Strength Under Fire. Dana Nussio

on tonight. Why did he continually forget when he knew how dark it was out in the country? Grumbling, he crouched near the door and patted around him until his fingers closed over the keys. After several of his misdirected jabs, he finally slipped the key into the lock.

      He pushed the door open, welcoming the rush of heat that struck his face even before he could reach inside to switch on the light. With the corncob-quality insulation in these walls, this would be the only time he felt warmth in this place all night. He kicked the door shut harder than he’d planned to and then braced for the sound of breaking glass. The near complete silence that only those who live outside of city limits ever experience filled the space instead.

      As he rounded the corner into the formal living room, a collection of faces stared back at him, their photo frames askew but still clinging to the wall. Enlarged color snapshots featured a silver-headed couple with a boy at various ages, but most of the images were in black and white. A portrait of the great-grandparents he’d only known from their stories took the center spot in the display. They weren’t smiling, either.

      “Your week must have been as bad as mine.”

      As Ben hung his coat on the antique coat tree and zipped on the sweatshirt he always wore inside the house, his gaze followed the lines of the Victorian furniture that had been there for as long as he could remember. There probably wasn’t a single piece that had anything more than sentimental value, but they all had plenty of that to spare. Except for the goldfish bowl on the bookshelf, nothing in this room had changed in thirty years.

      On his way through the house, Ben smoothed his hand along the dark wooden doorway molding. Admiring some of the woodwork he’d restored himself usually calmed him after a stressful shift, but there was nothing usual about this week. He braced himself for another onslaught of images he would never forget, shouts ringing again in his ears, the pungent scent of his own fear still fresh in his nostrils. He’d hated the stink of it, even then.

      He shivered, telling himself it was only from the cold. He could lie to himself if he wanted to. The house felt chillier tonight, anyway. Bigger. And emptier. The hollow echoes of his own footsteps chased him on the creaky floors as he continued into the kitchen. As he’d done so many nights before, he washed vegetables, diced chicken and sprinkled spices. Only after the chicken in the wok had turned white and the pea pods and water chestnuts were sizzling in the sesame oil did he remember that he’d already eaten.

      Slamming a plastic container on the countertop, he poured the meal inside it to refrigerate for later. He should have known better than to show up at the Driftwood tonight after his crazy day at work. And not just because of the pep session, either. If he’d known that Delia would be there, he would have headed straight home. Technically, she’d warned him that she planned to show up, but he’d had no reason to believe her. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d joined them at either of the haunts where the officers gathered after their shifts, so he couldn’t account for her presence any more than he could explain the spike of his pulse when he’d seen her there.

      Even now, he wasn’t sure how he’d made it across the restaurant to sit next to her without falling over his feet like in a B-rated comedy flick with a D-list cast. Worse yet, that clumsy approach had been the most acceptable thing he’d done all night. He’d whispered close to her ear so he could sneak a whiff of her lavender shampoo, and he’d made up so many excuses to accidentally brush her arm that it must have looked like an elbow fight. He probably would have copped a feel right over her oh-so-proper black turtleneck if he could have gotten away with it. He’d sure helped her out of that sweater with his eyes.

      Suddenly thirsty, he threw on the faucet and poured himself a glass of water. With his eyes squeezed shut, he took several gulps. What had happened to him? He used to be a professional. He knew the rules, and until now, he’d followed them. So how had he gone from finding ways to bring one of the troopers more fully into the post team to wanting to frisk her in all the best ways right there on the table?

      It didn’t make any sense. He’d passed by Delia Morgan every day for months, wearing the same uniform, finishing up reports at the same desktop computer, and he’d never once suffered from a case of dry mouth. Until today. He couldn’t recall a single case of sweaty palms over her nearness, either. Until... But that was the thing. Something had tripped a switch in him today, and no matter how hard he tried to click it off again, she kept showing up in his thoughts, accentuated by nothing less than ideal lighting.

      He took another drink and then held the cool glass to his cheek. Unfortunately, his face wasn’t the only thing that felt too warm over just the thought of her and that sweater.

      This situation had disaster written all over it. He couldn’t be attracted to a trooper, even if he wasn’t her direct supervisor. He didn’t do interoffice romances. He wished he could make the excuse that it had been too long since he’d dated, but that disastrous blind date from last weekend probably still counted. As for “afternoon delights” as Vinnie would have called them, though, it had been a long, dry year in the whole delights department, afternoon or otherwise.

      “Get your head on straight, Peterson,” he grumbled.

      Polaski definitely would tell him that if he saw him now and probably with more colorful vocabulary. Whether or not Ben had sought out attention when he’d entered the bank yesterday, he’d become an object of curiosity. A hero in some people’s minds, even if he would never see himself as one. Well, he’d better start behaving like one. A hero would always be his best, most professional self, not someone who only thought about his own needs as his father had. A hero wouldn’t allow himself to see a coworker as anything more than a brother or sister in blue. He would work solely for the good of the public and the post.

      Yes, he still wanted to help Delia Morgan better assimilate into the post family. It was the right thing to do for the team, after all. But if he couldn’t put his plan into action without crossing that firm line, then he needed to back away for his own good...and hers.

      * * *

      THE EIGHT PCS positioned around the squad room were deserted, except for the one where Delia sat typing information into the blanks of an electronic arrest report form. She would have been just coming off patrol herself soon if not for a routine traffic stop earlier that ended in an arrest. That stop had changed when her Law Enforcement Information Network database search had shown an outstanding arrest warrant.

      Sensing that she was no longer alone, she lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder. Not hoping it would be anyone in particular. Just curious. Sure enough, Lieutenant Peterson leaned casually against the door frame. His pose and the way he startled, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, had to be the reasons for the tickle that skittered up the back of her neck.

      She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

      He smiled then, and Delia’s tummy did an unfortunate jig the way it had so many times around him lately. She tightened her jaw and crossed her arms over her stomach to still those dancing feet. Why couldn’t she just get past these inappropriate reactions to him?

      Sure, Ben Peterson had never been invisible to her. Far from it, no matter how hard she’d tried not to see him. But everything was magnified since his shining moment last week.

      Since she’d noticed him staring back.

      She’d probably imagined that, too, so it was downright annoying that the sparks she felt around him continued to crackle and pop.

      “I just wanted to get a good look at the trooper who arrested Mary Poppins in there.” Ben pointed with his thumb toward the door to the cinder-block holding cell where Delia’s suspect sat awaiting transfer to Livingston County Jail.

      Frowning, she spun her office chair to fully face him. “I would expect that a lieutenant would take an arrest seriously. Any arrest.”

      “Seriously? Even this one?”

      As much as she wanted to hold on to her stern expression—this was their job after all—she didn’t stand a chance when facing off with Ben’s silly smirk. He had a point. It was pretty funny. “Why