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Her Cop Protector
Sharon Hartley
One hot Miami mystery Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn't adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June's troubled family, he realizes she's in danger.But that's not all. Dean's hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her… Otherwise she'll be next in the sniper's scope.
One hot Miami mystery
Homicide detective Dean Hammer has two dead bodies on his hands and just one connection: a pretty activist named June Latham. She swears her only concern is rescuing the tropical birds she loves, but something isn’t adding up. As Dean begins to unravel the mystery of June’s troubled family, he realizes she’s in danger.
But that’s not all. Dean’s hotter for June than even the sweltering Miami weather can explain. Now if only she would put aside their differences and let him protect her... Otherwise she’ll be next in the sniper’s scope.
“I looked you up last night.
Guess what I discovered?”
“That I’ve never been married?”
“No, that you—” June paused as his words sunk in. “You’ve never been married?”
“Wouldn’t want to make any woman a widow. So, what startling thing did you learn about me?”
She shook her head. Once again Dean had thrown her off balance. How could he possibly know she’d tried to determine his marital status? “Forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to forget it. Whatever it was sure ruffled your feathers.” He grinned, obviously amused by his bird reference.
“Ha-ha,” she said, not finding him funny.
“Hey. I seem to remember you inviting me on this little jaunt. Did I misunderstand?”
She sighed. “No. I thought you would enjoy yourself. That was before I knew you preferred to hunt birds with that high-powered rifle you’re so damned good with.”
“Ah,” Dean said, noting June’s face had flushed a delightful pink in her anger, making her even more attractive. “Got it now.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_3f03dc43-cb94-5a99-9067-6dd386c8d913),
I’ve loved birds since I was a little girl. When my mother couldn’t find me, she knew my nose was either buried in a book or I was watching birds at my feeder. Maybe it’s the wonder of flight, maybe it’s their showy colors (in the bird world, males are usually the most colorful), or perhaps it’s their lively songs. Whatever it is, I’m still a birder and lead bird walks on Sunday mornings during the spring and fall migration seasons in Miami.
Bird numbers are declining all over the world because of habitat loss and other stresses. However, there are strategies anyone can employ to help, backyard feeders being one. Why not participate in citizen science and help with the Christmas bird count? Check out a free bird walk in your area. You might find a hobby that will fascinate you for the rest of your life.
Her Cop Protector is a story I loved writing since it features birds, a hot cop and a mystery. Subtropical South Florida provided a steamy setting for a sexy romance. I hope you’ll enjoy reading June and Dean’s story as much as I loved telling it!
I love to hear from readers. Email me at sharonhartley01@bellsouth.net.
Stay present!
Namaste,
Sharon
Her Cop Protector
Sharon Hartley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHARON HARTLEY writes contemporary romances that revolve around cops and the fascinating but dangerous people who inhabit their world. After creating plots where the bad guys try to harm the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, cultivating orchids and hiking in the natural world. An avid birder, during migration season Sharon leads weekend bird walks in South Florida. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com (http://www.sharonshartley.com).
This book is dedicated to all the beautiful birds stolen from their homes who don’t survive the journey.
Contents
Cover (#ud873906a-3345-5da0-a987-0764e6ae1b35)
Back Cover Text (#u960209d2-88c8-5f31-b00b-5280ee670c9d)
Introduction (#uf83bb8bd-1a37-5de6-9e59-0d2122a292ca)
Dear Reader (#uf6f0d4e0-3eb3-5ba0-9281-b2c8c038e2a2)
Title Page (#u1e366c6f-b0a6-5449-95dd-b17f9bcc564c)
About the Author (#udc7c9111-2107-5c04-bf04-ef91a37c48e0)
Dedication (#ua44f6d9c-29b7-5c49-a8c1-90d0a6edb320)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud85840c5-1c39-543a-933a-5f553d41e29a)
CHAPTER TWO (#ub1b36c00-4419-5933-b3d6-164bf1f91e1c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7e619b1b-788d-5270-8c51-ce14c47efc41)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u55c5cce5-734e-5b81-9432-3445523af5f9)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u62e54b32-1819-508b-96bf-f9ad8160b181)
CHAPTER SIX (#uad48f29e-278e-56c9-b8df-ddfbf9540628)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_01405d90-aa01-57ff-8d5b-03bdc3ffea24)
WHEN JUNE ENTERED the air-conditioned chill of the North Beach Pet Shop, dozens of colorful birds came to life with raucous squawks. Well, no wonder. She glanced up at the bell rigged to clang whenever the front door opened. An early warning system.
To her left, a tall man in his forties behind the counter nodded at her. Colorful tattoos curled around both of his biceps. Piercings in both ears and his left nostril. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said.
“Just looking,” June said, in her best attempt at portraying a bored browser. She’d gotten good at that.
He returned to reading a magazine. Was this guy the owner or an employee? That would make a huge difference in his reaction in the next few minutes.
She sniffed the air to detect any foul odors. Mostly old cedar chips from the bottom of cages. Not too bad. At least this shop kept the smuggled birds in fairly decent conditions.
June snuck a glance to the rear wall, where the birds continued their noisy protest in floor-to-ceiling cages. A majority of monks. Some yellow-headed amazons and a few macaws. Exactly what the informant had reported. Birds flapped obviously clipped wings in futile attempts at liftoff. A few made it off perches and slammed into the wire barrier blocking their escape with a disappointed shriek.
June bit her bottom lip and looked away. After the initial rush of sympathy, familiar anger mushroomed inside her chest, making her heart rate ramp up. No good, June. Remain calm if you want to help. Inhaling deeply, she lifted a container of dog shampoo from the display next to her and pretended to study the ingredients.
Remember, these birds are the survivors, she reminded herself, allowing the breathing technique time to work. Triple or quadruple this number didn’t survive the journey.
She strolled toward the right side of the store, where an assortment of puppies romped or dozed in five-by-five wire cages stacked one on top of the other. A honey-colored cocker spaniel eyed her hopefully as she approached. When he reared up on his hind legs, she reached through the wire and stroked his soft head. This immediately gained the attention of a feisty Jack Russell terrier who pounced over to nudge the spaniel out of the way.
Too bad she couldn’t save these furry sweeties. Their lives were equally sad, but disgustingly legal, products of puppy mills all over the country. She tested the air again. Definitely less pleasant on this side of the shop, but lingering disinfectant made the smell tolerable.
She glanced back at the clerk. He kept his head down and remained focused on his reading, so she continued toward her target: the birds. She needed evidence. Even from a distance of six feet she could see that their legs were banded, supposed proof of being bred in captivity. But she knew better. The barbarians now created counterfeit bands to thwart the Fish and Wildlife Commission’s attempts to curb smuggling.
As if counterfeit bands could make this group of wild birds appear tame.
Of course, FWC didn’t approve of her unorthodox methods. Even less of her trips to South America with the Tropical Bird Society to stop poachers at the source. Bird smuggling was hardly a high priority to the US government. They were much more worried about drugs. FWC didn’t have enough manpower or budget to stop thousands of birds from being murdered each year.
She reached inside her jeans pocket, fingers tightening around her phone. She needed one good peek at a counterfeit band for confirmation. She’d take photos, enlarge them and she’d have her proof.
The door clanged behind her, signaling the entry of another customer. Her heart tripped into a faster pace again, but maybe this arrival would provide a distraction from her own activities.
The clerk murmured a greeting, and the newcomer, a male, grunted a reply as June leaned closer and peered at the leg of a magnificent scarlet macaw who glared back at her with haughty disdain. The bird stepped away with a short cackle.
“Hold still, my beauty,” June whispered, focusing on the leg band, looking for the telltale signs of the fake markers, a bruised leg and missing scales—yes, there. Definitely bogus. She nodded to herself. But she already knew that.
With another sideways look at the clerk, she raised her phone, positioning her body to hide her actions. The second customer—a man—stepped next to her. She ignored him and raised the camera. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Sorry.
The customer said something during her first click, but he whispered his words and she couldn’t stop gathering evidence to ask him to repeat himself. She kept clicking, gathering images of as many captives as possible.
“Hey” came a rough shout from behind her. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
June ignored the clerk. Beside her the new guy spoke again—the inflection sounding like a question—but his words were lost in the resumed squawking of agitated birds roused by the hostility of the clerk hurrying toward her.
“Damn it, lady. Stop taking photographs.”
June didn’t stop until a rough hand closed around her upper left arm and squeezed hard.
“Hey,” she said, trying to pull away. “That hurts.”
“It’s gonna hurt a lot more if you don’t hand over that camera.”
She glared at him—but went still when she met his dark eyes. Fear flared in her belly as the man tightened his grip. This was precisely what Agent Gillis had warned her about. She shouldn’t have come alone when Jared got sick and canceled.
She slid the phone into her pocket. “Let go of me or I’ll file an assault charge.”
“I don’t think so, lady. You just give me your phone.”
“Or what?”
“Or else you’ll be very sorry. These are my birds, and I don’t want you taking photographs.”
So he was the owner. Bad luck, but explained his vigilance. June again tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he only squeezed harder. She swallowed, the pain in her arm now making it difficult to concentrate. She pushed away the stirrings of panic. Would this man really hurt her?
Hell, yes. The jerk’s greed caused the murder of hundreds of smuggled birds.
“I’ll scream,” she said.
“And who do you think will care?”
Before she could answer, a brilliant red bird swooped over her head. She ducked instinctively, as did the shop owner.
“What the—” the owner shouted, finally, blessedly, releasing his grip.
The macaw flapped madly, but clipped wings made it impossible for him to go far.
