The Officer's Girl (12 page)

Brett’s pulse rate tripled. He slid sideways a half step to get a better view of the so-called customer when Sam handed the bag across the counter. The man in the jacket held his right arm crooked and stationary…and aimed at Sam.

Gun. Oh, shit.

Brett used the sound of soda pouring into the drip tray to cover the noise he made unholstering his off-duty weapon. Wishing he had told Stephanie he loved her, he waited while seconds stretched to hourlike proportions until the gunman took his first step toward the exit.

“Police! Freeze!” he shouted. With his next breath he added, “Get down, Sam!”

The thief spun, his gun hand swinging out.

Brett tasted copper. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. He stood at one end, the man with the gun at the other.

“Don’t do it, buddy!” he yelled. The Glock felt enormous in his hands. He hoped it looked even bigger.

It must have because the gunman wisely froze.

Once the suspect was disarmed and down on the floor, Brett gulped air and yelled for Sam.

“Call for help,” he instructed. “Tell Dispatch it’s a Code 10-15, suspect in custody.” His eyes glued to the would-be thief, he spotted tennis shoes—his own tennis shoes—in his peripheral vision. Brett kept his gun trained on the suspect while he wiped a dribble of sweat into his hair with his free hand.

“Be sure you tell them an off-duty officer made the arrest.”

Being mistaken for an armed gunman would ruin his whole day.

He eyed the robber lying on the floor and sucked in a breath of air big enough to make his shoulders rise and fall. His vision cleared from freeze-frame images into a smoothly running track and, for the first time, he thought to check the parking lot where there was a decided lack of delivery trucks. He shook his head at the mistake only a rookie would make. What was he thinking, dropping his guard like that?

The instant replay showed he hadn’t been thinking, at least not about the important things, the things that might get a guy killed.

He heard approaching sirens, followed closely by the sound of screeching tires. The parking lot filled with blue flashing lights, and uniformed officers poured into the store. Several quickly led the gunman to a patrol car.

After that, bedlam erupted. Everyone yelled or spoke at once, especially Sam. Babbling and gesturing wildly about the dangers of owning a business and the cop who had saved him, Sam was already on the phone providing his wife with a slightly exaggerated account of the event. It took four policemen to pry the grinning store owner from his corner behind the cash register. It took an act of Congress to get him off the phone long enough to give a statement.

Amid all the back-slapping, Brett’s stomach suddenly lurched as if to remind him that taking down armed robbers was hard work and maybe he should eat something. The pair of hot dogs still sitting on the counter where he’d left them made him shudder. He’d never eat another one as long as he lived.

Which was a waste, considering Sam would probably give him a lifetime supply.

B
Y EIGHT O’CLOCK
, Paul Mason was history and Brett was MIA. Above a carefully selected Chisato sundress and little else, Stephanie wore a troubled frown. Her stomach tightened as she listened to his doorbell echo through the townhouse. The charms of her favorite knockoffs clinked softly and the hem of her dress brushed her thighs while her weight shifted from one foot to another on Brett’s front porch. She pushed the buzzer again.

No one came.

Had there been an accident? She had an instant image of him lying, hurt and alone, on some deserted stretch of road and shook her head. There were no deserted roads in Cocoa Beach. But their wires had gotten crossed somehow and she needed to find out why. Praying he had been called in to cover someone else’s shift, was writing out speeding tickets or booking a suspect, she dialed the emergency phone number he had given her.

“This is Dispatch.”

She dredged a name out of one of Brett’s many stories. “Doris, this is Stephanie Bryant. We haven’t met, but Officer Lincoln gave me your number. I wondered if I could speak to him. We were supposed to meet and—”

“Brett ain’t on duty tonight, sugar.”

“He’s not?” Stephanie’s heart sank to the toes of her faux–Jimmy Choos.

“He’s down at Sticks N Tips celebratin’ with the rest of my boys. You should join us there, honey.”

Stephanie gave her cell a blank look, her grip on the phone tightening as relief that Brett was all right faded against feelings of betrayal. Her lower lip trembled until she bit it. She squelched the urge to vent by tapping her toes. The charms on her shoes jangled.

What next? she wondered when she had burned off enough anger and frustration to think clearly. It didn’t take much imagination to predict Brett’s reaction if she showed up at the bar dressed as she was. From the untamed curls he loved to plunge his fingers through, all the way down to her favorite come-and-get-me stilettos, she had dressed for one unmistakable purpose. Though tonight was so definitely
not
going to be the night, seeing her in the skimpy sundress would certainly teach him not to make the same mistake twice.

If he ever had to break another date, he would call first.

The lump of doubt in her throat refused to go away as she climbed back into her car. After the meeting with Corporate that morning, her first thought had been to share the good news with Brett. Yet here she was, a few hours later, driving to her least favorite place in Cocoa Beach because he had broken their Very Important Date in order to meet his cop buddies…and she had no idea what the boys in blue were celebrating.

Why hadn’t he called?

The obvious reason, that he didn’t take their relationship as seriously as she did, made her lip tremble again. She told herself she was lucky to find out now, before things had gone too far. But that didn’t make her feel any better and with a resigned sigh, she drove through the drizzly rain to Sticks N Tips.

Stephanie threaded through the maze of haphazardly parked cars, carefully picking her way around shoe-ruinous puddles until she reached the bar’s door. Inside, the party was in full swing. Heavy metal poured from overhead speakers. Conversation, punctuated every few seconds by raucous yells, buzzed beneath it. Before her eyes could adjust from bright sunshine to the sparsely lit interior, a vaguely familiar waitress shoved a fresh mug in her hands.

“Drinks are on the house, honey.”

Judging from the yeasty smell of the place, beer flowed nonstop.

So many muscular men and sturdy women packed the room Stephanie wondered if any police were left to guard the city. The crowd made it impossible to elbow her way through without getting mauled or pinched or doused by someone else’s drink. Since her revised plans for the
evening included none of the above, she waited until she spotted a corner table where a hanging lamp spilled a pool of light onto a woman draped in a purple sari. Beside her sat a dark-skinned man Stephanie recognized from her morning coffee run. Even better, two empty chairs sat across from them.

Reaching for their names, she asked, “Ramya?” Her nod to the husband was more certain. “Sam. May I join you?”

“Ah, Ms. Stephanie. So good to see you. Please. Sit down.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked. A cop bar seemed a strange place for store owners whose friendly service had wooed her away from the impersonal national chain across the street.

“You like my party, yes?” asked Sam.

“Your party? All this?” She waved a hand at an array of bar food on a nearby table. “Did you hit the Lotto or something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sam answered. “My store was robbed and I was nearly killed today. To thank all the policemen who came to my rescue, I am having a party.” When Ramya shuddered visibly, Sam wrapped his arm around her and drew her close.

“What?” Stephanie asked. She threw an irritated look over her shoulder. With all the racket going on in the back room, she could hardly hear what Sam was saying. “Are you all right?”

Patting his wife’s arm, Sam answered. “Everything is, as you say, A-OK.”

“Thanks to Officer Brett.” Ramya’s soft voice broke and fresh tears welled in her dark brown eyes. She appealed to her husband. “What if he had not stopped in when he did? Where would you be then?”

Sam hugged his wife, murmured into her ear. Stephanie waited until Ramya calmed before she interrupted.

“I’m sorry, but did you say Brett? Brett Lincoln?”

The couple nodded excitedly. “Yes! Yes!” they exclaimed. “Officer Brett!”

Sam gave Ramya a sideways look. When she nodded, he took over the explanation. “A thief robbed our store. He aimed a gun at me and stole all my money. He wanted more, and I think he would have shot me but your friend, Officer Brett, he pulled his gun and forced the robber to the ground. He saved my life.”

Stephanie searched the store owner’s face for a sign, but his earnest expression held no room for doubt. Still, he had to be mistaken. The man she loved would have called her if something so momentous, so dangerous, had happened to him.

Apparently not.

The clear tones of the bar bell rang out, instantly tamping down the noise level throughout the room. Stephanie held her breath as, along with everyone else, she swiveled to see the man of the hour emerge from the back room flanked by Jake and several other brothers-in-arms. A deafening shout greeted Brett’s appearance. Amid high fives and enough back slaps to give a guy whiplash, his entourage began to inch its way through the room.

For two seconds, maybe less, Stephanie’s heart thudded joyously as the group headed directly for her table. But two seconds, maybe less, was all it took before she realized that she was not the intended objective. Sam and Ramya were.

Of course they were. The crowd expected a show. Handshakes and praise, the more obsequious the better. Stephanie could almost hear each man playing his part. Sam, with his charming accent, honoring the bravery of the
officer who had saved his life. And though he swaggered now more than usual, she could almost see Brett scuff his feet before succumbing to the crowd’s demands to tell his story one more time.

She could not sit there and watch it happen. She eased from the table. Making her way past clumps of well-wishers, she added new phrases to her personal dictionary. Brett had performed a “takedown” according to one gushing fan. Funny, thought Stephanie, all she felt was a letdown. She splashed through puddles to her car while the heels of her shoes poked holes in her heart with every step.

Away from the music and the confusion of the crowded bar, she took a deep breath. It wasn’t something they’d discussed, but she had known from day one that police work would place Brett in danger.

She got that.

She could live with knowing he placed his life on the line if, at the end of the day, he came home to the life they built together.

Brett had joined the force to help people. Even now, when the pressures of his work kept him from spending time with the very ones he wanted to protect and serve, he got up every day, dressed in his uniform, strapped his gun in its holster and walked out the door.

She respected that.

What she could not wrap her thoughts around was that he had chosen his cop buddies over her. He had come face-to-face with death that very day, but had he picked up the phone to tell her? No. Instead, he had raced off to celebrate with his pals on the force. What did that say about his feelings for her? If they did build a life together, was that what it would be like? Would she always come a distant second to his fellow officers?

She tried out several answers before deciding that every one of them doomed their relationship. Through a film of tears, she stared at the closed door of Sticks N Tips. Even though the neon sign in the window said OPEN, she knew better. The place was a cop bar where would-be lovers were oh-so-not invited. Behind those thick wooden doors, Brett had everyone who really mattered at his side.

Stephanie leaned against the headrest. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, dissolving any hope of building a life with the man who had stolen her heart.

O
NE GLIMPSE
of the amazingly hot Stephanie on her way out the door stopped Brett cold in his trek about the room. For the second time that day, he watched disaster unfold before him. This time, his blood turned to ice. Hoping no one would notice the way his hands shook, he thrust them deep into the pockets of his Dockers.

He should have called. He’d intended to.

All day, his plans for the night had refused to budge from one corner of his mind. But every time he’d reached for the phone, one of his fellow officers had slapped him on the back and demanded he rehash the whole story. Between that and the Review Board and meetings with the lieutenant, to say nothing of the reams of paperwork required whenever an officer—especially an off-duty officer—pulled his weapon, the day had simply gotten away from him.

But he’d never meant to put that hurt look on Stephanie’s face. As scared as he had been in Pat’s Place—he hadn’t told a soul, but he’d literally been shaking in his Keds—he would rather face ten armed robbers than upset the woman he loved. And there was no doubt that she was upset. His stomach roiled as ominously as if he’d filled it with beer instead of soda.

Had he lost her?

Nah, he smiled tightly. He could still fix things. All he had to do was go after her, catch her in the parking lot and apologize. Imagining how they would kiss and make up was like applying a blowtorch to the ice in his veins. He stepped toward the door through which the love of his life had fled.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He heard Jake’s voice in his ear.

“Let her go, man.”

Brett shook his head. “I messed up. We had a date and I—with all that happened today, I didn’t call. She thinks I stood her up.”

The older cop’s fingers dug deep enough into Brett’s shoulders that he gritted his teeth to keep from wincing.

“And I’m telling ya, let her go. You put your life on the line today, man, and this is your night. Any woman worth having would understand that. If she doesn’t, it’s because she’s too self-centered to care about anyone but herself.”