“Drop the knife! And get on the ground!”
As his startled eyes meet mine, recognition slams into me.
Not Darcy’s piece of garbage ex. But the man who bumped into me at the bar.
A man who’s apparently been obsessed with Darcy. And when he saw her talking to me, it tipped him over the edge.
Darcy flashes a relieved look at me. “Mike!”
The man’s head jerks between me and Darcy. Instinct tells me he’s right on the fence, torn between reaching for her or dropping the knife.
In a low, commanding tone, I say, “If you drop it now, the charges will be less. But if you try using that knife… I’ll make damn sure you get the maximum time. And you know who I am. I can make it happen.”
My trigger finger tightens further, a hairsbreadth from firing.
I catch Darcy’s eye, silently signaling for her to run.
But.
He drops the knife. It hits the hardwood floor with a clatter, and Darcy, my brave, smart Darcy, immediately kicks it across the room.
Then I launch myself at the man, taking him to the floor. He puts up a token struggle, but my hours of training have kept me in pretty damn good shape, even at forty. So it’s not difficult to flip him onto his stomach and wrench his hands behind his back.
I’m just about to ask Darcy to find some rope when she rushes over to me, a handful scarves and belts in her outstretched hand. “If these won’t work,” she says, “I can get some rope from the garage. Or bungee cords.”
Pride fills my chest. “These will work. Can you just?—”
“Call 911?” She gives me a weak smile. “Yes.”
As soon as I have the man securely restrained, his wrists and ankles hogtied together with two scarves and a leather belt, rush over to Darcy, framing her face to inspect it.
I have to swallow back a howl of fury when I see the red mark blossoming on her cheek, the spot where this asshole hit her. And when I notice her shaking, it’s all I can do not to lunge at the asshole and punish him in a veryun-cop-like way.
But Darcy is more important than my impotent rage.
Grazing my thumb across her cheek, I ask, “Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he”—my molars nearly shatter—“touchyou?”
“No. He just slapped me a couple of—” Her eyes go wide in alarm, clearly seeing something dangerous in my expression. “I’m okay,” she amends. “You got here in time.”
“How did he?—”
“He must have snuck in the back. Waited for you to leave.”
Shit. The car on the road. It must have been his.
“Shit, Darce.” I wrap my arms around her trembling body, drawing her to me. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.I’mokay.”
And surprisingly—or maybe not, when I think about everything Darcy’s been through—she reallydoesseem okay.
She holds it together while we wait for the police arrive, ignoring the asshole’s petulant whining about how she’s the one for him and how they’re supposed to be together.
She remains calm through all the questions from my colleagues—since I was a part of the actual crime, I can’t be a part of the investigation.
At least, notofficially. Unofficially, I’m going to make sure this guy is punished. That he never gets close to Darcy again.
And when the police finally leave, and it’s just me and Darcy alone in the living room again, she doesn’t burst into tears or anything you’d expect someone who was held at knife-point to do.
