YULETIDE PROTECTOR (15 page)

Forgotten how good this could feel? Or forgotten how another man’s hands had made her feel? “Did I frighten you? I don’t want to do anything to remind you of him.”

She silenced his apology with a finger over his lips. Then quickly replaced it with a soft, healing kiss. “He doesn’t come into this room, remember?”

“That wasn’t fair of me to say. I know you live with those memories every day. Have you even been with a man since then?”

She shook her head.

Spencer was hard with desire, but he’d take a cold shower before he’d do anything to hurt her. “Can you do this? Are you ready to be with a man?”

“I’m ready to be loved, not forced.”

“Ah, hell, sweetheart.” His lips went to hers again, reassuring her with everything in him that there was no other way he’d have her. “Tell me what you like. Tell me what you don’t. Tell me to stop. Anytime. I’m not the most sensitive guy, but I can—”

“Could I be on top?” She whispered the request, the sweetest yes a man could know. “Is that okay?”

Rising up on one elbow, Spencer shucked the sweatshirt off over her head, removed her panties. She threw the covers back when he rolled away to pull a condom from the nightstand and sheathe himself. Then he lay back on the pillows, and pulled her over to straddle him, making himself as vulnerable to her as he knew how.

When she shyly covered her breasts from uncertainty or the chilled air, Spencer gently pried her hands away and brought them down to rest on the dancing, eager skin of his chest. She was porcelain and perfect from head to toe except for the rosy pink tips of her breasts, and the golden thatch of hair at her thighs.

Her beauty and trust were humbling things. “You mean you want me to be able to watch all this beautiful skin and touch these beautiful breasts and...”

Her breathing quickened as he did what he described. She rubbed her bottom against his shaft and he groaned with need.

“Do you want me?” she asked.

There were no other words. “Yes.”

“That’s what I need, Spencer. I need someone who wants me just because it’s me.”

“I need you.” He pulled down to his chest for a kiss. With her breasts branding his chest, he lifted her bottom and slowly entered her tight, moist heat. “Ah, B,” he growled, growing hard again as her body gripped him. “Ah, sweetheart.”

She pushed herself up and he thrust inside her. “Spencer? That’s good. I like that. I—”

When she closed her eyes and the tremors clutched him inside her, he was done talking. He thrust deeper, faster. He reached for her breasts and she covered his hands, linking their fingers together, squeezing them tight.

Bailey gasped his name as thrust himself up one last time and shook with the power of his own release.

Afterward, she collapsed on top of him and Spencer gathered her in his arms and pulled the comforter up to cover them both. They slept like that, with her spent body draped over his and his arms wrapped around her. And, for a few hours, Spencer Montgomery wasn’t a cop.

For a few hours, at least, he was only a man in love.

Chapter Eleven

“I knew you’d look smashing in a tuxedo.”

The compliment was genuine, but seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Bailey took Spencer’s hand and stepped out of the SUV onto the cleared bricks leading up to the front steps of the Mayweather estate. Twin Christmas trees, festooned with white lights and crystal ornaments, framed the front door, with layers of snow filling the branches in such a way that it looked as if it had been placed there for a holiday magazine ad. A red carpet led the way past a grandstand of reporters into the wide marble foyer where she could see glimpses of white roses and evergreen garlands hanging with more lights inside. The music of a small chamber orchestra, playing both classical pieces and holiday tunes, danced softly on the chilling breeze.

It was everything a Christmas ball should be. With lines of cars circling the driveway, dignitaries and wealthy guests pausing for pictures and sound bites before joining the party, it was everything her mother could want. It was probably everything Spencer loathed and it was an opportunity for Bailey.

Spencer handed his keys off to a parking valet she recognized as his partner, Nick Fensom. With a wink to Bailey and an “Everyone’s in place” to Spence, he hurried around the hood to climb behind the wheel and drive away.

Bailey inhaled a deep breath through her nose and released the steaming air out through her carefully made-up lips. She hadn’t expected tonight to be anything like a real date, but it might be reassuring to see at least a glimpse of the lover who’d bared his soul to her, and held her, skin to skin, in the warmth of his arms throughout the night.

It was important for her to be here—to calm her mother’s fears that explosions and gunfire weren’t any more of a threat than a Christmas card with an unpleasant message inside. She’d gotten the idea early this morning, as she’d lain in bed, snugged to Spencer’s side, thinking. If she could manage her nightmares, overcome her fears of intimacy, and be the woman that a strong, confident man like Spencer Montgomery needed, then she could face the reporters, face her family, face the possibility of The Cleaner or one of her hired thugs showing up tonight to try to silence her one last time.

Without any usable leads panning out, it might be the only way the police could ferret out the Rose Red Rapist’s accomplice and ensure the safety and success of his trial.

Spencer hated the idea. But he didn’t have a better one.

Spencer tapped the bud in his ear and dipped his chin toward the lapel microphone that could have passed for a fraternity pin. “Montgomery here. I’ve got Bailey with me. We need eyes on her every minute tonight. If anyone senses anything out of place, I’m the first to know.” She knew an unsettling thrill to be hanging on the arm of a man who conveyed such authority and generated such respect. She figured with Spencer was the safest place to be. Even if he doubted his ability to protect her now that things had gotten personal between them, she had no doubts. “Remember. Bailey and the guests are our first priority. If we can get this perp, do it. But we neutralize any threats to the civilians first. Understood?” A litany of responses buzzed in his ear. “Apprise Zeiss’s men of our status. Montgomery out.”

Bailey waited beside him, shivering beneath her midnight-blue wrap, fighting the cold air as much as her own trepidation about tonight. And about them.

Maybe Spencer could only allow a
them
for one night. Maybe he considered being with her a weakness he didn’t want to repeat. Maybe he truly couldn’t be both a cop and a man who cared.

The relentless cop had shown up to escort her to the ball tonight. The man she loved was buried somewhere deep under the starched white collar and gun and badge hidden beneath the trim fit of his suit.

If he wouldn’t tell her that things would be okay, that the massive security and crowd of cameras and guests would keep her safe enough tonight, then maybe she should reassure him.

While he looked from side to side, taking note of the cars that had pulled up behind him and eyeing anyone who strayed too close, Bailey reached up to straighten his collar where the curling wire that connected his radio to the members of his task force had caught. “You said I could do anything I set my mind to.”

He pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow and led her onto the red carpet. “Setting yourself up as bait and getting yourself killed for the trouble weren’t what I had in mind.”

“Spencer—”

“I know. You need to do this.” His grip tightened and he pulled her aside, dropping his lips to her ear to whisper, “If anything happens tonight—if I’m not there for you—you fight. That’s what you do, Bailey Austin. You get up and you fight.”

Bailey reached up and brushed her fingertips along the cool line of his jaw. Maybe the man she loved
had
shown up tonight. “I will, Spencer,” she promised. “Nose, throat, gut or groin. Keep moving. Keep fighting. I won’t be the victim again.”

He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple and Bailey tilted her head, savoring the tender touch.

Then the moment was over and he tugged her closer to his side as the cameras flashed. The cop was back. “Brace yourself. The fun’s about to begin.”

“Miss Austin?”

“Look this way!”

“Who are you with tonight?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Who are you wearing?”

“Any lasting effects from yesterday’s attack?”

The rapid-fire barrage of snapshots and questions caught her off guard for a moment. But then she found her smile and the gracious genes she’d inherited from her mother, and paused for pictures and answered questions. She introduced Spencer, raved about her mother’s decorations and reminded readers and viewers to donate as generously as they could afford.

When they reached the edge of the grandstand at the bottom of the stairs, a large television camera swung her way, capturing her in its spotlight. Vanessa Owen stepped forward with her microphone and Bailey dug her fingers into the fine wool of Spencer’s sleeve, as wary of this encounter as she’d been the night the reporter had ambushed her in the KCPD parking garage.

“Happy Holidays, Miss Austin.” The striking brunette wore a toasty-looking black coat with a fur-trimmed collar, and smiled into the camera as if she had no care about the frosty temps or her provocative questions. “How does it feel to know that an innocent woman was killed because of you? Maybe even killed because she was mistaken for you?”

“You’re out of line, Miss Owen.” Spencer tried to push past the reporter and camera, but Bailey was dragging her feet.

The shock and sadness of her neighbor’s death washed over her anew. “Corie Rudolf was a friend of mine. I deeply mourn her passing and send my prayers to her family over their tragic loss.”

But another emotion was growing inside her, too. The same emotion that had motivated her to say yes to the D.A.’s request to have the Rose Red Rapist’s most prominent victim agree to testify, the same emotion that drove her to come here in the first place, the same emotion that made her want to shove Vanessa Owen’s microwave right down the opportunistic brunette’s throat.

Bailey smiled serenely, holding up her hand and interrupting before Vanessa could ask some other sensationalist question that was meant to get beneath her skin. “I am not to blame for Corie’s murder. There’s a woman called The Cleaner who has covered up crimes and destroyed people’s lives and killed them...to help out a rapist. The same rapist who assaulted me.”

“B—”

“
They
are the ones to blame. Not the victims.” The anger, the helplessness and frustration, the stark, cold fear she hated to feel all rose to the surface and oozed out in succinct, daring words. “I blame The Cleaner for Corie’s murder. And I think she ought to know that killing my friend only makes me more determined than ever to see that justice is done.”

“Brave words for a person who’s received how many threats? And you’re still going to testify?”

“Yes.”

Vanessa’s predatory eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you afraid The Cleaner will come after you again? Aren’t you terrified?” The dark-haired woman leaned in. “Shouldn’t we all be terrified that you’re here with us tonight? Haven’t you put all of us in danger?”

“We’re all safe here,” Spencer announced, even though he hadn’t said those words to Bailey. “This interview is done.”

Vanessa’s phone rang as Spencer pushed Bailey past the last of the cameras. When she glanced back, she saw the look of irritation on the reporter’s face as she read the incoming number.

“Yes?” she answered. “What? I can’t. I’m on a live feed right now. Are you sure? Tonight?” She lifted her gaze to meet Bailey’s at the top of the stairs. And held it. “That
would
be a fabulous story to tell.” She repeated herself when the caller must have argued. “I’ll take care of it.” Then she disconnected the call and made a cutting gesture across her throat to tell her cameraman to turn off the feed.

“Spencer?” Bailey tugged on his sleeve when the reporter slipped through the cadre of reporters and disappeared from sight. “Where is she going?”

He pulled her inside to the marble foyer before answering. “Way to bait the trap, B. Challenging The Cleaner to come find you here?”

“Are you making a joke?”

“I’m on the job. I don’t joke.” His gray eyes were more probing than Vanessa’s had been. “If she’s not already here, she or her henchmen will be soon.” He tapped the radio in his ear again. “Nick. Tell Zeiss’s men to go on full alert. I think we’re going to have a real party tonight. And somebody find me Vanessa Owen.”

Bailey slipped off her wrap and moved on to the check-in table while Spencer relayed orders to his team. There were so many people here. The estate was huge, and nearly every room on the first floor was being used. Waitstaff moved through the guests, carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The musicians sat at one end of the open ballroom and dancers waltzed in a circle. There was a giant Christmas tree at the foot of the winding staircase where a professional photographer was snapping souvenir photos of the donors attending.

If The Cleaner was here, finding her wouldn’t be easy. Bailey idly wondered if it would be just as difficult for The Cleaner to find her. She glanced back out at the reporters’ stand. What if she already had? Vanessa Owen had once dated Brian Elliott. Would she still be loyal to him? Was she so hungry for a career-making story that she’d set up the very crimes she wanted to cover?

“Miss Austin?” A friendly voice diverted her attention away from the missing newswoman. Max Duncan, the bodyguard who’d nearly gotten arrested and had helped save her life, sat behind the table, wearing a suit and tie, an earbud like Spencer’s, and those same reflective sunglasses he’d worn out in the snowy sunshine wrapped around the back of his neck. “How are you this evening?”

“Good, Max.” She stretched up on tiptoe to look over the edge of the table and saw he was sitting on a stool with his leg out straight in a brace. A metal cane leaned against the table beside him. “How are you feeling?”

“Beat up and embarrassed. Dislocated my kneecap and cracked my shin bone.” He read through the list of guests on his clipboard and checked off her name. “But it’s all hands on deck with a party this big. I figured I could at least watch the door for Mr. Zeiss tonight. I need to get back on his nice list.”

Bailey smiled. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”

“Yes, ma’am. You, too.” Max’s gaze strayed up to greet the red-haired man brushing his hand against Bailey’s back. She startled at the faintly possessive touch, and was disappointed when Spencer pulled away just as quickly. “Detective.” Max picked up his clipboard again and found Spencer’s name. “You carrying?”

“Yes.” Spencer nodded and pulled back his jacket to reveal the gun holstered there before buttoning it shut again. “You’ve got a registration of everyone else here who’s carrying a weapon?”

Max made another check on his list. “Your people. And all the Zeiss personnel. We’re the ones in the gray uniforms.” He patted the brace on his thigh. “I, personally, won’t get there very fast. But we’ll come running if you need us.”

Spencer thanked him. “Good to know.”

“Bailey!”

Bailey groaned as her mother called to her from the photographer’s station and swept across the foyer in a sashay of wine-red taffeta. “Now it’s my turn to say, ‘Brace yourself.’”

Linking her arm through Spencer’s, Bailey crossed to the foot of the staircase to meet Loretta Austin-Mayweather halfway. Her mother hugged her, carefully turning her cheek so as not to smudge either of their makeup. “I’m so glad you came. This color is divine on you. Darling, let me look at you.”

Loretta caught Bailey’s hands and leaned back, zeroing in on the bandage on her cheek. “Oh, dear. I knew you’d been hurt.” She touched her fingers to the bruising cut and frowned. “Will that leave a scar?” Before Bailey could answer, she pulled her over to the photographer, who snapped a candid photo of them both. By the time the afterimage of the flash had cleared Bailey’s retinas, Loretta was already pointing to her injury. “This can be edited out of the pictures, can’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Loretta had her by the hand again, pulling her toward the ballroom. “I want you to come say hello to the mayor.”

“Mother?” Bailey planted her feet. She didn’t care about scars in pictures or scoring points with local politicians. But she did care that her mother acknowledge the danger her daughter was facing, and maybe, just maybe, find the strength to show a little compassion. “You remember my friend Spencer.”

“Your friend?” Loretta’s tone was decidedly less welcoming than her eagerness to see Bailey had been. “Detective Montgomery.”

“Mrs. Mayweather.”

“Mother. I dressed up and came to your party for you. Be nice.”

Something like despair put instant lines on Loretta’s delicate features. She reached out to squeeze Spencer’s hand. “Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.” Then the lines vanished and she pointed a stern finger at him. “But if your people do anything to ruin this fund-raiser, you’re not going to be in tonight’s family portrait.”