One Good Man. Julie Miller

long enough for him to see an object hurtling through the air toward him. He was plunged into darkness a split second before it whacked him across the face.

      His string of curses was brief and to the point. The blow hadn’t been hard enough to do serious damage, but his nose and skull throbbed with the impact.

      “Police! Put down your weapon!” He recited the line by rote, feeling the rising rush of adrenaline crowding out his more rational thoughts.

      Mitch reached out blindly and was rewarded with another blow to his wrist, this time solid enough to knock the gun from his grasp.

      “Son of a…”

      When the lights flashed off again, Mitch was ready. He glimpsed the grayish afterimage of his attacker and lunged in that direction.

      With all the finesse of a linebacker sacking the quarterback, he rammed his assailant, pinned his arms and took him down, landing the perp flat on his back with Mitch on top. A strangled “oof” grunted between them made him hope he’d knocked the wind out of the guy.

      But in seconds, his enemy recovered. One leg coiled beneath him. He guessed the intended direction and rolled, flipping the smaller, wiry man onto his stomach. Mitch snatched a flailing elbow and pinned the twisting body to the floor with his knee.

      The other elbow connected with his chin, and Mitch’s temper kicked in. “There are laws against assaulting a cop.”

      He clamped down on the dangerous arm and pulled it behind the attacker’s back, shifting his knee to the base of his adversary’s spine.

      The perp screamed, a husky, high-pitched sound of pain.

      “Oh, God! Don’t hurt me,” wheezed the voice.

      No.

      Mitch froze above his pinned opponent.

      The lights flashed on, and he caught a glimpse of a long braid the color of golden cider sprinkled with cinnamon.

      The image vanished with the lights.

      But the memory didn’t.

      Mitch moved his knee, suspecting the truth, but needing to see it with his own eyes. He tugged on one of the arms to roll the body over and look at the face. When he reached for the opposite shoulder to anchor his attacker in place in case he was mistaken, Mitch’s hand brushed against something pillowy and soft.

      A woman’s breast.

      “Ma’am?”

      The lights flashed on again, giving Mitch a glimpse of the woman’s pale, terror-stricken face. Wild, smoky gray eyes glared at him with flash-fire intensity.

      The impression was fleeting, distracting. Vanishing when the light did. Too late, he realized he’d underestimated her. Something swift and solid with four hard knots slammed into his left temple. Bright spots swam before his eyes in counterpoint to the blinking security lights.

      Mitch caught her fist when she swung at him a second time. He swallowed her hand in his grasp and stretched her arm up over her head. The action flattened his body on top of hers, reaffirming his discovery that this was no intruder, but the person he’d been sent to check on.

      The girl in the photograph.

      Very much a woman now.

      “Dammit, lady! I said I’m a cop. I’m not here to hurt you.”

      She writhed beneath him, her fear or fury so intense that Mitch didn’t dare let go. If she harnessed the adrenaline pumping through her, she could knock him out cold.

      While the dizziness behind his eyes abated, he protected himself by trapping her beneath him until her energy was spent. Mitch cursed the unprofessional torture to which he’d subjected himself. The woman’s firm breasts pushed against his chest, leaving the imprint of graceful curves through the layers of clothing between them.

      And her hips—full, wide, womanly—cradled the lower half of his torso. Rocking against him in her struggle. Teasing him. Taunting him with an awareness of needs he had buried long ago.

      Damn, he was a sorry, lustful excuse for a man to find his body so tempted by the struggles of a frightened woman he was trying to subdue.

      He pinned her for over a minute before her thrashing ceased abruptly. She lay perfectly still for a second, then groaned, deep in her throat. Her face contorted in the next flash of light, and Mitch watched her grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut. Darkness returned, hiding her expression, but he felt the muscles in her arms and body clench to the point that she started shaking.

      “You’re hurting me.” Her husky voice caught and rasped into a sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”

      Mitch scrambled off her and rocked back on his heels, berating himself for botching this “routine” visit beyond excuse. “I’m sorry.”

      His apology fell on deaf ears. She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position, hauling in deep gulps of air that racked her body.

      He reached for her arm. She tried to pull away from his touch, but her muscles wouldn’t respond. Mortified to know he had truly hurt her, Mitch obliged her by letting go. “I was only defending myself. I haven’t been in a brawl like this since I made detective. You don’t know your own strength.”

      He thought that might elicit a laugh, break the tension, but she didn’t even look at him.

      “I didn’t call the cops,” she whispered between breaths. “Why are you here?”

      In the shadows of his jumbled vision, he watched her prop herself up to a sitting position, then scoot away on her bottom until she leaned up against a desk. She dug her fingers into her right thigh and kneaded her leg through her jeans.

      Mitch curled his fingers into his palms, squelching the urge to help her. He had inflicted whatever pain she was suffering. He doubted she’d appreciate any attempt to touch her again, no matter how altruistic his intentions.

      Instead, he called upon his years of experience. This woman was a victim. Of his own carelessness, if nothing else. She might be frightened or confused. He gave her the space she needed to feel safe again, backing away even farther. He lowered his voice to its gentlest pitch and spoke quietly. “Are you Cassandra Maynard?”

      The commissioner had only supplied a name and address.

      “I don’t remember your name.” Her clipped response sounded like an accusation.

      He refused the bait and stayed calm. “Mitch Taylor.”

      Automatically, he reached for his breast pocket. He patted the empty space where the brass shield should be and glanced around quickly. Unable to see well for any distance, he apologized. “I lost my ID in our little tumble.”

      Her gaze filled with the same intensity she had trained on him earlier. “A badge doesn’t prove anything.”

      Her chest rose with a huge sigh before she sagged back against the sturdy oak desk. Physical distress seemed to finally be conquering her indomitable will. “I’m Casey Maynard.”

      Flattening one palm against the rug, she pushed herself upright and gingerly adjusted to a more comfortable position. Mitch wondered if the tight white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth were a trick of the illumination or a grimace of pain.

      “Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked.

      “No. It’ll pass.” She breathed in deeply through her nose and released the air gently across the generous curve of her bottom lip.

      Hell. What was wrong with him? He was here as a cop, not a blind date, but he seemed to be going out of his way to notice her striking features, from the unusual shade of her French-braided hair to the delicate bone structure of her cheeks and pointed chin. Though delicate seemed an odd impression since she had almost bested him in their fight.

      “Why did you attack me?” he asked, forcing himself away from unprofessional