stomping through the snow toward her. Gina tried to find her gun.
“Officer?” The tall jogger with the sexy beard scruff came into view as he knelt in the snow beside her. “It’s okay, ma’am.” His eyes were hidden behind reflective sunglasses, and he clutched a cell phone to his ear, allowing her few details as to what he looked like. He picked up her Glock from the snow where it had landed and showed it to her before tucking it into the back of his waistband. “Your weapon is secure.”
She slapped her left hand against his knee and pulled at the insulated material there. “You have to stay down. Shooter—”
“He’s driving away,” the man said. She wasn’t exactly following the conversation, but then he was talking on his cell phone as he leaned over her, running his free hand up and down her arms and legs. “No, I couldn’t read the license. It was covered with mud and slush. Yes, just the driver. Look, I’ll answer your questions later. Just get an ambulance here. Now!” He disconnected the call and stuffed the phone inside his pocket. He tossed aside his sunglasses and looked down into her eyes. Wow. He was just as good-looking up close as he’d been from a distance. “You hit twice?”
Gina nodded, thinking more about her observation than her answer. She reached up and touched her shaking fingertips to the sandpapery stubble that shadowed his jaw. “I know you.” Before her jellified brain could place why he looked so familiar to her, he grabbed her keys off her belt and bolted to his feet. She turned her head to watch him unlock the trunk to get the med kit. How did he know it was stored there? He was acting like a cop—he’d provided the squad car number and street address on that phone call. He knew KCPD lingo and where her gear was stowed. “Captain Cutler?” That wasn’t right. But the blue eyes and chiseled features were the same. But she’d never seen the SWAT captain with that scruffy catnip on his face.
She wasn’t any closer to understanding what she was seeing when he knelt beside her again, opening the kit and pulling out a compress. She winced as he slipped the pad beneath her vest and pressed his hand against her wound to stanch the bleeding. The deep, sure tone of voice was a little like catnip to her groggy senses, too. “I’m Mike Cutler. I’ve had paramedic training. Lie still.”
Why were her hormones involved in any of this conversation? She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate. She was a KCPD police officer. She’d been shot. The perp had gotten away. There was protocol to follow. She had a job to do. Gina opened her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pressure on her chest and the fog inside her head. “Check my partner. He’s hit.”
“You’re losing blood too fast. I’m not going anywhere until I slow the bleeding.” The brief burst of clarity quickly waned. The Good Samaritan trying to save her life tugged on her vest the moment her eyes closed. “Officer Galvan? No, no, keep your eyes open. What’s your first name?”
“Gina.”
“Gina?” He was smiling when she blinked her eyes open. “That’s better. Pretty brown eyes. Like a good cup of coffee. I want to keep seeing them, okay?” She nodded. His eyes were such a pretty color. No, not pretty. There wasn’t anything pretty about the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He certainly wasn’t from this part of town. She’d have remembered a face like that. A face that was still talking. “Trust me. I’m on your side. If I look familiar, it’s because you’re a cop, and you probably know my dad.”
Mike Cutler. My dad. Gina’s foggy brain cleared with a moment of recognition. “Captain Cutler? Oh, God. I’m interviewing with him... Don’t tell him I got shot, okay?” But he’d left her. Gina called out in a panic. “Cutler?”
“I’m here.” Her instinct to exhale with relief ended up in a painful fit of coughing. “Easy. I was just checking your partner.”
“How is he?”
“Unconscious. As far as I can tell, he has a gunshot wound to the arm. But he may have hit his head on the door frame or pavement. His nose is bruised.”
“That was...before.” She tried to point to the house.
“Before what?”
The words to explain the incident with Gordon Bismarck were lost in the fog of her thoughts. But her training was clear. Derek was shot. And she had a job to do.
“The prisoner?” Gina tried to roll over and push herself up, but she couldn’t seem to get her arm beneath her. The snow and clouds and black running shoes all swirled together inside her head.
“Easy, Gina. I need you to lie still. An ambulance is on its way. You’ve injured your shoulder, and I don’t see an exit wound. If that bullet is still inside you, I don’t want it traveling anywhere.” He unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it. He draped the thin, insulated material over her body, gently but securely tucking her in, surrounding her with the residual warmth from his body and the faint, musky scent of his workout. “The guy in the backseat is loud, but unharmed. The lady at the front door looks scared, but she isn’t shot. Lie down. You’re going into shock.” He pulled her radio from beneath the jacket and pressed the call button. “Get that bus to...” Gina’s vision blurred as he rattled off the address. “Stay with me. Gina?” His warm hand cupped her face, and she realized just how cold she was. She wished she could wrap her whole body up in that kind of heat. She looked up into his stern expression. “Stay with me.”
“Catnip.”
“What?” Her eyelids drifted shut. “Gina!”
The last thing she saw was her blood seeping into the snow. The last thing she felt was the man’s strong hands pressing against her breast and shoulder. The last thing she heard was his voice on her radio.
“Officer down! I repeat: officer down!”
Six weeks later
“He shoots! He scores!” The basketball sailed through the hoop, hitting nothing but net. Troy Anthony spun his wheelchair on the polished wood of the physical therapy center’s minicourt. His ebony braids flew around the mocha skin of his bare, muscular shoulders, and one fist was raised in a triumphant gloat before he pointed to Mike. “You are buying the beers.”
“How do you figure that?” Mike Cutler caught the ball as it bounced past him, dribbled it once and shoved a chest pass at his smirking competitor. It was impossible not to grin as his best friend and business partner, Troy, schooled him in the twenty-minute pickup game. “I thought we were playing to cheer me up.”
Troy easily caught the basketball and shoved it right back. “I was playing to win, my friend. Your head’s not in the game.”
Mike’s hands stung, forgetting to catch the pass with his fingertips instead of his palms. He was distracted. “Fine. Tonight at the Shamrock. Beers are on me.”
He tucked the ball under his arm as he climbed out of the wheelchair he’d been using. Once his legs unkinked and the electric jolts of random nerves firing across his hips and lower back subsided, he pushed the chair across the polished wood floor to stow the basketball in the PT center’s equipment locker. At least he didn’t have to wear those joint pinching leg braces or a body cast anymore.
But he wasn’t about to complain. Twelve years ago, he hadn’t been able to walk at all, following a car accident that had shattered his
