memory of a sweet, spunky sixteen year old to the reality of a competent, strong woman. Though now a cop, her gentleness and vulnerability were still there. And she was still beautiful, naturally lovely.

He turned out the lights as he went through the house to the guest bedroom at the rear. When he’d left Bridgeport, he never expected to see Annie again, never hoped she would forgive him for abandoning her. And now? He wondered if she would ever be able to trust him again.

In the guest room, he tossed his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. His hanging clothes were already in the closet. From the moment he’d arrived, there’d been no question about whether or not he would stay. Annie and Lionel were in danger, and it was Michael’s fault. He would not leave them here unprotected.

He stretched, yawned and unbuttoned his white shirt as the stillness of a Bridgeport night settled around him. The deceptive quiet masked dark motives and old hatreds.

Michael heard a sudden crash.

Unlike the clean snap of gunfire, the noise resonated with a faint tinkling aftermath. A smashed window. A break-in.

Automatically he responded to the threat. From his open suitcase, he grabbed his Smith and Wesson automatic and snapped the 10-mm clip into the magazine. He turned off the overhead light in the guest bedroom and slipped into the unlit kitchen.

Above the half curtains, moonlight spilled across the countertops, the table and tile floor. With eyes unaccustomed to the dark, Michael scanned. He expected to find an intruder, and he hoped it was Bateman. Caught red-handed, Drew Bateman would be sent back to jail where he belonged.

There was nothing unusual in the kitchen. No movement except for the shifting shadows of wind-tossed tree branches outside the windows.

He moved on, swiftly and silently. This house was a security man’s nightmare. There were too many windows, some of them open to the fresh spring air with nothing but a mesh screen protecting the people inside. The door locks were a joke. There weren’t even dead bolts. Tomorrow he’d get this place wired with burglar alarms and sensors. He couldn’t have Annie and her grandfather living in a fish-bowl.