Finding Her Son(30)

“My leg is better, Emily. And if you don’t plan on taking this all the way, you need to leave. Now. I’m not a slave to my anatomy, but even I have my limits, and you just reached them.”

Emily bit her lip. He was giving her a choice. Was she ready? She so wanted to be. She wanted to feel alive again. Could she take a chance? She searched his passion-filled face, full of question, anticipation and desire. “I want—”

Mitch’s phone vibrated on the alcove just left of his shoulder. He groaned. “You have got to be kidding,” Mitch said crossly. He glanced at the screen, then back at her with regret. “This is work. Another case. I have to take it.”

He turned his back and pulled himself out of the water. His back and arm muscles rippled. She averted her gaze, but not before she saw one very toned backside.

He quickly wrapped a towel around his waist, though it couldn’t hide his body’s response to her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’ll never know how much. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Mitch walked away from the hot tub and the temptation that was Emily. He watched as she got up and left, never once looking back. He’d very nearly succumbed to her seduction. She’d wanted him. And yet, he’d resisted. Had he gone completely crazy?

Mitch tapped the mute off button. “If you’re not calling with something important, you’re a dead man, Ian.”

His best friend was silent for a moment. “Guess there’s no point in asking if I can come over and get in some game time while Noah’s away.” He cleared his throat. “I have the girl’s identity. I thought you’d want to know.”

Mitch’s jaw clenched, and he prayed silently. “Who?”

“Vanessa Colby. She ran away from home about seven months ago.”

Mitch let relief wash over him, followed immediately by guilt. “When she found out she was pregnant?”

“Bingo. She wasn’t a street girl. At least not until recently.”

Mitch breathed out a harsh curse. “That fits with what I learned at the shelter. Any idea what killed her?”

“No obvious injuries, though I found one injection site with some bruising. Could indicate a minor struggle. Toxicology’s our last chance to determine cause of death.”

Mitch would bet nothing would come of the testing, either. These people were smart. They tried to make murder look like accidents. But he still couldn’t quite pinpoint the connection to Emily. She broke the pattern. “Still no sign of Vanessa’s baby?”

“Not in the morgue. Unless something’s turned up in your department.”

Mitch paced the poolroom, his body still throbbing with unfilled desire.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Fine,” he said, irritated. “Who do you trust in the police department?”

“Besides you?”

Ian didn’t even seem surprised Mitch was alluding to corruption in the Denver PD. Not a good sign. His friend didn’t speak for a moment. Mitch waited.

Finally, Ian sighed. “Honestly? If you’re wondering about corruption, I’d call your dad.”

“He’s been out since the accident. Three years is too long.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him? He’s not as out of the loop as you think. He came by just last week over my case about a cop’s suicide that didn’t feel right to him. Man, your dad can rip a new one when he gets going.” A pager went off through the phone. “Gotta go. I hate December. Holiday idiots. I’ll call when the tox screens come back, but it’ll be several weeks.”

“Great,” Mitch muttered as the phone went silent. By then, Emily might be dead. He had to figure out what the hell was going on before they could get to her, and keep his pants zipped in the meantime.

Even if it killed him.





Chapter Seven


Mitch’s ringing cell phone jerked him out of a sound sleep. Morning sun tinged with pink flooded through the bedroom shutters. He rubbed his eyes with a groan. No way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept all night.

“Bradford,” his voice croaked into the phone, hoarse with sleep.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mitchell?”

The barking question cleared the fog. “Dad?”

“Taking off with a person of interest, not checking in while undercover? You trying to get yourself drummed out?”

Mitch groaned and sat up.

“Are you listening to me?”

He forced his mind back to his father’s berating. “Of course.” But Mitch was in no mood to hear a lecture. He could turn the tables just as well as his old man. “Has Tanner been talking to you?”

Paul Bradford was silent for a moment. Gotcha, Dad.

“I have my sources.” He eased the words out slowly.

That hesitation told Mitch more than his father’s words. “Did your mole tell you I’m investigating not only a dead girl who just gave birth and the missing baby, but also a punk who escaped from custody? I brought him down for trying to kidnap a pregnant teenager. He broke out of holding. Can you remember the last time that happened? And more to the point, why wouldn’t Tanner be surprised by it?”

The squeak of his father’s wheelchair sounded through the phone. “Dad, you okay?”