Task Force Bride

She was one woman, alone in the city. And even though she was no slim, head-turning beauty, she wasn’t so naive to think she couldn’t become a victim, too. She fit the profile of the professional women the rapist targeted. She was successful and confident—when it came to her business, at any rate. Hope was smart enough to be on guard, especially at this time of night. But she couldn’t very well surrender to the terror she faced as a single woman in this neighborhood. Her entire life’s savings was tied up in this shop. Anything she could call her own was in that apartment upstairs.

Besides, she was experienced enough in life to know that danger could find a person anywhere—in the heart of the city, or on a dusty back road in the middle of nowhere. This building was her home and her livelihood, and no man—no threat—was going to frighten her into giving up everything she’d worked so hard for. She just had to be aware. She had to pay attention to the alerts and details the police had shared with the public.

Details.

Driven to another location...

Hope shifted the box of photos to one arm and closed the trunk as a shiver of awareness raised goose bumps across her skin. That was what she should have remembered about the white van that had cruised past her. She’d read a witness account in the paper with vague details about coming to inside a white van before being dumped in the alley across the street after her assault.

White van? A driver hiding his face on a cool autumn night?

There had to be hundreds of white vans in the city. Just because one had crept up on her bumper...twice...

And the man in black and white behind the wheel? Surely he wasn’t... Hope’s stomach knotted with fear. Surely she hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the Rose Red Rapist himself.

En route to another abduction.

Returning from the scene of an assault.

“No. Surely not.” No one had seen the serial rapist. One reason he’d never been arrested was that no victim had been able to identify him—no surviving victim. She hugged the box to her chest and tried to talk herself off the ledge of fearful possibility she was climbing on to. “He was just some jackass who was in a hurry.”

A blur of white in Hope’s peripheral vision drew her attention out to the street.

A white van moved with the late-night traffic past the entrance to the parking lot. The white van? Was the Rose Red Rapist on the prowl for his next victim?

Hope’s breathing locked up the way it had at the church. She was squarely and completely trapped on that ledge. “That can’t be him.”

Cruising through her neighborhood? Had the driver followed her home? Was he hunting her?

Hope barely managed to save the box and its fragile contents from crashing to the asphalt. “You don’t even know if it’s him,” she warned herself on a whisper. “It’s just a white van. It’s just some guy in a van. It’s probably not even the same one.”

Refusing to let her imagination turn her observation into a panic, she carefully set the box down on the trunk and took a couple of steps toward the street. Rusting wheel wells. Shiny silver bumper.

She glanced up into the cab. Dark stocking cap and...not a scarf.

A surgical mask.

Shadowed eyes met hers.

“Oh, my God.”

Hope slipped her hand into her coat pocket to pull out her phone as the van suddenly picked up speed and headed toward the next intersection. She hurried out to the sidewalk to see which direction the vehicle would turn and punched in 911. The driver might not be the Rose Red Rapist, but it was definitely the same van that had nearly crowded her off the road tonight.

“Nine-eleven Dispatch,” a succinct female voice answered. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I don’t know if this is exactly an emergency, but I’m not sure who to report this to.” Hope turned up the collar of her trench coat and huddled against the suddenly brisk chill in the autumn air. “I just saw a white van that matches the description the police gave in the paper about the vehicle the Rose Red Rapist drives. The man inside had his face covered.”

“Are you in danger, ma’am?”

“I...” There were a few people hanging out down at the corner where the van was waiting for the light to change. A group of young women wandered out of the dance club. Was the driver watching them? Choosing one for his next victim? “I’m not. But someone else may be.” Hope glanced around at the cars parked on the street, at the closed shops, at the deserted sidewalks here in the middle of the block. She was safe, wasn’t she? The van turned right, slowly circling past the group of women waiting at the crosswalk. “I think you should send the police.”

“Yes, ma’am. Where are you now?”

Hope relayed her location, refusing to take her eyes off the van until it disappeared from sight. A man wearing a surgical mask wasn’t necessarily a threat. Maybe it was part of his work—such as an exterminator, or someone who worked with food might wear. Or maybe he was one of those people who was phobic about catching germs. Still...it just didn’t feel right.

“We already have an officer in the area, ma’am,” the dispatcher assured her. “I’ll send him to your shop right now.”

Good idea. Go back inside her shop. Lock the doors. “Thank you.”

Hope disconnected the call, waiting a few seconds longer until the young women changed their minds and went back into the club for more dancing. The breeze whipped loose a long tendril of hair that had been pinned up in a French roll all day. The long curl hooked inside the temple of her glasses and caught in her lashes, forcing her to squint until she pulled it free and tucked it back behind her ear. Good. The women were all safely inside. She’d be smart to do the same until the police arrived to take her statement.

“Staring into space like you always did.”

Hope jumped inside her pumps and whirled around to see the gray-haired man standing behind her.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you, girl.”

* * *

“DAMN IT, HANK.”

“Don’t you get fresh with me, girl. I’m your father.” Not anymore, he wasn’t. And though he wasn’t much taller than Hope, he could still point his finger and somehow manage to look down at her. “You watch your tongue. Here.”

He held out a small box wrapped in brown paper and packing tape. Hope pulled her hands back to her stomach, instinctively retreating from his touch. “Go away.”

“Hey, if you don’t answer my phone calls, then I’ve got to come find you in person.” His twangy, low-pitched drawl grated against her eardrums. His face was clean-shaven; his clothes were clean. But Hope could smell the booze on him. Or maybe those were the bad memories. What some people might describe as folksy charm, she knew to be a lie, a facade that hid the monster underneath.

“So it was you,” she accused, referring to the countless unanswered calls and hang-ups she’d gotten on her phone today. “We have nothing to say.”

She turned to the parking lot, but stopped after a few steps when she realized he was following. Apparently, changing phone numbers and ignoring his calls hadn’t sent the message she wanted any more than moving away from the Ozarks when she was eighteen had. Getting rid of her father tonight would require one of those confrontations she hated.

Hope tugged the sleeves of her blouse and suit jacket over her wrists, and turned up the collar of her trench coat. “What are you doing in Kansas City?” As if she couldn’t guess.

“Truck broke down. I need some cash to get parts to fix it.”

“How did you get to K.C. if your truck’s broken?” She followed his glance over his shoulder to see the a middle-aged woman with brassy hair tapping her dark red nails against the steering wheel of the compact car she sat in. “Friend of yours?”

The woman waved when he winked a smoky gray eye, one of the few traits Hope had inherited from him. “Don’t you be rude, girl. I’ve been seeing Nelda for a couple of weeks now. She was nice enough to drive me up to the city from Wentworth. We’re staying with a cousin of hers here in town. Oh, I’ll be owin’ her for gas, too.”

“Then get a job.”

He folded his stout arms over his belly, reminding her of the wrapped package he’d brought her. He nodded toward the front of her shop. “Why don’t you give me one? You seem to be doin’ well enough.”

“I’m not hiring you.”

“I could do odd jobs around the place for you. Sweep up at night. Fix the plumbing and electrical. Help haul all that stuff inside.” He’d been watching her unload her car? Hope started to shake, although she wasn’t sure if it was anger at his lazy rudeness, just sitting there and watching her work, or fear that he’d been spying on her, lying in wait, and she hadn’t noticed—hadn’t even suspected—that heated her blood. “You need a man around the place.”

She didn’t need him. Hope swallowed her emotions and kept her voice calm. “I have someone who takes care of those jobs. I have nothing for you.” And that’s when she saw the canceled stamps above her name on the package. It wasn’t a gift he’d brought to try and buy his way back into her life. “You picked up my mail?”

“Just this.” This time, she took the parcel when he held it out to her. “It wouldn’t fit through the mail slot and was sitting outside your door. Didn’t want someone to take it.” Unfortunately, someone had taken it.

She studied the box for a moment, idly noting the lack of a return address, wondering at the plain brown wrapping when everything she ordered for her store came through a professional delivery service. Whatever was inside didn’t weigh much, but the contents seemed to shift each time she turned the box. She hoped it hadn’t come from her brother, who was currently stationed in the Middle East, because she suspected that whatever was inside had broken. “You do know it’s a federal offense to take someone’s mail? I have every right to call the police.”

That made his silver brows bristle. “I’m your father. I was doing you a favor.”

Hope shook her head. “It’s not worth what you’re asking me for. There’s a reason I don’t answer the phone when you call. And it’s not because I want to see you in person, instead. You’re not a part of my life anymore. Not legally, and certainly not emotionally.”

“That’s a lie, girl. I know how that heart of yours works. I know you want to be a part of something.” He stepped closer and Hope flinched. His eyes sparkled with satisfaction. He probably knew he’d finally pushed the right button to get around her resolve. His gaze darted to the bare fingers on her left hand. “I know you ain’t got a man in your life.”

“And you think being a family with you and—” she gestured to the car at the curb “—Nelda is some kind of consolation prize? No, thanks.”

Ending the late-night conversation, Hope turned away. But five strong fingers clamped down like a vise on her arm. She instantly tugged at his grip, but he jerked her shoulder back into his chest and whispered beside her ear, “We’re family. I paid my debt for what I did. How many ways can I say I’m sorry?”

Her pulse throbbed beneath the scars at her wrist and neck and suddenly she was ten again. Suddenly she felt weak. Trapped. Afraid. “Hank, I—”

“Hank!” A car horn honked at the same time a siren whooped through one warning cycle. Flashing lights reflected in Hope’s glasses and bounced off the windows of her shop as a black-and-white pickup truck screeched to a stop in the parking lot entrance behind them.

Hank Lockhart released his daughter’s arm and shushed the brassy-haired woman who’d sounded the alarm. Hope clutched the package in her hand and rubbed at the bruised skin above her elbow.

She, too, backed off a step when she heard the fierce barking coming from the cage in the backseat of the truck. She held her breath as a wheaten-haired cop in a black uniform and KCPD ball cap jumped out of the hastily parked truck and circled around the front. She recognized the blue eyes and rugged features and felt an embarrassed awareness choke her throat. This was the cop KCPD had sent? Could her night get any worse?

Pike Taylor rested his hand on the gun at his waist as his broad shoulders came up behind her father and dwarfed him. “Is everything all right, Miss Lockhart?”

Chapter Two

Why did that woman jump every time he spoke to her?

Edison “Pike” Taylor bit down on the urge to curse and concentrated on the wiry older man who’d put his hands on Hope Lockhart. With his canine partner, Hans, loudly making it known that Pike had backup—in case six feet four inches of armed cop wasn’t intimidating enough—he subtly maneuvered around the gray-haired coot who smelled as if he’d just walked out of a bar. Despite a nonchalant adjustment to the bill of his KCPD ball cap, Pike turned his shoulder into the space between Hope and her assailant, blocking any chance of the man reaching for her again.

Damn it. She drifted back another step, as if she was just as afraid of him as she was this guy. He and Hans had been patrolling this neighborhood for months now. And, as members of KCPD’s Rose Red Rapist task force, they had answered every call to the scene of a female assault victim in the area, including one this past summer to the flower shop across the street that Hope’s friend Robin Carter—well, Robin Lonergan now that she’d recently married—owned.

Up until that night, Hope Lockhart had been this prim, uptight shop owner—a stereotyped old maid who wore glasses, buttoned-up suits and her hair in a bun. She’d said barely more than “Hello, Officer” to him whenever they ran into each other on the street. She was either too busy, too snooty or too disinterested to make friendly conversation with him, despite his best efforts. It had become a challenge of sorts every day or night he worked for Pike to walk Hans by her storefront and wave or tip his hat to her through the display windows to see her sputter or blush or quickly turn away.

But on the night of the flower shop attack, when Hope had come over to check on the well-being of her friend Robin, and Robin’s infant daughter, he’d suddenly seen her in a whole new light.

Hope Lockhart wasn’t a snob at all. She was shy—a woman on the quiet side—maybe about as awkward making conversation with him as he’d been trying to tease and get a rise out of her. Hope Lockhart was guarded, a little mysterious, even. She was pretty, too. Not in a knock-your-socks-off kind of way. But if a man looked—and he’d been doing more looking than he should have that night—he’d notice there was more to Hope than a tight bun and those boring suits she wore like some kind of uniform.

That night she’d worn the same trench coat she had on now, hastily tied over a nightgown, showing a V of creamy skin that dropped down between some seriously generous breasts. Without the pins and barrettes, long, curly hair tumbled over her shoulders in sexy, toffee-colored waves. He’d noticed her eyes behind those skinny glasses that night, too. They were big and gray and deep like a placid fishing lake early in the morning before any boats or lines had disturbed the surface. But she’d about bolted from the room and gone all shades of pale when he’d tried to talk to her. Kind of hard on a man’s ego.

Shyness didn’t explain why she didn’t like him much. But with her unwillingness to get better acquainted, he had no idea why. An aversion to cops? Was she intimidated by big men? Had he said something to offend her? Hope’s reaction to him that night—and every other time he and Hans had crossed her path since—read fear to him. And that kind of fear—when he was damn sure he was one of the good guys—rubbed him the wrong way.

Pike glanced down over the jut of his shoulder to see Hope massaging the arm this man had grabbed. “Are you hurt, ma’am?”

That gray gaze darted up to meet his for a split second before dropping down to the pavement. “I’m okay.”

Anything creamy or sexy or pretty was locked up tight beneath the buttoned-up coat and tightly pinned hair she wore tonight. Pike discovered that that bothered him, too. Why would a woman go to so much effort to hide what were potentially the prettiest things about her?

Hiding? Afraid?

Ah, hell. Why hadn’t he fit the puzzle pieces together sooner? If Hope’s covered-up appearance and skittish behavior didn’t speak to some history of abuse, Pike didn’t know what did.

Pike focused squarely on the man in front of him, even though he spoke to Hope. “Do you want him to stay?”

“We were just having a conversation, Officer, um...” The older man squinted the name on Pike’s shirt into focus. “Taylor. I’m Hank Lockhart—Henry Lockhart the first.” He extended a hand that Pike ignored. “I’m Hope’s daddy. I happened to be in town and thought I’d drop by and have a visit.”

Her daddy? Paying a surprise visit after midnight?

“Hank?” A blonde woman, wearing a top that was too tight and skimpy for her age and the autumn weather, climbed out from behind the wheel of a parked Toyota. “Is everything all right? You said this would only take a minute. You’ve kept me waiting for more than an hour.”

“Not now, Nelda.” Hank waved off the woman, who’d tried to signal Pike’s arrival when he pulled up.

“You didn’t say she was friends with the cops. You said this was going to be easy—”

Hank swung around, pointing a bony finger at the woman. “Get back in the car.”

With an annoyed huff, the woman tossed back her overbleached hair and slid behind the wheel.

Friends with the cops.

Pike slipped another peek at the woman cradling a small package in her hand and warily keeping an eye on everyone involved in this late-night tête-à-tête, including him. Hope didn’t seem any more open to the idea of becoming friends now than she’d been during the other brief encounters they’d shared. And though he wished he knew what he’d done to earn such a cool reception from the bridal shop owner, Pike knew he didn’t have to be liked by all the residents he’d sworn to protect and serve—he just had to protect and serve them.

“Did you want to press charges against him, ma’am?” Pike asked.

“Charges?” both Lockharts answered in unison.

But while Hope didn’t seem to know how to answer the question, Hank had no trouble arguing his innocence in the matter. “Charge me with what? We were having a family discussion. A private one, I might add. I don’t know where you came from or why you’re here. But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Hope?” Pike prodded, willing her to snap out of her meek silence. He’d come here, looking for a suspicious white van, and he’d shown up right in the middle of some kind of domestic dispute. He could arrest this guy and make him go away for the night, but not for any longer if she refused to speak up. Pike hooked his thumbs into the top of his utility belt and waited for an answer. “What do you want me to do?”

Nelda honked the horn again and Hank swore beneath his breath.

To Pike’s surprise, he heard a soft voice behind him. “My father was just leaving.”

So the old man hadn’t completely knocked the spirit out of her.

“We’re not finished, girl,” Hank dared to argue. When he turned that bony finger on Hope and took a step toward her, Pike quickly shifted to block his path. “About that job we were discussing—”

“I said he was leaving.”

The rising confidence in Hope’s tone made it that much easier to back her up—and made it clear that in this situation, at least, she’d appreciate a little help from him. Pike nodded toward the irritated blonde. “I wouldn’t want to keep you, Mr. Lockhart.”

The grizzled older man sized up Pike with one contemptuous glance, then angled his head to make a final plea to his daughter. “Don’t you do this to me. You can’t punish me forever. You know I need—”

“I suppose it’s about time to walk my dog.” Pike pulled out his black, reinforced leather gloves and nodded to the muscular German shepherd fogging up the rear window of his departmental vehicle, intently watching Pike’s every move. Right on cue, the dog started barking again. “Hans has been cooped up inside my truck for a long time tonight.”

He watched the color bleed from Hank Lockhart’s cheeks, making the broken capillaries in his alcoholic’s nose stand out in redder, sharper detail. That’s what he figured. Pike’s canine partner had a knack for convincing people to do exactly what Pike asked.

“I get your message loud and clear.” Offering a placating hand that sported half a dozen homemade tattoos that indicated the man had done some jail time, Hank Lockhart finally retreated. “I’ll talk to you later.”

A soft trace of vanilla joined the damp scent of dying leaves on the late-night breeze as Hope stepped onto the sidewalk beside Pike to watch Hank and his lady friend drive off down the street. The sounds of a heated argument leaked through the open car windows and faded as the car turned the corner and vanished into the night.

Pike stuffed his gloves back into his pocket. “He’s hurt you before, hasn’t he?”

Hope’s breathy sigh was confirmation enough. So maybe he’d been a little blunt with his speculation. Knowing she’d grown up with an abusive man went a long way toward explaining her ready distrust of him. And made him more determined than ever to prove that he wasn’t the bad guy here.

A long twist of honey-brown hair had freed itself from the severe confinement of the clip at the back of her head and lifted like a feathery banner in the breeze. As she captured the wayward curl and tucked it behind her ear, Pike realized that that was where the sweet scent from a moment ago had come from. Once again, he wondered why Hope Lockhart would hide something so feminine and pretty as that glorious hair from the world.

Either unaware of or uninterested in the stirrings of awareness she sparked inside him, Hope turned away to the parking lot, dismissing him. “Good night, Officer Taylor.”

Pike got the brush-off message but followed her, anyway. “Do you have a restraining order against him?”

She set aside a small package on the rear fender of her car and reached for a bigger, heavier box. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of years. He doesn’t even live in Kansas City.”

“He’s here now. I’d consider filing for one.” Pike nudged her aside and picked up the box for her. “Where to?”

Her mouth opened to voice a protest, but once she understood he wasn’t leaving her here alone at this time of night, she pointed to the side entrance of her shop. “Thank you.”

“Miss Lockhart—Hope—is it okay if I call you that?” After a momentary hesitation, she nodded and opened the door for him. “You want to tell me about that 911 call?”

She held open the interior door, as well. “It had nothing to do with my father, Officer Taylor.”

“Pike.”

“Pike,” she repeated, then paused, knotting the smooth skin above the nosepiece of her glasses. “What kind of name is Pike?”

He grinned, seeing the first opportunity for a normal, friendly conversation between them. “There’s a story behind it. Taylor is my adoptive parents’ name. But I was born Edison Pike.”

No comment. But the curiosity was still there.

So he forged ahead. “Like Thomas Edison. I think my grandmother who raised me was hoping for an inventor—someone brainier than I turned out to be. And for a while, I did think about going into veterinary medicine. But what can I say? I come from a family of cops and firefighters. I always liked the action more than the books. But I kept the nickname as a way of honoring the woman who took care of me for the first few years of my life.”

She tilted her eyes up to his, flashing him a look that said his words didn’t make sense, before she led him through her shop to the back room. “Your grandmother raised you—but you’re adopted?”

Well, at least he knew she’d been listening. Pike ignored the gowns, mannequins and fancy accessories surrounding him and focused in on the curly lock bouncing against Hope’s neck as she walked. “Gran died when I was ten. I went into foster care, where I met my mom and dad and my three brothers. They’re adopted, too. Alex is the oldest. Then there’s me, Matthew and Mark.”