Takedown. Julie Miller
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supposed a phone call to Blake’s office at Caldwell Technologies couldn’t hurt. She didn’t want to send any false signals to her ex, but a few words to put her mind at ease and set him straight on the romance-is-over message was worth the risk. And if the rose wasn’t from Blake…?
Jillian was leaving a message on Blake’s answering machine, reluctantly asking him to return her call, when Dylan Smith, another physical therapist who worked at the hospital’s outpatient therapy clinic with her, knocked on her door. She waved him into the room as she hung up the phone. As usual, Dylan’s dimpled cheeks and mischievous grin demanded she smile in return.
“What’s cookin’, Masterson?” He shoved his fingers through his muss of blond hair and sat down. “Makin’ plans for a hot date?”
“I’m workin’, Smith. Aren’t you?”
“Hell, no. It’s five o’clock, it’s Friday and a bunch of us are going over to the Shamrock to hit happy hour. If you don’t have plans, come with us.”
The Shamrock Bar? Fun with her friends sounded tempting, but her drinking days were over. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve got things to do at home this weekend.”
“I helped you move into that apartment—up three flights of stairs, I might add—and everything looked neat and pretty and sitting in its place before we all left. Come.”
Jillian grinned at his pitiful, boyish pout. “My bedroom is only half painted, and the dueling colors have been driving me nuts all week. We’re supposed to have rain this weekend, and if I can’t open the windows and work, I’ll have to suffer through Pepto-Bismol pink and ice blue for another whole week. I need to get started on it tonight.”
Dylan leaned forward, reached across the desk and laid his hand over the top of hers where it rested on the blotter. Every muscle in Jillian’s fingers froze at the unexpected touch, though she managed to keep her smile in place.
“Just for an hour or two, Jilly? Please?” Dylan coaxed.
“I can’t.”
“I’ve got a bet with that new occupational therapist that I can eat an entire serving of the Shamrock’s fried habaneros and win free drinks for a year. You can cheer me on.”
“Or bring the stomach pump you’ll need when you’re done.”
“Very funny. Where’s the love?”
There was nothing secret about Dylan’s harmless flirtations. If you were female, he flirted. Still, boyish charm aside, Jillian thought it wise to steer clear of romantic entanglements for now, and gently extricated her hand from his. “Sorry. Ask the O.T. to cheer you on. She’s a hottie and it sounds like she might be interested in you. Share your habanero breath with her.”
“You’ve got to have fun sometime.” Dylan pushed to his feet, his grin firmly locked into place. He placed his hand over his heart and made a slight bow. “And I’m your man whenever you’re ready. Oh, I forgot.”
He reached inside the royal-blue polo shirt that matched her own clinic uniform, pulled out an envelope and set it on her desk.
“What’s this?”
“Lulu at the front desk was on her way out. She asked me to deliver it to you.”
Please, no. Jillian gingerly picked it up. No return address, and though the envelope had a stamp, it hadn’t been canceled. But the name and clinic address clearly belonged to her. An uneasy feeling soured her lips into a frown. “I thought the mail already came.”
Dylan plunged his hands into his pockets. “It must have dropped behind the counter or something.”
Jillian shrugged off the perplexing mystery and slid her finger beneath the flap to open it. “Thanks.”
He nodded toward the corner of her desk. “By the way, your flower needs some water.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” Enough with the torment. Jillian plucked the dead rose from the vase and dropped it into the trash. “I should have sent it over to the main hospital for a patient who’d take better care of it than I did. My bad.”
His gaze seemed to fix on the fallen flower for a moment before the grin returned. “Not a green thumb, huh? I’ll make a point to remember that next Valentine’s Day.”
“Bye, Dylan. Don’t forget to take a gallon of milk and a fire extinguisher with you. Good luck, you idiot.”
The blond charmer left with a laugh. Once she was alone, Jillian took a deep breath, pulled out the letter and leaned back in her chair to read it.
She slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
MICHAEL HAD SEEN THAT LOOK on the faces of parents waiting outside a school building locked down because of an armed intruder or bomb threat. He’d seen that look on a hostage-taker who’d gone off his meds and didn’t understand why he’d been shot by one of Michael’s SWAT team.
He hadn’t expected to see it on Jillian Masterson’s youthful face when he raised his hand to knock on her open office door.
Shock. Helplessness. Fear.
“Are you all right?”
Green eyes darted up to his and she jumped to her feet, sending her chair crashing back into the wall behind her desk. By the time she’d groused and righted the chair and spun around to face him, her cheeks were flushed a rosy color. He’d clearly startled her. Again.
“What…are you doing here?” she stammered.
His negotiator’s instincts kept his voice calm, his movements slow and precise as he stepped into the room. Whatever was wrong here, he didn’t want to aggravate the problem. “I forgot Mike’s cane. The gym’s locked. Are you all right?” he repeated.
Jillian wadded up the letter that was already half crushed in her fist and shot it into the trash can beside her desk. “I’m fine.”
And he was the tooth fairy. “Was that bad news?”
She swept aside a strand of coffee-colored hair that had fallen across her cheek and tucked it into the long, sleek ponytail at her nape. Then she was circling her desk, pulling the keys off her wrist, offering him a smile he didn’t believe. “It’s just one of those chain letters. You know, send it on to so many people and you’ll get a bunch of stuff in return. Annoying, aren’t they?”
He wouldn’t know. But he did recognize a load of BS when he heard it. “Jillian—”
“I need to sign out ASAP so I can get Troy home before dark. I’ll be right back so you don’t have to keep Mike waiting.”
Miles of long legs and the graceful athleticism of her walk quickly carried her down the hallway and around the corner. Conversation over, old man. Take the hint.
For a moment, Michael debated between trusting his instincts about people and minding his own business. But he’d spent too many years as a cop, training his mind and body to pay attention to the warning signs people gave him, to let her behavior go without an explanation. It was always easier to stop trouble before it got started.
Pretty, sassy, make-his-son-smile Jillian Masterson was in trouble.
Making sure he was alone in her office, he plucked the paper wad she’d tossed out of the trash can and unfolded it, smoothing it open against his thigh. He read it quickly. Read it again. Frowned.
A love letter.
One that made a healthy woman go pale, jump at his approach and toss the missive away with a flippant excuse before bolting from the room.
Right. Nothing suspicious about that.
Chapter Two
“Can you get it, Troy?”
“Yeah,