Bachelor Cop

“Why would a woman do that?” Jack asked.

“Fear. Low self-esteem. Depression,” Liz said. “How ugly?”

“Last night I would have said unattractive. Looking back, I’d have to say not, if she made an effort. Big brown eyes, eyebrows like Sela Ward, wide mouth even without lipstick. She’s got this straggly, dark brown hair she keeps in a tight ponytail.” He ran his hand along his skull just over his right ear.

“How’s her figure?” Jack asked.

“Hard to tell under sweats, but she provided a lovely cushion when I fell on her.”

“Excuse me?” Liz asked.

He told them what had happened.

“She took you down?” Liz laughed. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“She caught me off guard. I’ll have ’em all taking me down before we finish the course, but she won’t come back. She hated me.”

“Oh, sweetie, what woman could hate you?” Liz asked.

He spread his hands and flashed her a smile of wide-eyed innocence. “What’s not to love, right?”

“Maybe she hated your aftershave. What are you wearing these days, Essence of Shark?”

“I tossed that stuff. I’ve switched to Love God. Want a sniff?” He leaned toward her.

She rolled her chair out of his reach. “Back, Fang. Go detect something.”

WHEN RANDY WALKED INTO the exercise room at the gym for the Thursday evening class, he spotted them at once. Of course, he should have guessed. Streak didn’t swing his way. He was surprised that he felt let down.

The pocket Venus who trailed her into the room stood maybe five-two, with light brown curls, eyes such a bright blue that he could tell the color from across the room, boobs he’d bet came straight from Mother Nature, narrow waist, lush hips. On top of everything else, she was laughing. She had a happy, infectious laugh. Polar opposite to Streak.

What a waste.

Venus spotted him and crossed the room with her small hand extended. No wedding ring. Long nails with pink polish. She wore jeans and some kind of silky shirt that slid over her body like cream. “Hi, I’m Marcie Halpern, Helena’s housemate. I wanted to meet you.”

“You joining the class?”

She shook her head. “’Fraid not. Somebody has to look after the kids.”

Kids, plural? As in more than one? Adopted? Artificial insemination? In vitro? Old heterosexual relationship gone sour?

“Aunt Marcie, come watch me lift weights.”

Streak’s kids, then. More baggage. Randy looked down at them as the boy ran into the back of Marcie’s legs.

“Ow, watch it, Milo. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Marcie.”

Whoever Daddy was, Streak—uh, Helena—was certainly their mother. The boy was probably nine or ten, the girl six or seven, depending on whether they had inherited their mother’s tall genes. Same dark hair, long bones, high cheekbones and wide mouths. Same intelligent dark eyes.

“Should you be lifting weights?” Marcie asked the boy.

“Not heavy ones. I might tear a muscle or something. Vi’s too little, anyway. She just rolls them around on the floor.”

“I’m strong as you.”

“Are not. Bet you can’t do this.” He ran over to the rack of free weights in the corner of the workout room, rolled one off the bottom and managed to heft it to his knees before Randy took it and set it back on the rack.

“We all start light,” he stated mildly. The boy glared at him, then took a deep breath and nodded, though the frown stayed on his face.

Marcie said, “Milo, Viola, go say goodbye to your mother and tell her we’ll see her when she gets home.”

“Can’t we watch her kick butt?” The boy glowered at Randy. “She gonna kick his?”

“I don’t think she’s up to butt kicking yet,” Marcie said, with a shrug of apology to Randy. “Go.”

The kid hesitated, then took the girl’s hand and trotted across to Streak. Randy watched her open her arms to the children. She lit up. He must be losing not only his touch but his eyesight, as well. This was the woman he thought wasn’t beautiful?

Marcie grinned. “Sorry about that. Sibling rivalry rears its ugly head. Milo and Vi are scary smart, but they’re still children.”

“I’m sure they make you both very happy.”

Marcie cocked her head. “I rent the other side of Helena’s duplex from her, Detective. I’m her tenant and part-time nanny. I’m also assistant librarian at Weyland, where she teaches, so we’re colleagues as well as friends. We’re not lovers.”

“I didn’t—”

“Sure you did. That’s okay. The last time I checked we were both heterosexual. Milo and Viola’s hideous father is a journalism professor.”

So he was still around. “Hideous?”

“Makes Darth Vader look like Saint Peter. Should have been strangled at birth for the benefit of the human race.”

“But then you wouldn’t have…Milo, was it? And Viola?”

Marcie’s smile was luminous. “Mickey is completely out of the picture, and they’re worth it.”

He felt his heart give a small kick. Streak wasn’t off-limits, then. Why should he care?

Marcie waved at Helena, picked up the children and walked into the main gym, where the latest workout machines shared space with a professional-style boxing ring.

Through the picture window, Randy watched Marcie help Milo hoist a small dumbbell, then carry it one-handed over to stare at the two young men sparring in the ring.

Marcie was younger than Streak, and being somebody’s tenant and babysitter didn’t precisely count as baggage. Now that he knew she was hetero, he should have been on her case like a praying mantis on a june bug.

So why wasn’t he reacting?

“Detective?”

He turned at the sound of that smoky baritone. For some nutso reason, he reacted to Streak. Maybe it was the slim body he could imagine under those sweats. Maybe it was the voice. She reminded him of Lauren Bacall after five years in a salt mine.

She stood at the corner of the exercise mat with his other students, her legs splayed and her hands on her hips. She wore the same old gray sweats tonight, and her hair was pulled back tight with a rubber band, showing off those cheekbones. The look she gave him was not so much provocative as provocation.

“We’re five minutes late getting started,” she said.

Ellen—Mrs. Claus—sighed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, chill.”

“Let’s get started,” Randy said quickly, before Streak could react to that. “Now, we’re going to begin with some stretching exercises to warm up our muscles.”

“So we can do yoga while the mugger’s cleaning his nails?” Streak sniped.

“Honey,” said Sarah Beth, “relax. You put up with hecklers in your classes?” she asked, glancing at Randy.

“How did you—”

“Everybody knows about everybody in this gym,” said Bunny. She flashed a killer smile that included the group, extended her arms and put her palms flat on the floor in front of her.

“Wow,” breathed Francine. “I can’t reach my knees.”

“Bless your heart,” Ellen said, and patted her hand. “There are other talents. I sure wouldn’t try to mug you.”

Francine shrugged. “Got to be something fine about being a heifer.”

“So maybe Francine can get to take me down tonight. Game?” Randy asked.

“That mean I get to go upside your head with my purse? Probably break your skinny neck.” She snickered. “I carry my life in my purse.”

“I was thinking more about unarmed combat. What do you do when somebody tries to clothesline you?”

The rest of the class went smoothly. Even Streak began to relax, although she still looked ready to chew nails. Or some more sensitive part of his anatomy—interesting idea if she didn’t geld him in the process. Randy worked hard to show her that force wasn’t necessary. Her forward momentum landed her on the mat every time. Did she hate all men, or just him?

By the time the class was over, everyone was sweaty, but exhilarated. Even Streak glowed. Real pity. She could be a knockout. He couldn’t believe she’d always been dowdy and enraged. What had screwed her up?

As they were leaving, he put a hand on her arm. She glared at it. He dropped his hand and said, “Got a minute?”

The others kept walking, but he knew they’d be gossiping.

“I wondered how long before you tossed me out of your class,” she said. “Fine. I won’t come back.”

“I’m not tossing you out.” Of all the women, she needed the instruction most. “Come with me.”

This late in the evening, the weight-lifting, bodybuilding part of the gym was empty except for a couple of hard-core musclemen who didn’t bother to look up. “You must be hell on wheels as a professor,” Randy said.

“I am an excellent teacher.”

“But this isn’t your classroom.”

She didn’t crack a smile.

“Look, Streak, if you don’t lighten up and get rid of some of that anger, you’re going to get hurt.”

“Me? Hah. You, maybe.”

“I mean it. You’re the one who wound up on the floor tonight, right? Don’t let emotions override your control.” He grabbed a pair of boxing gloves off the rack and held them out. “Put these on.”

“Why?” She stared at him with suspicion. “Planning on showing me that right cross to my glass jaw?”

“Not this time.” He held the gloves until she slipped her hands inside, then he fastened the Velcro.

“This is like having sofa cushions on the ends of my arms.”

“You’ll get used to them.” He walked her over to the light bag. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough boxing movies to know how this works. Try it.”

She studied him, then the two-foot-long, pear-shaped bag suspended head high. Before he could give her any further instruction, she let fly as hard as she could. The bag bounced back and caught her square on her cheek. “Ow!” she squawked. “That hurt.” She raised her hand to her face, but obviously couldn’t feel it through the heavy gloves. “Is my cheek bleeding?”

He caught the bag before it could swing back for a second attack. “No, although it may be a tad bruised tomorrow. Sorry. I should have caught it before it hit you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” She rounded on him, but he grasped her wrist and held her.

“You didn’t give me time. Here, try this one.” He half dragged her over to where the man-size heavy bag hung, then walked around behind it and held on. “Okay, hit this one.”

She tapped it gently.

“Not like that. Hit the thing.”

“And get my jaw broken? I don’t think so.”

“This one doesn’t hit back. Drive your fist hard from waist level, right smack in the gut.”

She whacked the bag as hard as she could. With Randy behind it, the bag barely budged. “I felt that all the way to my shoulder,” she said.

“Like the feeling?”

“Certainly not.” But she whacked the leather again, then again with her other hand, for good measure. Her focused expression told him she did like the feeling it gave her. She hit it over and over until she was too tired to raise her arms. She was panting and drenched with sweat.

Maybe he should paste a male face on the front, so she could really enjoy herself.

“Not bad,” Randy said. “Next time, get your shoulder into it. Sit down over there and watch.”

He pulled her gloves off and put them on himself. He tapped the light bag with his left glove so that it swung away and back. He stopped the motion with his right glove. In ten seconds he had established a steady poppa-poppa rhythm.

After a couple of minutes he caught the bag. “See, you hit hard, it fights back. You tap easy and get the rhythm right, you can keep going forever. You do that to somebody’s face, he’ll remember.”

Randy walked to the heavy bag, lowered his shoulder and slammed into it with his left glove, followed by a hard right. The bag barely swung. “Now, this one you can beat the stew out of.”

“Interesting, but not germane to our classwork, surely. I have to go.”

“Let’s say you’re earning extra credit. Can you come early on Thursday?”

“Why?”

“So you can put on these gloves and take out some of that aggression before class.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Unless you learn to use your opponent’s strength against him, you won’t beat him. You’ll beat yourself. That’s what you’re doing now.”

“You afraid I’ll hurt one of the others? Like Sarah Beth?”

“Sarah Beth is in better shape than you are, and she’s more focused. You wouldn’t go for her the way you go for me, either. The second you’re off balance, she’ll send you flying.”

“I’m leaving now.” Helena dug a towel out of her gym bag, wiped her face and shrugged into her windbreaker. She looked around at the nearly empty room, then said, “Please walk me to my car.”

That cost her. Randy saw her hands clamped in fists at her sides. He’d already explained to the class that walking with purpose went halfway toward not being a victim. She was doing that, all right, but she gave off an odor of fear you could smell half a mile away. She was like a whipped dog that snarls and attacks anything that moves.

He watched her burn rubber out of the parking lot. The woman was not only angry, she was frightened. He needed to know why.

CHAPTER THREE

HELENA’S SHOULDERS ACHED, her arms sagged as though they had weights on them and her cheek felt as though it had swollen all the way across her nose. She’d only hit those dumb bags a couple of times. Randy had pummeled that light bag so fast she could barely keep up with it. He’d moved with powerful grace. As much as she hated to, she had to admit he was beautiful. He probably had to beat women off with a stick.

She shivered. A male body, no matter how beautiful, was not something she ever wanted to touch again.

He’d opened her car door and checked the backseat before he’d let her get in, then he’d waited until she locked her seat belt, started the engine and backed out before he’d turned away. He seemed like a nice person, but he was a cop. She intended to commit a crime without getting caught. That made him her enemy.

Maybe Randy was right that she was sabotaging her ability to protect herself. He called it rage. She called it righteous anger.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she might agree with him, but she’d get to the gym early and smack those bags until she could do it without getting creamed. Then she’d relax his socks off in class.

AS THEY WERE GETTING READY to leave after the next class, Ellen asked, “Can we go to that indoor gun range over on Stage Road for a session?”

Randy saw several heads nod.

“We could meet over there, and maybe go out for a sandwich afterward. We’d bring our own weapons, of course,” she added.

“As long as nobody wants to use an AK-47 or a Thompson submachine gun, and we all agree on the time and date,” Randy said. “How do the rest of you feel about that?”

“Outstanding!” Amanda said, with the first real enthusiasm she’d shown. “I love my Glock, but every time I try to load the magazine, it takes me forever. You can show me how to do it right.”

“Uh-huh.” Randy sounded dubious.

“I have one of those S&W titanium five shots in the car,” said Sarah Beth. “It’s so light that after I shoot it three or four times, I wind up with a blister between my thumb and forefinger. What am I doing wrong?”

“Probably nothing. The lack of weight will cause the gun to wiggle around in your grip.”

“But I’ve heard that a really big gun, like a .357 Magnum, which is what Walter and I have, can break a woman’s wrist when she fires it,” Lauren commented.

“Nonsense,” said Ellen. “Try a heavy shotgun and forget to hold it hard against your shoulder if you want pain. That Magnum myth is a good ole boys’ tale to keep us in our places.”

“Which they sure figure is not the firing range,” said Francine. “Some of those guys act like it’s testosterone central.”

“How about you, Streak?” Randy asked.

“I can always use the practice.”

Always Miss Superior. Hell, maybe she was an expert. “Okay. How’s this Thursday? I’ll reserve some lanes and have Jessica call you if they’re available. Afterward, we can discuss finding cover. Doesn’t matter if you’re armed, if you’re standing out in the open like a doe. Now, remember what we worked on Tuesday? Line up, ladies, and let’s see if you can toss me out of your way.”

He noticed that the back of Helena’s sweatshirt was wet. When she turned to look at him, he realized the front was equally wet. He’d been right about her curves. He could see the outline of broad athletic bra straps under her wet shirt, but it couldn’t hide her nipples completely. Not exactly a wet T-shirt, but it got the point—or he should say points—across.

The hair around her face was damp, as well, and tendrils had escaped from the tight rubber band. Her moist face was no longer pale and lifeless. Beneath the sheen of perspiration her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled.

“I guess you came early,” he said.

Her chin lifted. Instantly, her eyes went flat and cold. “I enjoyed myself.” She sucked in a breath. “Thank you for recommending the exercise.”

That had probably cost her more than asking him to walk her to her car.

“In your head, who were you beating up on?” He grinned. “Me?”

She stiffened. “You’re merely the means to an end.” She turned on her heel and strode to the back of the room to join the others.

Oooo-kay.

Whenever the Cold Cases squad interviewed a female, either as a witness or possible perpetrator, Randy generally led the session. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred if he didn’t get a full confession, he gained enough information to find the real criminal, or enough evidence to prosecute. Women liked and trusted him. Most of the time he liked women.

Watching Streak make a point of ignoring him, he wished he could leave for Aruba tomorrow, before his curiosity about her got the better of him. He wanted to find out what made her so angry. He could run her name through the police database to see whether she came up as a victim of a crime. He’d be willing to bet she would, and that it had been a bad one.

What good would it do him to know? He was already close to burnout from listening to the gut-wrenching stories of desperate and angry people. He prayed he could hold out until he made it to Aruba for two weeks in the sun, with no responsibility except to choose the right wine with dinner.

And the beautiful woman to share it with. Someone new now that Paige was out of the picture.

Why should he care that Dr. Helena Norcross loathed him? Plenty of other women adored him. He vowed that before the sessions finished, she’d at least tolerate him. Call it an exercise to hone his skills. She was too loaded down with ex-husbands and kids to date, Sela Ward eyebrows or not. Streak and those kids needed somebody reliable. Responsible. That ain’t me.

She wore different sweats this time. Still too big, but sky-blue rather than gray. He spent the next hour and a half showing his class moves, practicing with them, being grabbed, slung and generally mauled. So far nobody had “accidentally” landed one in his groin, but that was bound to happen. He just hoped he was quick enough to take the blow on his thigh.

He taught them a new maneuver, then paired them up to practice on one another. He took Streak. He still didn’t trust her not to blow up and actually attack. He could handle her, but he might accidentally hurt her by reflex.

She piqued his interest, and, dammit, his libido.

Every time she tried to manhandle him, she couldn’t budge him, and snarled in frustration. Finally, he asked her to watch Sarah Beth, who had what he called “the touch.” Maybe if he could show Helena how this little old lady could manage him, she might begin to get it.

He reached for Sarah Beth’s throat with both hands. She smiled sweetly, stepped in, moved her arms up and sideways the way he had showed her, and sent him spinning away.

“Are you all right, dear?” Sarah Beth said.

“Absolutely. Now, Streak, how about you try it again?”

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “I can’t. I don’t get it.”

“Of course you can,” Sarah Beth said. “Put your palms flat on his chest.” The older woman laid her fragile hands against Randy’s torso. They rested there with all the weight of pigeon feathers. “You can feel when his breath comes up.” Suddenly she pushed off her back foot and shoved. He stumbled backward again. “See?”

Streak stared at her with something akin to awe. “How did you do that? He helped you, didn’t he?”

“Try it.”

Randy could tell she didn’t want to touch him at all, much less gently, the way Sarah Beth had. He watched Streak clench her fists. She was wishing he’d turn into that heavy bag, so she could let fly at him with all her strength, without being hit back. She had a real need to lash out. Maybe she’d had a bad experience with a cop. No, her anger went deeper than that. She resented his very maleness.

Maybe the ex-husband had mistreated her and still threatened her. A man, possibly more than one, had hurt her badly. Throughout his career, Randy had seen that victims of violence tended to gravitate from one such relationship to the next, so maybe hubby had come after an abusive family and abusive boyfriends.

He couldn’t fix damaged goods in one self-defense class. It would be nice if he could, but people seldom changed without time and hard work. He’d tried hard enough to change himself, without a lot of success.

If she’d finally decided to fight back against her demons, he had to teach her that the only chance she had lay in skill, not strength.

She unclenched her fists, but didn’t meet his gaze as she reached out and laid her palms carefully against his chest.

Uh-oh. He caught his breath. She opened her eyes very wide, whispered, “Oh!” and shoved.

For a second he thought he’d wind up on his ass.

Francine caught him and righted him. “You go, girl.” She tried to give Helena a high five, but her classmate didn’t see it.

She still had her hands in front of her, her mouth open. She held his gaze too long, then spun away with her arms crossed over her chest. She’d felt it, too.

Until this minute he’d never believed in that old saw about electricity jumping between a man and a woman. He knew she was blushing and her pupils were dilated. His own ears felt hot and probably blazed like stop-lights. He blessed his jockstrap. It felt damned uncomfortable, but kept his erection from becoming obvious. Sweatpants without a fly were pretty revealing.

For the duration of the class he paired her with Sarah Beth, who was not only a natural at self-defense, but a natural teacher, as well. They were all still going strong when Jessica stuck her head in the door. “Closing time, people.”

Amanda checked her fancy watch. He’d be willing to bet the diamonds were real. “I can’t believe it. We’ve been here over two hours.”

“See, Streak?” he said. “Told you I’d make up the time.”

She barely glanced at him as she hurried out. He called after her, “Jessica will phone you about meeting at the shooting range on Thursday.”

When he left the building, Streak’s car was already gone. If she’d waited for him to walk her out, he might have tried to kiss her. Plenty stupid that he actually wanted to kiss her, without getting his head handed to him for trying.

CHAPTER FOUR

“THIS IS INSANE,” Helena said, and struck her steering wheel. She slammed on her brakes as the light in front of her turned red. She hadn’t noticed the yellow. She had to slow down. The whole of Germantown was one big speed trap. She couldn’t afford a traffic ticket, and the cops were always stopping cars like her old BMW. She looked as though she was flying even when she was driving twenty.

Mickey had resented the car, although she’d bought it used, with money she’d saved waitressing in the Grand Tetons as a grad student. “That car screams rich bitch,” he’d said. “Now, if you’d been driving my old Ford…”

She could fill in the rest. She’d been raped because she drove a used BMW.