out a female trooper, something he’d better stop doing yesterday if he planned to keep his job. What was wrong with him?
Maybe it was simply this unusual day, surreal in Groundhog Day proportions, that had made him so uncomfortably aware of her. Or maybe it was that Trooper Morgan had surprised him. Only a handful of people had ever been able to do that.
In his experience, people stayed true to form, no matter what that form was. Law-abiding citizens kept following the rules, and convicted felons became repeat offenders with tragic regularity. He understood too well the collateral damage those habitual offenders left behind, not to mention the worry over apples that fell too close to their second-rate trees.
Trooper Morgan either didn’t understand the rules of the game or refused to play along. Just when Ben had begun to wonder if he’d ever find a crack in her armor of fierce self-reliance, Delia had shown him a flicker of possibility.
Somehow he had to help her become a real part of the Brighton Post team before Polaski decided that her independent streak was a bigger liability than her determination and commitment to justice were assets. But how could he convince someone like her that there was no I in team? Maybe he should become more involved in her work development, while maintaining strict professional boundaries, of course. He could do that with his eyes closed, right?
As he entered his office, giving a self-satisfied nod, an image popped into his head, unbidden and unwelcome. Delia as he’d never seen her, her dark mass of hair flowing down her back, those huge eyes shining with humor and a sexy smile playing on those perfect, kissable lips. He blinked away the rest of the image because in it, besides that smile, she wore nothing at all.
On second thought, he needed to forget about doing anything with his eyes closed. He’d better keep them wide-open, and if he had any sense, he would stretch a barrier of bright yellow crime-scene tape between him and a certain female trooper. Tape that said Police Line Do Not Cross.
* * *
DELIA GRIPPED THE steering wheel so hard that her hands cramped as she merged the patrol car onto Interstate 96, but even focusing on her aching fingers failed to clear her thoughts. She should have felt better in the familiar black interior of her car, where the rules made sense, where she was in control, but everything was out of whack now.
Why had she said those things to Lieutenant Peterson? It wasn’t like her, at least not the current her. That little girl behind the curtain of her past, she might have said something like that. She’d been the one prone to hero worship, who’d trusted grown-ups too easily. And she’d paid dearly for those mistakes. Delia barely remembered that silly, naive girl.
If only she could forget today’s conversation with the lieutenant. Why hadn’t it been enough for her to just congratulate him like everyone else had? Especially when all he’d really done was to be at the right place at the right time. Okay, maybe a little more than that, but still. As if the hero’s welcome hadn’t been enough, she’d heaped more praise on him when no one was watching.
But you really did it.
The memory of his chocolate-colored eyes widening behind those Clark Kent glasses had her straightening in the seat now. But her words weren’t even the worst part. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d meant what she’d said. Despite the fact that the type of opportunity she’d needed to distinguish herself at the post had fallen right into his lap. Or that she couldn’t move up to a higher-profile agency where she could focus on child-predator cases while she spent her days handing out traffic citations and investigating property-damage accidents.
I’m no hero.
She squirmed in her seat as his words echoed in her ears. With her watching and waiting for his teamwork message to implode over his fifteen minutes of fame, Lieutenant Peterson had come up with a comment like that. It didn’t make sense. She knew police officers. They were cocky SOBs, who would take credit for building the Ambassador Bridge if they thought they could get away with it. The attitude came with the uniform. That edge showed up with the badge.
If Sergeant Leonetti had been the one congraluted, he would have grabbed a microphone and cued a comedy monologue. Trooper Shane Warner would have struck a pose to show off his overdeveloped biceps. Even she would have only pretended to hate the attention. After all, it was a means to a critical end.
But Lieutenant Peterson had come through for those bank customers in a highly volatile situation, and he’d done it with the kind of humility she couldn’t help but admire. She’d never seen anything like it. The people in her life had never even stood up for those they claimed to love, let alone for strangers.
A reluctant hero, but a hero still.
She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that Lieutenant Peterson had reacted differently than others would have. Sometimes it astonished her that a man like him, someone with such kind eyes, had become a cop in the first place. He had “nice guy” written all over that baby face he tried to shield behind his glasses. As if those could do anything to hide that dimple in his chin or the way his smile lifted slightly higher on one side. Even his light brown hair betrayed him by curling the moment it grew a millimeter outside of its close-trimmed cut.
Not that she’d noticed those things when she’d started working at the post ten months ago. Or kept noticing them.
“Great. Just great.”
Delia shook her head as she took the exit for US 23 and continued to her favorite traffic surveillance point near Whitmore Lake. Today backing into the spot shielded by the overpass felt like diving for cover. Why was she allowing herself to have inappropriate thoughts about a fellow officer? And more dangerous than that, letting herself be tempted to believe that any man was different. They were all the same, and she knew it.
Delia reached for the passenger seat and flipped on her handheld radar gun. The numbers reset on the screen, their details clear. If only her thoughts about a certain lieutenant were as easy to flip on and off. She had to make them stop. Wasn’t it difficult enough being a woman on the force without her behaving like one of those vacuous females who oohed and aahed over heroes in uniform? All of her effort to establish herself as the most competent recent graduate of the State Police Recruit School would be down the drain if she didn’t get her thoughts under control. She could almost hear the sucking sound of her lost momentum.
A beep on the laptop, stationed on her console, interrupted her pity party like a needle popping balloons. Setting the radar gun on the passenger seat, she clicked on the message from Gail Jacobs, the administrative assistant.
Lieutenant Peterson asked if you could make a run through Kensington Metropark during your shift. He wants you to take a look around the scene where that burned-out car was discovered last week.
Delia hit Reply and typed OK. It wasn’t as glamorous as thwarting a bank robbery, but routine assignments were part of the job. She glanced down at the message again and blew out a breath. Obviously, she’d made a big deal out of nothing. Just because she’d made some goofy comment this afternoon didn’t mean there would be some monumental change at work between her and the superior officer.
Before she could return to traffic monitoring, another beep announced a second message.
Oh. He also said thanks again. All that attention today must have been killing the poor guy.
Delia swallowed as she lifted the radar gun and pointed. Whether or not Gail had misunderstood the message she’d been asked to pass along, something had clearly changed at the Brighton Post. And it had moved as quickly as the red pickup truck
