Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles

grinned. “That’s the first time a woman has said that to me and meant it literally.”

      “Ha-ha.”

      “It’s double-action. Easy to cock.”

      “Very funny.”

      “Most women would—”

      “I don’t want to hear about your other girlfriends,” she said quickly. “It’s not that I’m jealous or anything. But this is the way I like to work with a partner. We stay focused on the job, which is taking care of Lionel and guarding against threats from Bateman. We don’t need banter.”

      “Are you telling me that you and your partners don’t ever talk about anything other than policework?”

      She leveled a cool, blue-eyed gaze at him. “I want my male partners to think of me as a cop, not as a woman. And the best way to do that is to avoid talking about sex. Understand?”

      This probably wasn’t the best moment to tell her that she was cute when she was being a hard-boiled lady cop. “I bet you’ve got other rules.”

      “Only one,” she said with a shrug. “But it’s not worth mentioning. You couldn’t possibly follow it.”

      “Try me.”

      “Always be honest. You’ve got to be able to trust your partner one hundred percent. There can’t be any lies or betrayals.”

      Though he agreed with her in principle, Michael thought honesty was highly overrated. It was safer for him—and for Annie—if he continued to slide around the edges of the truth. The things she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

      He reached behind his back, pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and placed it on the kitchen table.

      Annie finished off her sandwich before she picked up the gun. “Very nice. A Smith and Wesson automatic? Is it 10 mm?”

      “Yes.” He knew exactly where her questions were headed. The handgun was a specially designed model issued to federal agents. Michael phrased his explanation carefully to avoid a direct lie. “It was given to me by a friend. He’s in the FBI.”

      “That’s unusual. The feds don’t like to part with their weapons.” Her injured right arm and wrist caused her to fumble as she removed the ammunition clip. Frustrated by her clumsiness, she flexed her fingers. “I need to practice with my left hand.”

      “How long before you’re back to normal?”

      “The swelling is almost gone. I’ll probably be okay in a couple of days, but I’m going to have to wear this adjustable cast for a lot longer to protect the bones while they heal.” She snapped the clip back into place and handed him the gun. “Let’s go outside and take a look around.”

      Michael was fairly sure there were no snipers lurking in the shrubbery. Bateman didn’t intend to hurt them. Not until June thirteenth.

      Still, Michael insisted on basic precautions. “We’re turning off the porchlight. And I want you to stay close to me.”

      “I’ll give the orders.” Grabbing the flashlight, she led the way to the front foyer. “By the way, I want to thank you for sweeping up the glass from the broken window. A lot of guys would consider that women’s work.”

      “A lot of guys don’t live for days at a time on a boat. Efficient maintenance is important.”

      “I guess so.” She cocked her head. Curious again. “I never even knew you were interested in boats. How did you become a charter captain?”

      “I guess it was a natural transition after being in the navy.”

      “You were in the navy?” She rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Michael, I don’t know anything about you at all.”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Well, yes. If we’re supposed to be engaged, I ought to have some vague idea of what you’ve been doing with your life.” She flicked the light switch off, and a soft darkness fell over them. “What should I say to people?”

      “We’ll tell anybody who asks that our relationship is based purely on sex and we don’t have time to talk.”

      She punched his arm. It was a friendly boyish gesture. From years of hanging around with the football teams her grandpa coached, Annie had learned to act like one of the guys. But Michael knew better. Earlier, when he’d kissed her, she’d responded with the passion of a mature woman. She was hot.

      “Jeez, Michael. Didn’t you promise not to talk about sex?”

      “As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

      “So you can’t stop yourself from behaving like a pig?”

      “Oink.”

      She pushed open the front door and stepped onto the veranda that stretched all the way across the front of the house and halfway around the south side. The floorboards were painted slate-blue, like the house. The surrounding rail matched the white trim, some of which was peeling badly.

      The beam from her flashlight flickered across the porch swing and two wicker rocking chairs. Then she focused the circle of light on the area leading to the door.

      “Too bad the ground is dry,” he said. “We won’t find footprints.”

      “Wouldn’t do much good as evidence. Bateman was wearing steel-toed work boots, like most of the loggers in town.”

      Nonetheless, she bent low to inspect the flower beds. Though no one had been at the house to tend them, yellow jonquils and white irises bloomed in the fertile Oregon soil. At the corner of the veranda, wild red roses climbed the railing.

      She raised the light and slowly swept it back and forth. “I doubt he walked up the sidewalk, aimed at the door and threw a brick. He had to sneak across the yard, staying in the shadows to avoid being seen.”

      He agreed with her reconstruction of the crime. “Tomorrow we should talk with your neighbors. Maybe somebody noticed him.”