Partner-Protector. Julie Miller
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She rested her elbow on the corner of the detective’s desk and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You understand that I don’t always see evidence in the same way you do, Mr. Banning.”
His green eyes filled with skepticism. “So I’ve heard.”
“I don’t dream this stuff up, Detective. I possess a psychic ability to sense things. When I put my mind to it, I can see things especially clearly. When I touch people or objects, I pick up emotions, memories—”
“You predict the future.”
Kelsey bristled. “Look, Banning, do you want to know what I saw or not?” She waited for his prompt to continue. “I believe I’ve accidentally come across an object that has something to do with one of those prostitutes who’ve been murdered around Christmas and New Year’s over the past decade.”
“Nine murders in eleven years,” he clarified. “Don’t tell me you’ve found the murder weapon?”
“No. But it’s something one of the victims touched. I’m sure of that.”
“So you’ve found some object that somebody touched, and you think it will solve the case for us?”
Mr. Uptight, Suit-’n’-Tie wasn’t going to cut her a break, but she wasn’t about to back down. Lives were at stake!
Partner-Protector
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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For Denise O’Sullivan.
I’ve worked with many people at Harlequin over the years, but you’ve always been there—on the front line or in the background, watching over me like a guardian angel.
We share a love for Intrigue and dark, tortured heroes. You answer my rambling e-mails kindly and precisely. You don’t see anything wrong with my penchant for blowing up things and stabbing people <g>.
And you taught me the valuable lesson that it’s all about the reader.
Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PZ. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Detective Thomas Merle Banning—Once the rookie computer geek of the Fourth Precinct, brains, hard work and a couple of gunshot wounds had finally earned him some respect. So why was he being partnered with a psychic consultant to solve a cold-case murder? And why did somebody want her dead?
Kelsey Ryan—The Flake. With a nickname like that, how could anyone, especially the cops, believe she’d “seen” a grisly murder?
Rev. Ulysses Wingate—He runs a mission in downtown Kansas City for those in need.
Doc Siegel—Someone has to graduate at the bottom of the class.
Zero—A prince among pimps. Or so he claims. His girls might have a different opinion.
Rebecca Page—The crime beat reporter wants to finish the story her father never could.
Patrick Halliwell—He gave money to reputable causes. And some not so reputable.
Ed Watkins—He’d worked the Fourth Precinct for a lot of years.
Jezebel—Eleven years ago, she’d known how to show a man a good time. She’d paid for her expertise with her life.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Prologue
“I beg you. Please. Don’t.”
She backed away as far as she could go, giving a soft, startled yelp when she hit the hard, dark wall. Trapped.
Splinters of rough wood caught in her hair, scratched the bare skin of her shoulders. She crossed her arms in front of her, but there was no place to hide, no way to shield herself.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know there were rules.”
But there were no words to placate the anger she saw, no words to assuage the hatred. She was cold. Shaking. Crying.
He was coming.
“Sorry about the gift, big boy.” Fear dulled her reasoning, made her grasp at the first thought that flashed in her mind. “Big boy. You like that?” She reached out, but he wouldn’t take her hand. She curled the rejected fingers into her fist and clutched it over her naked breast.
She tried to smile, but her lips quivered. The tears kept falling. The wall was cutting into her back and she was afraid.
“I can call you that. Big boy. I can do whatever you want.”
Her breath caught in her chest and couldn’t seem to get past her pounding heart. He didn’t care. She’d laughed.
She shouldn’t have laughed.
“Most men bring cash. I didn’t understand. I’m surprised, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I can learn to appreciate it.”
He caressed her face. She jerked her head to the side, hating his touch. Her cheek scraped against the unfinished wood. The pungent smells of cold and rot stung her nose. His finger traced a gentle path down her neck, over her breast. Such a loving caress. She nearly gagged.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to go to that distant place inside her head she always went when men touched her. But she couldn’t find it. He was talking now. She couldn’t make out the words. She was cold and shaking and