camper.
Four o’clock Monday afternoon, Ethan finally had a breather. He sat at his battered desk in the department, typing a report for CHC on the Hammond kids and on Marcy White, the ten-year-old.
Finishing his two-fingered pursuit at last, he stapled vouchers to both reports and re-tallied receipts accounting for monies he’d advanced in each case. He’d paid for the first psychologist’s visit for Kimi and Mike. And for Marcy’s initial Emergency Room care. He and Anna had designed this arrangement because it expedited services that would otherwise be a long time gaining approval. Authorization came much faster after the fact.
Checking his watch, Ethan decided to drop the forms off with the new CHC supervisor before meeting his partner, Mitch Valetti, at a stakeout planned for 6 p.m. He and Mitch hoped to nail the next level up in the latest chain of drug dealers to plague the local high schools.
Whistling for Taz, who slept under Ethan’s desk, the two left the police station. Rather than drive the three blocks to the Family Assistance building, Ethan jogged. Two weekends from now, he and Taz were registered for a classic Schutzhund competition. They’d participated in the skill events with regularity ever since Ethan had collected Taz from a breeder in Holland, a breeder known for producing obedient, trustworthy, intelligent dogs with the stamina needed for lengthy search-and-rescue missions.
Police work paid Ethan’s bills. Search-and-rescue was his most passionate hobby. Between the two, they took up most of his time. Not that he complained. Ethan loved every minute of both. Though Schutzhund events, originating in Germany, were geared to show a dog’s skill in tracking and searching for hidden objects placed in rough rugged terrain, handlers had to be in pretty good shape, too. Which Ethan was, if the admiring look bestowed on him now by Nicole Mason, the CHC Department receptionist, was any indicator.
Ethan returned the appreciative glance. A healthy thirty-six-year-old male, Ethan liked pretty women. And he hadn’t seen Nicky since Anna’s funeral. He would have taken a minute to flirt and maybe ask Nick a few questions about Anna’s replacement. But the pert redhead was tied up at the switchboard. A casual wave sufficed as Ethan’s greeting.
Taz, too, glanced longingly at Nicole. Normally she gave his soft brown ears a rub. As if he understood she was too busy today, Taz trotted past the switchboard and on down the hall, several feet ahead of his master. He turned the corner leading to the administrative offices and sped up. Taz knew Anna Murphy kept doggie treats in the bottom drawer of her desk. She had never failed to give him one.
The fact that this ritual would have to change didn’t register with Ethan. Not until he reached the open door of Anna’s old office and saw pure terror leech all color from the face of an attractive blonde seated behind the desk. Ethan thought the woman was going to scream, but instead, her eyes—so light a blue as to appear transparent—rolled back in her head. Her entire body went limp, although she made a vain effort to hang up the phone before she lost consciousness.
Shocked, Ethan could only follow well-honed instincts. Dropping his reports, he leaped forward and grabbed the woman seconds before she tumbled to the floor.
His boot barely missed Taz’s tail. The dog had nosed open the drawer. He’d rooted under a purse and tossed to the floor what looked to Ethan like several packages of unopened nylon stockings.
Not finding his doggie treats, Taz flopped down on his stomach with a disgusted sigh. He stared at Ethan and the woman with an injured air.
Ethan had his hands full. The Grant woman was no lightweight, even though she appeared to be nicely put together. Ethan knew she was Anna Murphy’s successor. She wore a name badge pinned to the breast pocket of a navy pin-striped suit. Her breathing seemed normal. At least, her badge rose and fell steadily.
Calling on his first-aid training, Ethan grasped the narrow chin between his thumb and forefinger. He shook her gently but firmly and spoke her name. “Ms. Grant, open your eyes. Tell me what’s wrong. I’m with the Desert City police. Are you in need of medical help? Are you diabetic? Was that a threatening phone call?” Shifting her weight, Ethan spared a cursory glance at the dangling phone receiver. Lunging for it with his free hand, he realized there was no caller at the other end of the buzzing line. Still confused, he slammed the instrument back into its cradle and gently slapped her cheeks.
Light-colored eyelashes with sooty tips flickered, finally rising a fraction to reveal eyes dilated in confusion. Huge dark pupils stared past Ethan’s broad shoulder and promptly grew wider. This time the woman shoved Ethan. So hard he landed flat on his butt on her carpet. She sprang away and tried to hide in the corner next to two tall filing cabinets. “Ge…get th-that be…beast out of here,” she gasped, her fingers clawing the wall behind her.
Her ranting made no sense to Ethan. He deduced that by beast she meant Taz. A dog now lying in perfect repose except for the occasional flick of one ear.
Nevertheless, it was clear that Regan Grant was too terrified to think straight about anything. She probably hadn’t heard Ethan say he was a policeman. Headed as he was for an undercover assignment, he looked pretty casual.
With a hand signal and two words of softly spoken Dutch, Ethan banished Taz to the hallway. Rising, he dusted off his jeans. “My dog is outside, Ms. Grant. Do you think you can relax now?”
She uncurled a little at a time, unconsciously clamping a hand over an almost invisible scar that started at the base of her jaw and ran the length of her neck. It was one of several jagged scars long since repaired by plastic surgery. Regan had some wounds that could never be repaired.
Forcing her hand and mind away from bad memories, Regan ran shaking fingers through her heavy mop of corkscrew curls. Her sun-streaked hair had fallen into her face when the clip restraining it had somehow become dislodged. Seeing the silver clip lying on the floor, she bent to retrieve it and felt woozy. Her heart beat so hard and fast she doubted she could calm down. It’d been two years since she’d had a fear attack this bad.
A few weeks ago, when she’d been out jogging, Regan had actually passed a woman walking a Scottie. She hadn’t crossed the street to avoid them. A feat so rare Regan had patted herself on the back. Her hope then was that it meant she was conquering her phobia. Obviously not.
Ethan took heart as a bit of color crept into Regan Grant’s chalky face. Familiar with the private bathroom in this office, he took the liberty of drawing her a glass of water—which he extended slowly to the woman he’d come to meet. While he was at it, Ethan grabbed the opportunity to make his own assessment of someone secretly labeled a battle-ax.
Ethan would guess Regan Grant’s height to be five-five or-six. He’d pass on weight. She looked trim. Vroom-vroom, in fact. When he’d held her briefly, he’d had a sensation of holding something solid—not just skin and bones. Her taffy-streaked blond hair was cut in one length to her shoulders. A million curls picked up rays of afternoon sun and danced around her narrow face like a jagged halo. Any normal man would give her face a second look—or a third. If her generous mouth didn’t draw a guy’s interest, the arresting pale-blue eyes certainly would. Ethan knew he could never call anyone who looked like Regan Grant a battle-ax.
Regan stared for far too long at the unwavering water glass held by a bronzed masculine hand. She licked her lips, wanting the water. But she was still shaking so badly she thought she’d spill it if she accepted the glass. What must this man, this stranger, be thinking of her? And who was he? Her last appointment of the day had been Mrs. Campbell. She’d been gone more than an hour.
With the hated dog out of sight and her thoughts returning to work, Regan managed to accept the glass. “Thank you,” she murmured, motioning her Good Samaritan
