She wasnt any closer to understanding what she was seeing when he knelt beside her again, opening the kit and pulling out a compress. She winced as he slipped the pad beneath her vest and pressed his hand against her wound to stanch the bleeding. The deep, sure tone of voice was a little like catnip to her groggy senses, too. Im Mike Cutler. Ive had paramedic training. Lie still.
Why were her hormones involved in any of this conversation? She squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate. She was a KCPD police officer. Shed been shot. The perp had gotten away. There was protocol to follow. She had a job to do. Gina opened her eyes, gritting her teeth against the pressure on her chest and the fog inside her head. Check my partner. Hes hit.
Youre losing blood too fast. Im not going anywhere until I slow the bleeding. The brief burst of clarity quickly waned. The Good Samaritan trying to save her life tugged on her vest the moment her eyes closed. Officer Galvan? No, no, keep your eyes open. Whats your first name?
Gina.
Gina? He was smiling when she blinked her eyes open. Thats better. Pretty brown eyes. Like a good cup of coffee. I want to keep seeing them, okay? She nodded. His eyes were such a pretty color. No, not pretty. There wasnt anything pretty about the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He certainly wasnt from this part of town. Shed have remembered a face like that. A face that was still talking. Trust me. Im on your side. If I look familiar, its because youre a cop, and you probably know my dad.
Mike Cutler. My dad. Ginas foggy brain cleared with a moment of recognition. Captain Cutler? Oh, God. Im interviewing with him... Dont tell him I got shot, okay? But hed left her. Gina called out in a panic. Cutler?
Im here. Her instinct to exhale with relief ended up in a painful fit of coughing. Easy. I was just checking your partner.
How is he?
Unconscious. As far as I can tell, he has a gunshot wound to the arm. But he may have hit his head on the door frame or pavement. His nose is bruised.
That was...before. She tried to point to the house.
Before what?
The words to explain the incident with Gordon Bismarck were lost in the fog of her thoughts. But her training was clear. Derek was shot. And she had a job to do.
The prisoner? Gina tried to roll over and push herself up, but she couldnt seem to get her arm beneath her. The snow and clouds and black running shoes all swirled together inside her head.
Easy, Gina. I need you to lie still. An ambulance is on its way. Youve injured your shoulder, and I dont see an exit wound. If that bullet is still inside you, I dont want it traveling anywhere. He unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it. He draped the thin, insulated material over her body, gently but securely tucking her in, surrounding her with the residual warmth from his body and the faint, musky scent of his workout. The guy in the backseat is loud, but unharmed. The lady at the front door looks scared, but she isnt shot. Lie down. Youre going into shock. He pulled her radio from beneath the jacket and pressed the call button. Get that bus to... Ginas vision blurred as he rattled off the address. Stay with me. Gina? His warm hand cupped her face, and she realized just how cold she was. She wished she could wrap her whole body up in that kind of heat. She looked up into his stern expression. Stay with me.
Catnip.
What? Her eyelids drifted shut. Gina!
The last thing she saw was her blood seeping into the snow. The last thing she felt was the mans strong hands pressing against her breast and shoulder. The last thing she heard was his voice on her radio.
Officer down! I repeat: officer down!
Chapter Three
Six weeks later
He shoots! He scores! The basketball sailed through the hoop, hitting nothing but net. Troy Anthony spun his wheelchair on the polished wood of the physical therapy centers minicourt. His ebony braids flew around the mocha skin of his bare, muscular shoulders, and one fist was raised in a triumphant gloat before he pointed to Mike. You are buying the beers.
How do you figure that? Mike Cutler caught the ball as it bounced past him, dribbled it once and shoved a chest pass at his smirking competitor. It was impossible not to grin as his best friend and business partner, Troy, schooled him in the twenty-minute pickup game. I thought we were playing to cheer me up.
Troy easily caught the basketball and shoved it right back. I was playing to win, my friend. Your heads not in the game.
Mikes hands stung, forgetting to catch the pass with his fingertips instead of his palms. He was distracted. Fine. Tonight at the Shamrock. Beers are on me.
He tucked the ball under his arm as he climbed out of the wheelchair hed been using. Once his legs unkinked and the electric jolts of random nerves firing across his hips and lower back subsided, he pushed the chair across the polished wood floor to stow the basketball in the PT centers equipment locker. At least he didnt have to wear those joint pinching leg braces or a body cast anymore.
But he wasnt about to complain. Twelve years ago, he hadnt been able to walk at all, following a car accident that had shattered his legs from the pelvis on down, so he never griped about the damaged nerves or aches in his mended bones or stiff muscles that protested the changing weather and an early morning workout. As teenagers, Mike and Troy had bonded over wheelchair basketball and months of physical rehabilitation therapy with the woman who had eventually become Mikes stepmother. Unlike Mike, because of a gunshot wound hed sustained in a neighborhood shooting, Troy would never regain the use of his legs. But the friendship had stuck, and now, at age twenty-eight, theyd both earned college degrees and had opened their own physical therapy center near downtown Kansas City.
Cmon, man. Dont make me feel like Im beatin up on ya. I said you didnt have to go back to the chair to play me. I could beat you standing on your two feet. Today, at any rate. Troy pushed his wheels once and coasted over to the edge of the court beside Mike. His omnipresent smile and smart-ass attitude had disappeared. Losing that funding really got to you, huh? Or is this mood about a woman?
He hadnt put his heart on the line and gotten it stomped on by anyone of the female persuasion lately. Not since Caroline. No. No woman.
Troy picked up a towel off the supply cart and handed one to Mike, grinning as he wiped the perspiration from his chest. No woman? That would sure put me in a mood.
Youre a funny guy, you know that, Mike deadpanned, appreciating his friends efforts to improve his disposition. But he couldnt quite shake the miasma of frustration that had plagued his thoughts since opening that rejection letter in the mail yesterday. I had a brilliant idea, writing that grant proposal. Mike toweled the dampness from his skin before tossing Troy his gray uniform polo shirt. We had enough money from the bank loan and our own savings to get this place built. But its hardly going to sustain itself with the handful of patients we have coming in. If we were attached to a hospital
We specifically decided against that. Troy didnt have to remind him of their determination to give back to the community. Mike opened the laundry compartment on the supply cart and Troy tossed both towels inside. We wanted to be here in the city where the people who needed us most could have access to our services.