Her Irresistible Protector. Michelle Douglas

could. Throwing open the door, she glanced at the figure outlined on the other side of the screen and everything slammed to a halt—her feet, her mind, her holiday mood. Screaming started up inside her head. Air pressed hard against her lungs—hot, dry and choking.

      She swallowed to mute the screaming and folded her arms to hide the way her hands had started to shake from the surge of adrenaline that flooded her. Every stomach muscle she possessed—and her weekly Judo class ensured they were all well-honed—clenched up hard and tight until they hurt.

      Mitch King.

      Officer Mitchell King stared back at her like some upright holy warrior. From the top of his close-cut blond hair to the tips of his scrubbed-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives boots. Even out of uniform he looked as if he should be wearing one. Everything about him shouted clean-cut hero—the strong square jaw, the not quite even teeth and the direct blue of his eyes. A man on a mission. A man who knew right from wrong. No shades of grey here, thank you very much.

      Tash didn’t reach out to unlatch the screen. She didn’t break the silence.

      ‘May I come in?’ he finally asked.

      She let her attitude prickle up around her like razor wire. Kinking an eyebrow, she leant one shoulder against the wall. ‘Are you here to arrest me?’

      His eyes narrowed. She knew their exact shade of blue, though the screen guarded her against their potency. Sort of. Her stomach clenched so hard she thought it might cramp.

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Then no, I don’t think so.’

      She started to close the door. He kept his voice even. ‘It wasn’t really a question, Tash. If you close the door in my face I’ll break it down.’

      She didn’t doubt that for a single moment. As far as Officer Mitchell King was concerned, the ends always justified the means. For sheer cold-blooded ruthlessness, nobody else came close.

      Without a word, she unclasped the door and then turned and hip-swayed down the corridor into the kitchen. She added the provocative sway to her hips because it was more dignified than thumbing her nose. And because without her usual uniform of jeans and work boots she felt vulnerable. A hip-sway distracted most men

      Not that Mitch King was most men.

      She turned, hands on hips, when she reached the kitchen, but the sun flooding in at the windows reminded her it was summer and that she had big plans for this week.

      Just as soon as she got rid of her unwelcome visitor.

      ‘How can I help you?’

      The twist of his lips told her he’d read her animosity. As she’d meant him to. She’d lived in the same suburb as Mitch for most of her twenty-five years, but they hadn’t spoken once in the last eight.

      And if it’d been another eight it would’ve been too soon.

      He didn’t bother with pleasantries. ‘We have a problem and I’m afraid you’re not going to like the solution.’ He planted his feet, but his eyes gentled. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.’

      He might look like an angel, but the man could probably deceive the devil himself.

      She shook the thought off, refusing to allow soft summer eyes or firm lips that promised heaven to sway her. She wasn’t seventeen years old anymore. ‘I’m not interested in your sentiments.’

      His mouth hardened.

      ‘What’s this problem? If it’s anything to do with the pub then you’ll have to speak to Clarke.’

      ‘It’s not about the pub.’

      For the last three years Tash had managed the Royal Oak, a local establishment that serviced the factory workers in the area. It wasn’t a genteel or trendy establishment by any means, but it was clean and generally free of trouble and Tash had every intention of making sure it stayed that way. She folded her arms and stuck out a hip. ‘Well, if it isn’t about the pub...?’

      Mitch didn’t even glance at her hip and she couldn’t have said why, but it irked her. A tic did start up at the side of his jaw, though. He wasn’t as calm as he’d like her to think.

      ‘Have you spoken to Rick Bradford recently?’

      It took every muscle she possessed to not let her jaw drop. When she was sure she had that under control she let rip with a short savage laugh. ‘You have to be joking, right? The last time you and I spoke about Rick, you arrested him. Unfairly, I might add. If you think I’m going to chew the fat with you about Rick then you are an unmitigated idiot.’ She put all the feeling she could into that unmitigated. It was a nice big word for a girl like her to know.

      One of Mitch’s hands clenched—a strong brown hand. He leaned in towards her, his eyes chips of ice, all warmth gone. ‘So nothing’s changed? You still see him through rose-coloured glasses?’ His lip curled. ‘What is it with women and bad boys?’

      She lifted her chin. ‘From memory, it wasn’t the bad boy I fell for.’

      He froze. He glanced away. So did she, wishing she could take the words back. It grew so silent the only sounds she was aware of were the low hum of the refrigerator and one of her neighbours starting up a lawnmower.

      Mitch cleared his throat and from the corner of her eye she saw him reach into his pocket. He pulled out a packet of photographs and held them out towards her. ‘We believe Rick is responsible for this.’

      She didn’t want to take the photographs. She wanted to slap his hand away, herd him back down the hallway and shove him out of her door. Mitch had always considered Rick a troublemaker. When she and Rick had been in school, if anyone had been caught shoplifting then, according to Mitch, Rick must’ve been behind it. If there’d been a fight in the playground then Rick must’ve instigated it. If there was graffiti on the train station walls Rick must’ve put it there. She snorted. Crazy! And yet it had always been Rick’s grandmother’s door the police had come knocking on first.

      And when kids in the area had been caught smoking pot, Mitch had been convinced that Rick was the supplier.

      Mitch had been wrong. Oh, so, wrong. But that hadn’t stopped her best friend from going down for it all the same. He’d served fifteen months in prison. And she’d unwittingly helped put him there.

      But not again. She’d learned some smarts in the last eight years. She knew better than to trust any man. Especially the one standing in front of her.

      She reached out and took the photographs. The first one showed a house gutted by fire. She tossed it onto the counter. ‘Rick is not, nor has he ever been, an arsonist.’

      The second showed a crashed car. She glanced up and raised an eyebrow.

      ‘The brake lines on the car were deliberately severed. The woman was lucky to get out of it with nothing but a broken collarbone and a concussion.’

      She threw it to the bench to join its partner. ‘Rick would never hurt a woman.’ Rick protected women. She didn’t bother saying that out loud, though. Mitch would never believe her.

      The third and fourth photos made her stomach churn. ‘And he certainly wouldn’t senselessly slaughter animals. That’s...’ The photographs showed a field of sheep with their throats cut. One of them was a close-up. She slammed it face down to the bench. Acid burned her stomach. This was just another of Mitch’s witch-hunts.

      ‘That’s what’s happened to Rick’s last three girlfriends.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Officer King, but I’m afraid I can’t help you with your enquiries.’

      ‘Have you spoken to Rick recently?’

      He’d rung her two nights ago to tell her he was coming to town.

      ‘No.’ She kept her face bland and unreadable. She’d practised and practised that skill until she had it down