“I need Angela’s pacifier. It’s in my room. Would you bring it, Regan?”
Regan raced into Ethan’s room and found the pacifier. She saw that his bed wasn’t made and a couple of dirty shirts lay where he’d dropped them. Dust had collected on his dresser. His room had been immaculate before the babies’ arrival. Ethan clearly needed a housekeeper. Or a wife. That last thought pulsed in Regan’s head as she dashed down the hall and handed him Angela’s pacifier.
“Thanks,” he whispered, still rubbing the baby’s back. Smiling up at Regan, he asked unexpectedly, “Have I thanked you for all your help over the past couple of weeks? If not, I want you to know I couldn’t have done this without you. I said I could, but I was wrong.”
He looked and sounded so serious, all Regan could do was nod. She wanted to hug him back and somehow wipe away the signs of fatigue. If only she could turn back the clock—to the last time he’d proposed. She’d accept the second he got the words out. The realization hit her like a load of bricks. She’d just admitted to herself that she wanted to marry Ethan Knight.
And not just because of the babies, either. Not at all…
Dear Reader,
Since I’m blessed with several police officers in my extended family, you might think a “cop story” would be easy for me to write. Not so. You see, my sources come from different aspects of police work—state, county and city bike patrol. Also the SWAT team. While generous with their information, these fine keepers of our peace don’t always agree!
Like many of my books, The Baby Cop began with a couple of small news clippings. In this case, they concernerd horribly abused quadruplets, plus a hiker lost for several days in our mountains. Add to that a lot of library research on Child Protective Services. But the book is wholly a work of fiction. (Up to and including the totally fictitious mention of a not-so-nice group of cops attached to the Phoenix police. Trust me, Phoenix has a super contingent of hardworking officers!) Oh, and I can’t forget Internet research on search-and-rescue dogs.
Any errors or discrepancies are strictly mine.
Cops, babies, dogs—I guess you’ll have to read the story to see how I got all of that to come together in a romance novel. I hope you like the way Ethan Knight and Regan Grant cut through a heap of personal and professional problems to find lasting happiness—the bottom line (so to speak) of what love stories are all about.
I enjoy reading from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731.
Sincerely,
Roz Denny Fox
The Baby Cop
Roz Denny Fox
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
ETHAN KNIGHT tried to block out the chirp of his cellular phone. He’d just gotten to bed after forty-eight tense hours dealing with a hostage situation—armed robber holding a mother and child. He sighed; the inconsiderate caller showed no sign of giving up. Rooting around under his pillow, Ethan found the phone and flopped over so his ear fell across it. “’Lo,” he muttered. His free hand batted at the cold wet nose of his big Alsatian, Taz.
“Sorry to bother you, Detective,” said an anxious voice. “You probably barely hit the sack. It’s Sergeant Vince Paducah. We need you here, man. Our team rolled on a routine nuisance call. We walked into a helluva mess.” The sergeant rattled off a street address and an apartment number.
Ethan reared up from his crumpled pillow and snapped on a light. Before his eyes focused, he’d scribbled the information on the ever-present notepad sitting on his nightstand beside a locked box holding his police revolver. Cursing, he shoved his legs into dirty jeans. “I know that address, Vince. What is it this time? Did Brucie-boy tie one on again and beat the crap out of his poor wife?”
Detective Knight shrugged into his shirt and tucked it into his jeans while reaching for his boots. The caller’s voice dropped. “Way worse. The worst.” Vince uttered a string of codes—department lingo for domestic violence resulting in murder.
Pain exploded in Ethan’s head as his fingers closed around his standard issue Smith & Wesson .38. Damn, his body was getting too old to handle the increase in after-hours cases—especially bad ones like this. “The kids?” he asked softly, trying to quell the flow of acid pumping into his gut. The team might want him ASAP, but Ethan figured he’d have to comb his hair and run a razor over a prickly chin or risk scaring two already frightened children with his wild-man look.
“They’re spooky kids. No hysterics, no tears,” Vince said. “Have you got a good safe place for ’em?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, Ethan pictured a four-year-old girl with huge blue eyes and her stoic six-year-old brother. Two children who’d witnessed more violence in their short lives than any human beings in a civilized society ought to see. Only that was the problem; some people weren’t civilized. Bruce Hammond ranked high among the least civilized SOBs.
“I’ll make some calls on the way, Paducah.” Ethan checked his shield and slid it into a jacket
