YULETIDE PROTECTOR (7 page)

“You really think that man was following me today, don’t you?” she challenged. “That it wasn’t just some paparazzo getting the scoop on Mother’s Christmas Ball. The D.A. promised that I’d remain an anonymous witness until the trial begins. No one outside that look-at room yesterday knows I’m testifying.”

“Brian Elliott knows. At least two members of the press do.”

What color was left in her porcelain skin drained away. “You really do suck at pep talks, don’t you?”

Spencer dipped his head closer to hers, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’m a cop, not you’re therapist. I don’t see any point in sugarcoating the truth. If you felt there was a threat, then there probably was. Vanessa Owen is notorious for sensationalist reporting. Elliott or his attorney could have leaked your name to the press. He might have contacted The Cleaner to throw a scare into you. There are any number of possible scenarios to explain that man following you. Trust your instincts. Don’t take chances.”

“Take care of myself,” she whispered.

“Yes.” Once he realized he was close enough to count the shades of blue in Bailey’s upturned eyes, Spencer abruptly pulled back and braced the heavy bag against his shoulder. “Let’s start by learning a few rules of self-defense. Now, how tall was Mr. Stern?”

“I guess about there.” With a nod, she shook off the hushed stupor that seemed to have temporarily claimed her, too, and pointed to the bag. “Taller than me. Shorter than you.”

“Let’s focus that temper so it does you some good.” He gave her a quick lesson in hand-to-hand combat. “You need to punch higher or lower than where you’ve been aiming. Go for the throat or up his nose, or the soft gut or between his legs. You’ll only hurt your hand if you punch him in the jaw or sternum like that.”

“I thought I was working out my frustration.” She slid back into a boxer’s stance with her fists raised.

“Nothing wrong with that. But let’s make every punch or kick count.” He pointed to her targets and steadied the bag for her. “Try it. Nose, neck, gut or groin.”

She followed his instructions with soft punches to get the placement of the blows right. He encouraged her to do it again, harder, faster, until he could feel the impact of each blow stinging him through the bag.

“Now kick him where it counts.” She gritted her teeth and lifted her knee, slamming the bag against him with a feral grunt and knocking Spencer back a step. He released the bag and raised his hands in surrender, grinning. “You’re a quick study. Trust me, I’m down. Or at least disabled enough that you can run away.”

The admission made her smile between her panting breaths. “You made that seem easy, like I could really do it if I had to.”

He pulled down his sleeves and buttoned his cuffs. “I suppose in real life the bag would fight back.”

She laughed at the lame joke. “Next time a punching bag attacks me, I’ll feel better prepared. Thanks.” She picked up her towel from the corner of the mat, giving him a view of a sweetly rounded backside that warmed a lot more than his ego.

But when she straightened, the pensive vulnerability shadowed her eyes again, reminding him that his hormones had no business noticing anything about the fragile beauty. Bailey Austin was a job. A witness to be protected. A means to an end. Period.

“There are very few people who expect me to be able to do anything meaningful on my own, detective. That’s one reason I agreed to testify. I led a charmed, sheltered life before the attack. And afterward...” She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead and neck. “I feel like a useless bit of fluff most days. My family treats me with kid gloves. My ex tries to fix everything for me. I make my friends uncomfortable, and they never share any of their problems with me because they think I can’t handle anything negative or difficult anymore. If I lose my temper, people put up with it—if I cry, they try to appease me. If I panic over a reporter stealing a picture of me...” Her gaze dropped to the middle of his chest as her voice trailed away.

“Then the cops come calling.”

“Something like that. I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to make a difference. I want...” She looped the towel around her neck and reached for him. Spencer’s breath caught as her fingers settled at the front of his shirt. “Your tie’s crooked.” As rare as it was to catch him off guard, her firm touch surprised him. Spencer held himself still while she straightened the knot of his tie and smoothed his collar. “See? This is what I’m good for. A useless bit of fluff.”

He surprised himself by catching her hands when she would have pulled away. At her startled gasp, he splayed her fingers against his chest and held them there, waiting for her questioning gaze to meet his.

“What you’re doing is incredibly brave. A lot of people won’t understand what facing your attacker can cost you. You may not even fully understand the repercussions of standing up against Elliott.” He understood the emotional turmoil of all she was dealing with far better than she could imagine. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is a lot like grief. It manifests itself in different ways for different people. Some get angry. Some fall into a depression. It robs some people of their self-confidence and ability to make a decision while others grit their teeth and plow through life as though...” Ah, hell. Like a blind-side sucker punch, anger and despair roiled up inside him. “...as though nothing ever happened.”

Bailey frowned at the tightness creeping into his voice. “You?”

Ellen Vartran’s chocolate-brown eyes suddenly filled his vision, and his fingers burned with the memory of her blood seeping between them. He’d forgotten the job for a few hours and followed his heart. He’d been outgunned and outmanned, but still, the mistake had been his. And Ellen had paid the price.

“Detective Montgomery? Spencer?”

The brand of ten gentle fingertips dug into the skin beneath his shirt, chasing the horrific memory from his thoughts.

He willfully squeezed the heart-wrenching guilt from his mind and met Bailey’s compassionate gaze. “I’ve dealt with PTSD, too.”

“What happened?”

The tenderness he hadn’t asked for broke a chunk off the emotional armor that kept him sane. Ah, hell. Lusting after Bailey Austin was one thing. But feeling something for her? Drinking in her caring like some kind of antidote for the guilt he carried inside him? Before anymore of his strength crumbled into dust, Spencer pulled her hands from his chest and moved away to pick up his jacket. “I’m a cop. I see a lot of stuff.”

“I thought you meant something personal...” Way too personal. She’d zeroed right in on his Achilles’ heel. He shrugged into his jacket, making sure she got the full view of his back while he erased whatever had tipped her off from his expression. “See what I mean?” Sarcasm seeped into her sweet voice. “No one thinks I can handle anything.”

Jerk
. Now he could add regret to the things he felt around this woman. Time to dial it back a notch with Bailey Austin and remind himself he was a cop on a call here, not a man who cared about a woman or who needed one to care about him. He spun around to face her again. “Tell me about the car that followed you.”

Really big jerk
. It was no use apologizing, either. The damage had already been done. With a stiffness to her posture that hadn’t been there before, she circled behind the bag to retrieve her water bottle.

“Right. Forgot you were the relentless detective there for a minute.” She peeled off her gloves and took a long drink, struggling to rein in her feelings as neatly as he’d boxed up his. “Give me a chance to shower and change first.”

“I’ll wait.”

* * *

B
AILEY
WALKED
AWAY
from Spencer Montgomery feeling all kinds of hot and bothered. He’d seemed so solid, unflappable, patient—that it had felt natural opening up to him and sharing what she was really thinking. And then his eyes had darkened and grown distant and pain had radiated off him in waves. She’d been as drawn to that surprising revelation of humanity as she’d been to the hard warmth of his chest.

But the moment she’d dared to act on the personal connection humming between them, he’d shut her down and pushed her away. Bailey had run a gamut of emotions from surprise to wounded fury, from self-doubt to invigorating confidence, from caution to concern, from suspicion to that inevitable awareness she felt whenever the stoic detective turned those steel-gray eyes on her.

The tepid shower beating down on her skin helped cool the embarrassment of mistakenly thinking he cared about her on some personal level. Although the raw memory she’d read in his shadowed eyes and taut voice indicated that they at least shared a familiarity with personal tragedy. The hurt she’d felt at his abrupt dismissal of her concern for him eased with the reviving scent of the citrus shampoo she massaged through her hair. And by the time she was stepping out of the locker room shower and wrapping a fluffy white towel around her body, she was breathing normally again.

Detective Montgomery had come here as a courtesy in response to her frantic phone call. His concern for her safety might only be professional, but it was genuine. And she couldn’t fault the man for wanting to keep their relationship strictly business when he’d just spent more time listening to her troubles and offering a constructive way to deal with her emotions than her fawning ex-fiancé or her drama queen of a mother had.

After sliding into her flip-flops, Bailey cinched the towel together over her breasts and hurried back to her locker. The first thing on her agenda was to apologize for wigging out on the red-haired detective. The second thing was to answer whatever questions he needed her to.

Bailey set her shower caddy down on the bench beside her workout clothes and twisted the combination to open up the locker’s metal door. With a quick glance at the mirror inside, she finger-combed her short hair into place, then reached for the bag of clean clothes she stored on the bottom shelf.

Her fingers froze before touching the quilted strap. She curled them into a fist, she drew back to her stomach as she tried to make sense of the three photos resting on top of her bag. The black-and-white prints were small enough to be stuffed through the air vents of the locked door, she thought obliquely, studying the images scattered over her things.

Images of her. Brushing snow off the windshield of her car. Staring daggers up at the window of the CEO who’d interviewed her. Clinging to the steering wheel of her Lexus, looking afraid.

These pictures had been taken just a couple of hours ago.

That man
had
followed her.

And he wasn’t any reporter.

Her face had been crossed out in two of the photos. And on the third, scrawled in thick ink across the black-and-white image, she’d been sent a message that was frighteningly clear.

Your family will be sending out funeral notices

instead of Christmas cards if you testify
.

Bailey huddled inside her towel. Her blood ran as cold as the weather outside. She wasn’t safe at all. Not in her car. Not here at the gym. Not anywhere.

“Detective Montgomery?” she murmured, waiting for her brain to shove aside that sense of violation so she could connect the dots. The Cleaner had found her. The woman protecting the man who’d raped Bailey had followed her, watched her, touched her things. The Cleaner had been right here, standing where Bailey now stood. She shuffled away from the ugly threat. The back of her bare knees hit the bench, startling her past the fear. She turned and shouted, “Detective? Spencer! Spence!”

She heard the startled yelps and high-pitched protests before she heard the running footsteps. A woman’s voice reprimanded the locker-room intruder. “You can’t bring that in—”

“Bailey?” The tall, red-haired detective swung around the end of the row of lockers. Spencer’s gun was drawn and down at his side, his gray eyes fixed on her as his long strides carried him straight to her. “What happened?” he ordered, closing his free hand around her bare arm and turning her to face him.

Bailey angled her head toward her locker and he followed her gaze. “I didn’t imagine anything.”

“Son of a bitch.” He loosened his grip and smoothed his hand up and down her arm, chasing away the chill on her skin. His sharp gaze took in everything around them before coming back to her. “You’re all right?”

She nodded.

“Say it. I need to know you’re not in shock.”

Bailey nodded again. “I’m okay.”

“Stay put.” In a rapid efficiency of movement, he released her entirely, ordered the curious crowd of half-dressed women to vacate the locker room, pulled a cell phone from his jacket and punched in a number. She could hear him talking to his partner, interrupting some kind of family event, while he stalked up and down the rows of lockers, sinks and showers, making sure no physical threat remained.

Bailey was still standing there in her towel, shivering from the inside out, when he finally returned. His gaze zeroed in on hers, reassuring her, assessing her, as he holstered his weapon and spoke into the phone. “Yeah, Nick. It had to be within the past two hours. Probably not even that long. Elliott’s accomplice was here—or someone she hired or blackmailed, at any rate.”

Spencer held out his hand as he approached, and for one dumbfounded moment, Bailey didn’t understand what the gesture meant. But when he folded his long arm around her and pulled her into his chest, she released her death grip on the towel and willingly aligned her body to his. She didn’t mind the scratchy wool of his lapel beneath her cheek, or the rasp of his sleeve pricking goose bumps across her bare shoulders. He was warm. He was solid. He was safe.

“Just to secure the perimeter. I’ve cleared the room and I’ve got eyes on Miss Austin.” His chin brushed against the crown of her damp hair as he glanced up. “There are no security cameras in here to monitor comings and goings, but I’ll get a list of names from the check-in sheet at the front desk. You get Annie and her CSI team here pronto.” He leaned back at the waist and Bailey lifted her head to meet that handsome gray gaze that searched her face. “She’s safe.” His fingers splayed and settled at the small of her back, keeping her close when she would have backed away. “Yes, I’m okay with that,” he grumbled. Then, in a more normal, clipped tone, “Thanks, Nick.”