Bachelor Cop. Carolyn McSparren

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