Rescued by the Dreamy Doc. Amy Andrews

a much-practised calm, pale green one of his own, dropping his head to the side a little and stretching his neck. He repeated the process on the other side before straightening.

      ‘You’re not going out there until you put it on.’

      Callie glared up at him, all brooding, broad immovable male. Way up. At six feet in her comfortable flats, craning her neck wasn’t something she did much of but with this man it was a necessity.

      The morning sun shone on his red hair, gilding the golden highlights. He wore it closely cropped at the back and sides but longer on top where it flopped across his forehead. His ginger brows rose above the palest peridot eyes.

      He had a fashionable three-day growth of stubble stretched along his strong jaw and long-faded freckles gave his complexion a lived-in look, hinting at summer days on the beach and a penchant for surfing. Spare cheekbones sloped to interesting hollows near his mouth.

      And his lips? Oh, man, don’t get her started on those suckers.

      Frankly he was sexy as hell.

      The admission irritated her even more. She was working, for crying out loud!

      ‘It’s not necessary,’ she insisted, desperate to claw back some control of normally sane thought processes. ‘I’ve known her for ten years. She’s not dangerous.’

      He pushed the offending item towards her. ‘Maybe. But it’s the only way you’re going out on that bridge.’

      His voice was deep and even with a slight gravelly quality. Very measured. Very calm. But there was an edge to it that brooked no argument.

       Damn cops!

      Behind what’s-his-name she could see that their little stand-off was drawing quite a crowd. Most of the cops she recognised. You didn’t work for a decade in this business without having a close working relationship—sometimes love, sometimes hate—with the police. And she’d worked long and hard to gain their respect.

      Sure, she knew they regarded her as a right royal pain in their posteriors. But she also knew there was grudging respect—she was the first one they rang when they had a situation or needed advice—and she was damned if she was going to cede it to this man.

      Not without throwing down a gauntlet or two.

      It was imperative, particularly that the three very interested, very rookie-looking officers standing behind knew she didn’t wilt at the first sign of authority. She needed them to know she wasn’t afraid of them and that her client’s needs would always come first.

      ‘Fine,’ she said through gritted teeth, grasping her loose black T-shirt by the hem and hauling it off over her head. She glared right into his peridot eyes, ignoring the guffaws and wolf whistles, and held out her hand. ‘Give me the damn vest.’

      Callie gave him his due. While the jaws of the three fresh-faced newbies dropped to the ground, he didn’t bat an eyelid. He didn’t even lower his gaze for a quick once-over of her lace-clad assets, like every other male in the vicinity. He just passed her the offending item and waited with crossed arms over a chest broadened further by his own Kevlar padding for her to put it on.

      ‘You know you could have just put it on over the top of your shirt, right?’ he said after she’d rectified her clothing.

      ‘Not likely,’ she snapped. ‘Do you think a bulletproof vest engenders trust?’ Did the man get his negotiator skills in a cereal packet? ‘Can I go now?’

      He swept his hand in a flourish before her, indicating she should precede him. The action pulled his half rolled-up sleeves a little higher and she noticed thick reddish-blond hairs gracing strong, freckle-faded forearms.

      ‘I’m right behind you.’

      ‘Imagine my surprise,’ she threw over her shoulder, tossing her head.

      ∗ ∗ ∗

      Sebastian watched her stalk off and smiled for the first time today, following at a more sedate pace. Callie Duncan was one angry female! It wasn’t often in this field that he met someone who didn’t seem to know or even care who he was, and he liked it. It was refreshing.

      She was refreshing.

      He kept his eyes firmly glued to her back, distracted by the vigorous swish of her shoulder-length auburn hair as she strode towards her goal. The sun picked up the honey streaks and for a moment he felt like he was on the set of a shampoo commercial.

      Her back was ramrod straight—Kevlar would do that to a person. And her long-legged stride pulled the denim of her jeans across a backside that was…interesting.

      In fact, Callie Duncan was just plain interesting all over.

      And he liked that too.

      And despite her stern glare he could tell she was used to laughing. Her mouth tilted up, as did her incredible amber eyes, and there were soft laughter lines emphasising their appeal.

      He put her in her late thirties and was relieved that she wasn’t some twenty-something, new grad all peppy and cute with stars in her eyes out to change the world. In fact, nothing about Callie Duncan said peppy and cute.

      But, then, neither did she seem jaded, like so many people of her age working in a field where triumphs were small and thanks almost non-existent. Instead, striding towards her goal, she looked strong and fearless. Committed. Confident.

      Her Amazonian frame moved with single-minded purpose.

      As for what she had inside that lacy black bra…he put that thought firmly to one side.

      ‘Oh, thank God, Callie, it’s you.’

      ‘What’s going on, Noelene?’ Callie grouched as she tripped slightly over one of the barricades the police had used to cordon off the area. No doubt what’s-his-name wouldn’t approve of it as an opening statement but she knew Noelene well enough to know she could take it.

      That didn’t mean she wasn’t hyper-aware of a certain sexy red-haired negotiator and the rest of what appeared to be the city’s police force watching her intently.

      ‘I was just out for a walk…thinking,’ the hollow-cheeked mother of four said, the breeze whipping wispy blonde strands of hair across her gaunt, prematurely aging face.

      Noelene moved closer to the railing. Callie’s gaze followed her movement, aware of the drop behind. She kept her gaze trained firmly on Noelene’s anxious eyes as her heart thudded like thunder in her chest.

      She would not look down.

      She hated heights.

      And she certainly wouldn’t let any of the city’s finest catch a glimpse of the screaming girly inside.

      She hated this damn bridge. Any bridge, actually, but this one in particular.

      ‘With a gun?’

      Noelene looked down at the gun as if seeing it for the first time. ‘What, this?’ she asked, waving it in the air.

      Callie heard the unlocking of safeties and sensed the closing in of every policeman behind as they drew a little nearer, tensed a little further, poised for action.

      ‘Noelene,’ she said, raising her hands in a stop motion. ‘You’re making the cops really nervous. Is it even loaded?’

      Noelene frowned at her. ‘Of course not.’

      Just as she’d suspected. ‘Can I have the gun?’ Callie held out her hand for it.

      Noelene looked at the weapon. ‘It was Dad’s.’

      After a quick review of her client’s chart, Callie knew it was a year to the day that Noelene’s father had passed away. She nodded. ‘I know.’

      Noelene handed it to her meekly and Callie heard the loud snicker as who knew how many safeties were restored to their off positions and guns were holstered. She