A Cop's Honor
Mason studied Brandon’s face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “There are bites all over. You look like you’ve been beaten up.”
“You ever been in a fight?”
The boy’s expression turned defensive, cagey, putting Brandon on alert. “Maybe. You’re not going to like, die or something if I leave the room, are you? I’m hungry. I need a sandwich.”
“Go ahead. If I was going to drop dead from anaphylaxis I’d have done it by now.”
Mason headed for the kitchen. His actions confirming what Brandon suspected. The boy was evading providing a direct response. So Brandon followed him and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you know how to defend yourself, Mason?”
Wary blue eyes whipped his way. “Why?”
“Because your dad didn’t. I had to teach him.”
“Why?” he repeated and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly from the fridge.
“He was having trouble with a bully. I don’t like bullies.”
Mason paused with his knife above the peanut butter jar while he mulled that over. “Would you teach me to fight?”
“To fight? No. To defend yourself? Sure. There’s a big difference in the two. Hand-to-hand combat is always a last resort for when you have no other choice. It’s better to walk away if you can.”
The answer earned him an eye roll. Mason returned to assembling his sandwich. “You’re only saying that cuz you’re a cop. I’d be called a pussy if I ran.”
“Name-calling doesn’t break bones but fighting can. I’m saying it because you’re built like your dad. Not a lot of muscle yet. I don’t want you to get your butt kicked or to get suspended from school. You’ll have to use your brain instead of brawn.”
Another eye roll.
Hannah returned with a small box. She took in the situation. “Did you offer Brandon a sandwich?”
“Want one?” Mason asked with his mouth full.
“No, thanks. I ate before I came over.”
Hannah aimed a dark look at her son for talking while chewing, then turned to Brandon. “Pills or cream? I’d recommend both.”
Brandon recognized the pink bottle she displayed. “Antihistamines knock me out. I’ll stick with the topical.”
“Take off your shirt and have a seat.” He did as directed then sat at the table. By the time he had his shirt fabric bunched in his hands, she’d set down the box and held a playing card. Her gaze ran over him. She blinked, hesitated, then licked her lips. He caught himself watching her pink tongue and mentally kicked himself.
“Where are the ones you couldn’t reach?”
“Back.” The word came out gruffer than intended.
She whirled a finger, signaling him to turn. He twisted in the chair. “There are three and two stingers are still in.”
He felt the rasp of the card across the first bump, then the second. A moment later the coolness of the cream hit his inflamed skin, accompanied by a twinge of pain caused by the light pressure of her touch. Then the warmth and slow caress of her fingertip registered.
“Turn around,” she ordered before he could figure out what was causing him to have difficulty breathing. Was he having a delayed reaction to the venom?
He turned and found himself at chest level. The neckline of Hannah’s sundress dipped low enough to reveal smooth skin and a fine gold chain that disappeared between her breasts. His lungs locked. He swallowed—hard—then closed his eyes and forced a breath into his tight chest. Her scent, combined with a hint of flowers, filled his nostrils. His mouth dried. He opened his eyes and searched for safer territory. He spotted a quarter-inch thread standing out from the seam of her dress on her left shoulder and fixated on it. But then his mind took an unexpected detour. What would happen if he pulled that thread? Would the dress fall from her shoulder?
“You’re lucky you’re not allergic. With this many stings this could have been a life-threatening situation.”
His attention lasered in on the gentle stroke of her finger on the thin skin beneath his eye, then she moved on to the sting on his cheekbone, smoothing small circles over the puffy flesh. His pulse jackhammered with near-deafening force against his eardrums.
Delayed reaction to the venom.
She rubbed the lump beneath his earlobe and the one under his chin, and his respirations shallowed and quickened. The pressure descended from his chest to his groin. What in the hell was wrong with him? This was Hannah. Rick’s Hannah. And getting a woody in response to her was unacceptable. But there it was, straining against his zipper. He held out his hand to take the tube from her.
Ignoring his silent request she squeezed out more cream. “Sit still, Brandon.”
He gritted his teeth against the pleasure/pain and gripped the T-shirt in his lap so tightly he’d probably imbed permanent wrinkles into the cotton. He hoped like hell Hannah didn’t notice his condition.
She brushed the tender, swollen flesh of his upper lip and a lightning bolt of sensation shot south. He jerked out of reach, sucked in a sobering breath and snatched the tube from her hand. “I’ll get the rest.”
She stilled. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
What was that song lyric? Hurt so good? “No. But we need to get painting. Put on your work clothes. I got this.”
Looking as relieved as he felt, she stepped back. “Well...if you’re sure. The guest bathroom is—” She shook her head. “You know where it is.”
“Yeah. I do.” His momma had raised him to stand whenever a lady entered or left the room. He did so, but he kept the T-shirt in front of his crotch until Hannah left.
What in the hell had just happened? And how could he make sure it didn’t happen again? He mentally shook himself and caught Mason watching. “Put on your painting clothes, kid. After we knock out this job I’m going to wipe up the basketball court with you.”
The kid glanced toward the den. “I need to work on my project.”
“More online research?” The computer was in the den.
“Yeah.”
If Hannah was going to paint upstairs and Mason was going to be on the computer downstairs, then the kid wasn’t as supervised as Hannah thought. Brandon filed that away and went into the bathroom to treat the remaining stings.
Once that was done he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing the spare bedroom door opened. Hannah, wearing a T-shirt that had seen better days, cut-off jeans a thread longer than indecent and sneakers, stepped out. She’d changed clothes. Behind her he spotted the dress she’d been wearing draped across the corner of the bed he’d slept on a few times when Rick’s renovation projects had run late into the night.
He assembled the clues. “The master bedroom is downstairs.”
Her gaze flicked away then returned—evasive, like her son’s. “I can hear the children better up here.”
“What happened to that fancy monitor I gave you when Belle was born? Camera, sound and the whole deal?”
She shifted, drawing his attention to her legs. He hoisted his gaze north. “I’d have to come up anyway if they needed me during the night. It’s easier not to have to race up the stairs when I’m groggy.”
She no longer slept in the downstairs master suite she’d shared with Rick. “When did the move take place?”
“Does it matter, Brandon? We have work to do. Belle’s room will probably take several coats...unless you’re not up to it.”
A challenge to distract him. He recognized the technique but followed Hannah into Belle’s room without comment. The six-year-old stood in front of an easel with a paint-by-number set attached. “What’s that?”
“While we’re painting the walls Belle will be creating artwork to hang on them.”
“It’s going to be a ballerina,” the girl said and twirled, making her little plastic paint smock fan out. “Like me.”
“I’m sure it’ll look great.” He turned his attention back to Hannah, who’d bent over to open a can of paint. The pose hiked her shorts up, revealing even more leg, and caused her shirt to gape. Her bra was pink. The knowledge paralyzed him.
“Honey, run down and eat your lunch. I left it in the refrigerator for you. You can paint when you’re done.”
Belle skipped off.
Brandon pulled himself together. “Mason says he’s going to work on his project instead of helping.”
“That’s right. He has a paper due Friday.”
“But you’ll be up here.”
Her eyebrows dipped. “Yes.”
“That means he’ll be unsupervised on the computer.”
She bit her lip again then took a deep breath, stretching the worn-thin shirt. “Only for a little while. Your point?”
“You can’t watch your kids one hundred percent of the time. No parent can. Let me install the software.”
“No. Absolutely not. Do not bring it up again, Brandon. I’m going to grab a sandwich. You can get started or wait for me.” Then like Mason, she walked away, deftly avoiding the conversation.
Which left Brandon back at ground zero. With nothing. He was certain the boy was up to something, but pushing would get him booted out and ruin any chance he had of keeping his promise to Rick.
Chapter Three
HANNAH SWALLOWED THE last of her sandwich and tried to diagnose her reluctance to return upstairs.
Touching Brandon had been...unsettling. And that made no sense. As a physical therapy assistant she touched people all day, five days a week. She’d dealt with plenty of men as attractive, if not more so, than Brandon, but none of her patients had ever elicited a frantic pulse or the shakes.
Maybe her jitters had been caused by low blood sugar. She hadn’t eaten since before Sunday school. And if that was the case, then she’d have no problem with him while they painted.
Satisfied with her explanation, she released a pent-up breath and directed her attention to her daughter. “You all set, sweetheart?”
Belle scrambled up from the table. “Yes, Mommy.”
“Then let’s go paint your room.”
Together, she and her daughter climbed the stairs. Brandon had taped off the windows in their absence. When she met his hazel gaze her heart thumped an extra beat and her pulse kicked up. Then her hands started shaking. If it continued she wouldn’t be able to paint straight lines along the ceiling and baseboards. She needed to give her blood sugar time to level out before attempting something that meticulous.
“I’ll roll if you’ll cut in,” she suggested.
“Got it,” he replied and positioned the stepladder in the far corner.
She took one final look around the room. The last time she’d decorated in here had been a month after Belle’s birth. She and Rick hadn’t wanted to know their baby’s sex before delivery. That meant no personalization. Afterward, caring for two children with Rick’s hectic schedule, not to mention their tight budget, had limited Hannah’s decorating to hanging a border of pastel merry-go-round horses on the builder-beige walls. Now her baby girl wanted pink walls with ballerina pictures. That was no surprise considering she’d started dance classes this spring.
“Are you starting here?” Brandon stood beside her, one dark eyebrow cocked.
She startled over his proximity. How had he crossed the plastic drop cloth she’d spread on the floor after removing most of Belle’s furniture so quietly? “Yes. I’ll go clockwise if you’ll go the opposite.”
She winced when she looked at his face. He had to be hurting. Each time she’d touched him he’d flinched. When she’d finished he’d been one big knot of muscles. The professional side of her had wanted to massage the kinks loose, but the personal side of her had rejected the idea. He wasn’t her patient.
Brandon was a trouper to work through the discomfort, and for that, she was grateful. But he had a point about Mason being on the computer. Under the guise of checking her email while she was downstairs, she’d ensured her parental controls were still in place before letting Mason have the laptop.
“You washed the walls after removing the border?” Brandon asked.
Of course he’d remember the border. He’d loaned her his level and shown her how to mark a straight line for hanging the paper. “Last week.”
Brandon lifted the lids on each of the paint cans and poured all three into an empty five-gallon bucket. Nine years ago she’d messed up Mason’s room because one of the batches of paint hadn’t been mixed correctly. She’d ended up with a streaky mess of slightly different shades of the same color paint on the walls. After she’d bought replacements, Brandon had shown her the trick of mixing all the buckets beforehand to ensure a uniform result. It had been an expensive lesson—that was the only reason she recalled it so clearly.
His muscles bulged as he lifted the heavy bucket and carefully poured some of the pink liquid into a rolling pan for her and then a smaller pail for himself. The veins lining his hair-dusted forearms and biceps were a sign of his good muscle tone. He’d always been brawnier than Rick, and more adept at doing the physical stuff that this old house required. And he’d never been stingy with his time even though he had his own projects.
He expertly used his brush to catch any drips then looked up and caught her watching him. “You okay?”
She blinked and felt her cheeks warm. “Yes.”
Why was she so focused on him? She had a job to do and a limited amount of time to get it done before the children needed attention. She slid a roller onto her handle and pushed it through the thick liquid and then onto the wall, but the mindless back and forth action wasn’t enough to erase the realization that Brandon had been a part of every major project she and Rick had completed together on this old house.
Brandon had been the one who’d taught both her and Rick how to paint, build swing sets, plant shrubs and grass and to safely replace faulty outlets and faucets along with countless other chores. If Brandon hadn’t known how to do it, he’d been the one to liaise with the contractors for them because he spoke their language. She and Rick would have been lost without him. They never could have taken on this house without him.
So even though she’d banned Brandon from their lives for five years, he’d been here all along, embedded into the walls and the soil around her home. But that didn’t mean she could forgive him for not watching Rick’s back—no matter what the preacher had said this morning.
“Mommy!” Belle’s panicked cry almost made her drop the roller.
“What is it, baby?”
“I messed up. I painted the wrong color in the nine spot.”
“It’s okay. When it dries you can paint over it.”
“But I want to do it now!”
Tired eyes filled with tears. Because they’d moved Belle’s furniture yesterday, Belle had stayed in Hannah’s bed last night. That meant her baby girl hadn’t slept well and was cranky today.
Brandon descended the ladder to survey the disaster then cut his eyes Hannah’s way. “If you’ll get me a cotton swab I’ll show you how to fix it.”
Hannah hurried to retrieve one from her bathroom. Brandon took it. Their fingers brushed, and that unsettling sensation swept through her again. If her sudden agitation wasn’t caused by low blood sugar, then what was it? The only other time she’d felt like this was when Rick had—
No. It was not desire. Not for Brandon. She staggered back a step—away from the man and the idea.
“You fixed it, Occifer Brandon!” Belle’s excited cry yanked Hannah out of her unpleasant thoughts. Her daughter threw her arms around Brandon and hugged him.
Hannah blinked. She’d completely missed his magical fix. Her confusion must have shown in her face because Brandon winked and displayed the paint-stained cotton swab with a smile on his swollen lips. That smile/wink combo made Hannah’s stomach flip.
“The acrylics are water-soluble. A little dab’ll do ya’. Knock yourself out, kiddo.” He ruffled Belle’s hair and she beamed.
Hannah marveled at how good he was with her daughter. Not many single men would be. He returned to the ladder and Hannah’s gaze followed, fixing on the muscles stretching denim as he climbed. She flushed hot all over and her palms moistened. Her tongue felt thick and dry, then panic quickened her heart as she acknowledged the undeniable. Her reaction to Brandon Martin was...sexual.
Her libido had been buried with Rick. It was a sick, cruel joke that her womanly needs had been resurrected by the man responsible for putting her husband in his grave. The one man she could never trust with her future because he’d already ruined her past.
* * *
BRANDON POINTED THE water hose at a paint tray and absently surveyed Hannah’s backyard while he formulated a plan. He had to build a rapport with Mason if he wanted the boy to trust him enough to confide in him. Putting some distance between him and Hannah wasn’t a bad idea, either.
Three hours confined to the same small room with her had totally screwed with his usual ability to block out distractions. He’d been aware of every move she made, every sigh and every sound. The only time he’d been able to relax was when she’d left the room to check on Mason. Even then he’d wanted to follow and observe her interaction with the boy to see if the kid was hiding something. But he was trying to respect the boundaries she’d marked.
He finished washing up the painting gear and debated going home. But he had a job to do, and cutting corners on an investigation had never been his way of dealing with complications. He stored the materials in the garage and reentered the house. He found Hannah in the den standing behind the sofa and reading the laptop screen over her son’s shoulder.
“I need Mason for an hour.”
She turned, a furrow between her brows. “For what?”
“To help me remove your sagging gutter then replace the fascia board and paint it.”
“Do I have to?” Mason asked with a put-upon expression.
“If you help, you get to use my nail gun.”
Mason perked up. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Hannah replied simultaneously and shot Brandon then Mason a dark look. “Nail guns are dangerous and you are not allowed on the roof.”
“Mooooom.”
Hannah ignored her son’s protest and turned back to Brandon. “I don’t have the board, and the building supply stores close early on Sunday. Maybe we should call it a night.”
She wanted to get rid of him. Not happening. “I brought the materials with me, and Mason can do what I need from the ladder. No need to get on the roof. And I wouldn’t let him use the nail gun if I couldn’t teach him how to use it safely.”
Reservations filled her eyes. “Brandon, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Hannah, he’ll be fine. Trust me.”
The corners of her lips turned down.
Belle tugged his hand. “What can I do, Occifer Brandon? I want to help, too.”
He couldn’t help but smile at those big, earnest eyes. “You can make sure we rehang the board straight when we get to that part.”
Belle nodded enthusiastically. “I can do that.”
He glanced at Hannah and caught a look of such unadulterated love in her eyes for her daughter that it made his chest ache. He’d seen the same look in Rick’s eyes—like he thought his kids were miracles. Brandon had never felt that way about anyone and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Seemed like keeping a door open for pain and disappointment to slip in. He shook off the negative thought.
“Whatdaya say, Mason? We’re burning daylight.”
The boy bounded off the sofa, ditching the laptop with no reservations. He wouldn’t have done that if he had something on it to hide. He raced to the garage.
“Stay off the roof,” Hannah called after him.
Brandon stepped closer to Hannah and bent his head so Belle wouldn’t overhear. “You asked for my help, remember? Let me do what I do best.”
“But—”
“The only way I’ll get him to open up is by spending time with him and building a rapport.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Brandon tracked after Mason. When he reached the garage, the boy rolled his eyes. “She treats me like a baby.”
“Get used to it, kid. I’m thirty-two and my mom still does the same thing.”
“For real? But you’re a cop.”
“Moms only do it because they love us. And your mom has to be mother and father for you, so she’s trying twice as hard to be a good parent. Cut her some slack. Let’s get the gear from the truck.”
When they reached his vehicle Brandon donned his tool belt then lowered his small compressor to the ground. He slung the hose over his shoulder and hefted the nail gun. He could carry everything himself, but he wanted Mason to feel as if he was part of the process. “Loop the extension cord across your shoulder like I did the hose and grab the other end of this board.”
They carried their load to the garage and dumped it. “Now we need the ladders. I’ll get one if you’ll get the other.”
Mason did so without argument. Together they set up on opposite sides of the open door. Brandon climbed the ladder. “I’m going to pull this end of the gutter down and lower it to you. Hold it and try not to let it crimp while I release each section. That way we can reuse it.”
“If you were such good friends with my dad, why’d you quit coming around?” Mason asked while Brandon was trying to pry the first gutter spike free. The question jarred him so much that when the spike broke free suddenly he almost fell from his perch.
Did the boy not remember the funeral fiasco? Maybe not. He’d only been five. Brandon formulated an abbreviated version. He met Mason’s gaze. “Because I remind your mom of your dad, and that hurts her. She asked me not to visit.”
“Why’d you show up now?”
He couldn’t tell the truth. Lying was a slippery slope. “Because I missed you.”
“Well, don’t get the idea I need a dad now. I’ve been fine without one.”
The false bravado wasn’t a surprise. He descended the ladder and handed Mason the end of the gutter. “I’m sure, as man of the house, you’ve had to be fine. I still have my dad. But he has a disease. I worry about losing him every day, and I can’t imagine life without him. It must be tough.”
“What’s your dad got?”
“Parkinson’s. It steals a little of his strength at a time. And eventually, it’ll take him entirely. What’s worse is that his mind is as sharp as ever, and he’s aware of every inch of ground he’s losing. I’m fortunate to have him, and I make sure he knows that.”
He moved the ladder, climbed and repeated the process with each additional spike. Mason kept silent until Brandon removed the last one, then he blurted, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
A vision of the perp standing over Rick’s body and the blood pools spreading across the floor flashed across his brain. The sudden pressure on Brandon’s chest felt as if a beam had dropped on it. “Once. I try to avoid that.”
“Are you scared to?”
That day he’d wanted to empty his clip into the guy who’d killed Rick. The only reason he’d managed to stop after one shot was because he wanted to see if Rick was still alive. “No. I value life—mine and others’—and my job. Shooting someone without cause jeopardizes both.”
“Have you ever beat up anybody?”
Another tough answer, but truth often was. “Yes. But never for the sport of it. When I’ve hit someone it’s because I was defending myself or someone else. Again, fighting is—”
“I know, I know. A last resort. Jeez. I heard ya’ the first time.”
Brandon lowered the last end of the gutter and helped Mason carry it to the grass beside the driveway then stopped beside the boy. “Is there someone you think needs beating up now?”
A darting glance was a telling glance. “Who, Mason?”
“Nobody.”
“C’mon, everybody wants to pop someone sometime. Is a kid bothering you?” No answer.
“At school? On the bus?”
Mason hustled to the compressor. “Are you gonna show me how to use this thing or not?”
The refusal to answer was an answer. But the kid wasn’t ready to talk. Brandon let it go and offered Mason a hammer. “We’ll get to the power tools soon enough. First, we need to remove the rotten fascia board and check the rafters for decay. If we find any we’ll have to cut the bad board away and sister on a good one.”