Kansas City Cop

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.”