Strength Under Fire. Dana Nussio

least not the current her. That little girl behind the curtain of her past, she might have said something like that. She’d been the one prone to hero worship, who’d trusted grown-ups too easily. And she’d paid dearly for those mistakes. Delia barely remembered that silly, naive girl.

      If only she could forget today’s conversation with the lieutenant. Why hadn’t it been enough for her to just congratulate him like everyone else had? Especially when all he’d really done was to be at the right place at the right time. Okay, maybe a little more than that, but still. As if the hero’s welcome hadn’t been enough, she’d heaped more praise on him when no one was watching.

      But you really did it.

      The memory of his chocolate-colored eyes widening behind those Clark Kent glasses had her straightening in the seat now. But her words weren’t even the worst part. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d meant what she’d said. Despite the fact that the type of opportunity she’d needed to distinguish herself at the post had fallen right into his lap. Or that she couldn’t move up to a higher-profile agency where she could focus on child-predator cases while she spent her days handing out traffic citations and investigating property-damage accidents.

      I’m no hero.

      She squirmed in her seat as his words echoed in her ears. With her watching and waiting for his teamwork message to implode over his fifteen minutes of fame, Lieutenant Peterson had come up with a comment like that. It didn’t make sense. She knew police officers. They were cocky SOBs, who would take credit for building the Ambassador Bridge if they thought they could get away with it. The attitude came with the uniform. That edge showed up with the badge.

      If Sergeant Leonetti had been the one congraluted, he would have grabbed a microphone and cued a comedy monologue. Trooper Shane Warner would have struck a pose to show off his overdeveloped biceps. Even she would have only pretended to hate the attention. After all, it was a means to a critical end.

      But Lieutenant Peterson had come through for those bank customers in a highly volatile situation, and he’d done it with the kind of humility she couldn’t help but admire. She’d never seen anything like it. The people in her life had never even stood up for those they claimed to love, let alone for strangers.

      A reluctant hero, but a hero still.

      She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that Lieutenant Peterson had reacted differently than others would have. Sometimes it astonished her that a man like him, someone with such kind eyes, had become a cop in the first place. He had “nice guy” written all over that baby face he tried to shield behind his glasses. As if those could do anything to hide that dimple in his chin or the way his smile lifted slightly higher on one side. Even his light brown hair betrayed him by curling the moment it grew a millimeter outside of its close-trimmed cut.

      Not that she’d noticed those things when she’d started working at the post ten months ago. Or kept noticing them.

      “Great. Just great.”

      Delia shook her head as she took the exit for US 23 and continued to her favorite traffic surveillance point near Whitmore Lake. Today backing into the spot shielded by the overpass felt like diving for cover. Why was she allowing herself to have inappropriate thoughts about a fellow officer? And more dangerous than that, letting herself be tempted to believe that any man was different. They were all the same, and she knew it.

      Delia reached for the passenger seat and flipped on her handheld radar gun. The numbers reset on the screen, their details clear. If only her thoughts about a certain lieutenant were as easy to flip on and off. She had to make them stop. Wasn’t it difficult enough being a woman on the force without her behaving like one of those vacuous females who oohed and aahed over heroes in uniform? All of her effort to establish herself as the most competent recent graduate of the State Police Recruit School would be down the drain if she didn’t get her thoughts under control. She could almost hear the sucking sound of her lost momentum.

      A beep on the laptop, stationed on her console, interrupted her pity party like a needle popping balloons. Setting the radar gun on the passenger seat, she clicked on the message from Gail Jacobs, the administrative assistant.

      Lieutenant Peterson asked if you could make a run through Kensington Metropark during your shift. He wants you to take a look around the scene where that burned-out car was discovered last week.

      Delia hit Reply and typed OK. It wasn’t as glamorous as thwarting a bank robbery, but routine assignments were part of the job. She glanced down at the message again and blew out a breath. Obviously, she’d made a big deal out of nothing. Just because she’d made some goofy comment this afternoon didn’t mean there would be some monumental change at work between her and the superior officer.

      Before she could return to traffic monitoring, another beep announced a second message.

      Oh. He also said thanks again. All that attention today must have been killing the poor guy.

      Delia swallowed as she lifted the radar gun and pointed. Whether or not Gail had misunderstood the message she’d been asked to pass along, something had clearly changed at the Brighton Post. And it had moved as quickly as the red pickup truck that raced past Delia, clocking eighty-five in a seventy-miles-per-hour zone. But no matter what had shifted, she’d better figure out a way to move it back.

      Switching on the spinning red light often called the “gumball” on the patrol car’s roof, she pulled out behind the speeding driver.

      “Sorry, buddy. This isn’t your lucky day, either.”

CHAPTER TWO

      A SCENT OF something deliciously fried and, therefore, off-limits wafted over Delia as she opened one of the heavy wood doors to the Driftwood Inn. Ignoring the urge to let the door fall shut and hurry back to her practical champagne-colored midsize, she stepped inside and wiped the snowy sludge off her shoes onto the mat.

      Rich wood paneling and low lighting hinted at a hunting-lodge feel, but the mounted deer heads and the antler chandeliers clinched it. Because the place had given her the creeps on the few occasions she’d joined the group here—like dining on a cemetery plot—she scanned the length of the gleaming bar instead of looking at any of the mounted creatures too closely.

      “About time you got here.” Sergeant Leonetti stood up from one of the tables that had been pushed together and waved her over. “Did you go to Casey’s instead?”

      Before she could stop herself, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was speaking to her. Why had they been waiting for her? How had they known she was coming? Even she hadn’t known for sure until her car had pulled into the parking lot as if on autopilot.

      “Yeah, what was the holdup?” Trooper Kelly Roberts brushed back the dark blond hair she wore tied up for work but which fell in perfect waves to her shoulder blades tonight.

      “Oh. Sorry. I had the place right. I was just dragging in getting out of work.” Delia tried to ignore the strange temptation to pat her own hair into place. What was that about? She knew perfectly well that her bun was still right where it always was. Well, except for that one section that had refused to stay put all day.

      Anyway, since when did she worry about her appearance around these people? That made about as much sense as her showing up there tonight to take part in an activity that she usually avoided just to make an odd day seem normal.

      “Still dragging, aren’t you?” Trooper Warner noted.

      “Oh. Right.” Well, she couldn’t keep standing there by the door, so taking a deep breath, she forced herself forward toward their table, casually taking attendance as she went. They were all dressed in street clothes—Leonetti, Roberts, Campbell, Warner and Maxwell. A few others, too. Even the two most recent additions at the Brighton Post, Trevor Cole and Jamie Donovan, had put in appearances. Cole was a casualty of the Manistique Post closure in the Upper Peninsula, and Donovan was so new that the ink hadn’t dried on his recruit school certificate.

      Only