Necessary Action

Learning to trust could bring them together—keeping secrets could tear them apart

Going undercover to take down murderous gun smugglers is what Duff Watson lives for. Until he tracks the ring to a Missouri farm…and meets paramedic Melanie Fiske. Now the KCPD detective has another critical task: winning over the curvy redhead who tempts him yet whom he can’t let himself trust.

Something about the protective ex-soldier makes Melanie believe he can help her find out the truth about her family. And the desire Duff awakens feels like the real thing. But when Melanie’s life is threatened, can she keep trusting—and loving—a man who lives a life of dangerous deception?

The Precinct: Bachelors in Blue

“You think I need backup?”

“Everybody needs someone watching their back. Especially stubborn redheads who keep poking at mysteries no one wants to talk about.” Duff circled the table. “You’ve officially got me.”

Melanie palmed the center of his chest and kept him at arm’s length. “I suppose you expect me to have your back now, too?”

“I expect you to keep being my friend.” He leaned into her hand, dropping his voice to a drowsy timbre. “But make no mistake, Melanie Fiske—I will be kissing you again.”

Anticipation skittered through her veins. “Friends don’t kiss each other like that.”

“You don’t want me to kiss you again?”

Her blush betrayed her. “You know I can’t hide that I like you. Maybe becauses you’re not one of them. Or maybe because you say what you think.” She snatched away the fingers that were still clinging to the firm muscles of his chest and turned a pleading gaze up to him. “Just don’t lie to me, okay? I want to be able to trust you.”

Necessary Action

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIE MILLER is an award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of breathtaking romantic suspense—with a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award, among other prizes. She has also earned an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books, monthly newsletter and more, go to

www.juliemiller.org

.

For Tracey Marie Oberhauser.

Because you make my son happy.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“This is some kind of Valentine’s Day curse.” Duff Watson stuck his finger inside the starched white collar of his shirt and tugged, certain the tux the rental shop had given him for today was a size too small.

He wondered what his family would think if he tossed the red bow tie and unbuttoned the collar of this stupid monkey suit. His sister, the bride, would be ticked, and his father would be embarrassed, Grandpa Seamus would laugh, and he’d never hear the end of it from his brothers. So he endured.

Duff—no one had called him by his given name, Tom, for years—was all for celebrating his sister’s happiness. He’d even agreed to stand up as best man for her fiancé. But the only things that felt normal about Liv’s wedding day were the gun holstered at the small of his back and the KCPD detective’s badge stashed in his pocket. And, oh yeah, watching his two younger brothers, Niall and Keir, tagging along behind him as they escorted the bridesmaids down the aisle to join him at the altar.

The three Watson brothers, all third-generation cops following proudly in their father’s and retired grandfather’s footsteps, couldn’t be more different if they tried. Niall was the brain, a medical examiner with the crime lab. He seemed clueless about all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the wedding. He looked as though he was doing some sort of mental calculation about the distance to the altar or how many guests were seated in each pew. Keir was the social one, and he was eating this stuff up. He flirted with his escort and blew a kiss to the older woman in the second pew, Millie Leighter, the family cook and housekeeper who’d helped raise the four of them after their mother’s senseless murder.

Duff was the self-avowed tough guy. He didn’t have the multiple college degrees Niall did, and he’d never win a sweet-talking contest against Keir. But neither could match him for sheer, stubborn cussedness. Duff was the survivor. He’d been old enough when Mary Watson had died that he could see his father’s anger and grief, and had stepped up to help take care of his younger siblings, even after their father had hired Millie, and Grandpa Seamus had moved in to do whatever was necessary to hold the fractured family together. Hell, even now that they were all grown-up, he was still doing whatever was necessary to protect his family—listening to his baby sister when her devil scum of a former partner had seduced and then cheated on her, making sure the man she was marrying today was worthy of her. He’d written a personal recommendation for Keir to one of his academy buddies when the ambitious youngest brother had been up for a promotion to the major crime unit. And there was no end to the coaching Niall required as the shy brainiac negotiated the intricacies of interpersonal relationships.

Duff had the street smarts, the gut instincts that helped him get through numerous undercover assignments for the department. He read people the way Niall read books. Only once had he misjudged someone he’d tried to help, and he’d paid for that mistake with his heart and a beat down that had put him in the hospital for nearly three weeks.

But facing a drug dealer’s wrath hadn’t killed him. Being betrayed by Shayla to her brother had only made Duff stronger and a hell of a lot smarter about falling in love. He’d been played for a fool, and he owned the repercussions of his mistake. Maybe his colossal screwup—when it came to love on this day that was all about love—was the reason he couldn’t get his tuxedo to fit right.

“Natalie is married to Liv’s partner, you know.” Niall, an inch taller than Duff, adjusted his dark glasses and whispered the chiding remark about flirting with the bridesmaid to Keir, who stood a couple of inches shorter.

“Relax, charm-school dropout.” Keir clapped Niall on the shoulder, grinning as he stepped up beside him. “Young or old, married or not—it never hurts to be friendly.”

“Seriously?” Niall turned that same whispered reprimand on Duff, eyeing the middle of his back. “Are you packing today?”

He’d tucked his ankle piece into the back of his itchy wool slacks. At least he wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster and Glock. “Hey. You wear your glasses every day, Poindexter. I wear my gun.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew what the term ‘Poindexter’ meant.”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

Keir had the gall to laugh. “He’d have to be.”

Duff shifted his stance, peering around Niall. “So help me, baby brother, if you give me any grief today, I will lay you out flat.”

“Zip it. Both of you.” Leave it to Niall to be the cool, calm and collected one. Liv had probably put him in charge of corralling her two rowdier brothers today. The smart guy scowled at Keir. “You, mind your manners.” When Duff went after the collar hugging his neck again, Niall leaned in. “And you, stop fidgeting like a little kid.”

A sharp look from the minister waiting behind them quieted all three brothers for the moment. With everything ready for their sister’s walk down the aisle, the processional music started. Duff scanned the crowd as they rose to their feet. Millie dabbed at her eyes with a lace hanky, making no effort to hide her tears. He knew a hug could make those tears go away, and he would gladly go comfort her, but he was stuck up here at the altar.

Grandpa Seamus was sneaking a handkerchief out of his pocket. The old man was crying, too.

And then Olivia and their father, Thomas Watson Sr., appeared in the archway at the end of the aisle. A few strands of gray in his dark hair, and the limp from the blown-out knee that had ended his frontline duty with the department far too soon, couldn’t detract from the pride in Thomas’s posture as he walked his daughter down the aisle. Duff’s sinuses burned. Be a man. Do not let your emotions get the better of you. Do not cry.

But Olivia Mary Watson was a stunner in her long beaded gown and their mother’s veil of Irish lace. Who knew that shrimp of a tomboy would grow up into such a fine, strong woman? He took after their father with his green eyes and big, stocky build. But Liv was the spitting image of the mother he remembered—dark hair, blue eyes. Walking beside Thomas Sr., he thought of the wedding picture that still sat on his father’s dresser.

He blinked and had to say something quick to cover up the threat of tears. “Dude,” Duff muttered. He nudged the groom beside him. “Gabe, you are one lucky son of a—”

“Duff.” Niall’s sharp tone reminded him that swearing in church probably wasn’t a good idea.

Gabe sounded a little overcome with emotion, too. “I know.”

“You’d better treat her right.”

Yep. Liv must have put Niall in charge of keeping him in line today. “We’ve already had this conversation, Duff. I’m convinced he loves her.”

Gabe never took his eyes off Olivia as he inclined his head to whisper, “He does.”

Keir, of course, wasn’t about to be left out of the hushed conversation. “Anyway, Liv’s made her choice. You think any one of us could change her mind? I’d be scared to try.”

The minister hushed the lot of them as father and bride approached.

“Ah, hell,” Duff muttered, looking up at the ceiling. So much for guarding his emotions and watching his mouth. He blinked rapidly, pinching his nose. “This is not happening to me.”

“She looks the way I remember Mom,” Keir said in a curiously soft voice.

Duff felt a tap on his elbow. “Do you have a handkerchief?” Niall asked.

So he’d seen the tears running down Duff’s cheeks. “The rings are tied up in it.”

“Here.” Niall slipped his own white handkerchief to Duff, who quickly dabbed at his face. He nodded his thanks before stuffing the cotton square into his pocket and steeling his jaw against the embarrassing flare of sentiment.

When Olivia arrived at the altar, she kissed their father, catching him in a tight hug before smiling at all three brothers. Duff sniffed again, mouthing the word beautiful when their eyes met. Keir gave her a thumbs-up. Niall nodded approvingly. Olivia handed her bouquet off to her matron of honor and took Gabe’s hand to face the minister.

The rest of the ceremony continued until the minister pronounced them husband and wife and announced, “You may now kiss the bride.”

“Love you,” Olivia whispered.

Gabe kissed her again. “Love you more.”

“I now present Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Knight.”

Duff extended his arm to the matron of honor and followed Liv and Gabe down the aisle. He traded a wink with Grandpa Seamus, silently sharing his commiseration over the public display of emotion. He nodded to his dad and exchanged a smile with Millie before unbuttoning his jacket. The tie was going next.

He was halfway to the foyer and the freedom to unhook the strangling collar when he spied a blur of movement in the balcony at the back of the church. A figure in black emerged from the shadows beside a carved limestone buttress framing a row of organ pipes. The man opened his long duster coat, revealing the rifle and handgun he’d hidden underneath.

Duff was already pushing the matron of honor between the pews and pulling his weapon when Niall shouted, “Gun!”

The organ music stopped on a discordant note and the organist scrambled toward the opposite balcony door. The man’s face was a black mask, his motives unknown. But when the stranger raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the sanctuary below, his intent was crystal clear.

“Everybody down!” Duff ordered, kneeling beside the pew and raising his Beretta between his hands. “Drop it!” But the bullets rained down and he jerked back to safety.

“I’m calling SWAT,” Keir shouted. Duff glanced back to see him throw an arm around Millie and pull the older woman down behind the cover of a church pew with him. Gabe Knight slammed his arms around Liv and pulled her to the marble floor beneath his body. Niall was reaching for their father and grandfather.

He heard panicked footsteps, frightened shouts and terse commands as bullets chipped away marble and splintered wood. Flower petals and eruptions of dust floated in the air. Half the guests at the wedding were cops, active duty or retired, and every man and woman was taking cover, protecting loved ones, ensuring everyone was safe from the rapid barrage of gunfire.

Duff waited for a few beats of silence before swinging out into the aisle again and crouching at the end of the pew. The gunman was on the move. So was he.

“I’ve got no shot,” Duff yelled, pushing to his feet as the shooter dropped his spent rifle and pulled his pistol. He pointed the other officers on the guest list who happened to be armed to each exit and zigzagged down the aisle as the next hail of bullets began. “Get down and stay put!” he ordered to everyone else, and ran out the back of the sanctuary.

“Niall!” Duff heard his father shout to his brother as Duff charged up the main stairs to the second floor. By damn, if that whack job had hurt his brother, he was going down.

Signaling to another officer to cover the opposite entrance, Duff pushed open the balcony door. But he knew as soon as they entered that the balcony was clear. The chaos down below echoed through the rafters, but Duff tuned it out to focus on the staccato of running footsteps. The shooter was gone. He’d taken his weapons with him and fled through the massive church.

Duff returned to the darkened utility hallway, where a wave of cold air blew across his cheek. Outside air. Close by. The clang of metal against metal gave him direction. The perp had gone up to the roof.

His instinct was to turn to his radio and call in his location and ask for backup. But he was wearing a black tuxedo, not his uniform. He’d have to handle this himself. Leaving the other officer to see to the frightened organist, he sprinted down the hallway and climbed a narrow set of access stairs to the roof. If the perp thought he was getting out this way, he’d corner the chump before he reached one of the fire escapes.

Duff paused with his shoulder against the door leading onto the roof, reminding himself he’d be blind to the perp’s position for a few seconds. Nobody shot up his sister’s wedding, put his family in danger, threatened his friends. No matter what screw was loose in that shooter’s head, Duff intended to stop him. Heaving a deep breath, he shoved the door open.

Squinting against the wintry blast of February air, he dove behind the nearest shelter and pressed his back against the cold metal until he could get his bearings. The glimpse of gravel and tar paper through the kicked-up piles of snow were indicators that he wasn’t the first person to come out this way. The AC unit wasn’t running, so he should be able to hear the shooter’s footsteps. Only he didn’t. He heard the biting wind whipping past, the crunch of snow beneath tires as cars sped through the parking lot and the muted shouts of his fellow officers, circling around the outside of the church three stories below. The only labored breathing he could hear was his own, coming out in white, cloudy puffs, giving away his position like a rookie in training.

He was going to have to do this by sight. Clamping his mouth shut, he gripped his gun between his chilling hands and darted from one cover to the next. Instead of footprints, there was a wide trail of cleared snow, as if the man had been dragging his long coat behind him. But the trail was clear, and Duff followed it to the short side wall of the roof. He peered over the edge, expecting to find a fire escape. Instead, he found a ladder anchored to the bricks that descended to the roof of the second floor below him. But he spotted the same odd path transforming into a clear set of boot prints, leading across the roof to the wall that dropped down to the parking lot.

“Got you now.” Duff tucked his gun into his pocket and slid down the ladder.

He rearmed himself as he raced across the roof. He could make out sirens in the distance, speeding closer. Backup from Kansas City’s finest. Ambulances, too. That meant somebody was hurt. That meant a lot of somebodies in that sanctuary could be hurt. This guy was going to pay.

Duff swung his gun over the edge of the roof and froze. “Where the hell...?”

The only thing below him was a pile of snow littered with green needles at the base of a pine tree, and another officer looking up at him, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

The perp had vanished. Poof. Disappeared. Houdini must have shimmied down that evergreen tree and had a driver waiting. Either that or he was a winged monkey. How could he have gotten away?

“Son of a...” Duff rubbed his finger around the trigger guard of his Beretta before stashing it back in its holster. He was retracing his steps up the ladder, fuming under his breath, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out his cell, saw Keir’s name and answered. “He got away. The guy’s a freakin’ magician.”

“Grandpa’s been shot.”

“What?” The winter chill seeped through every pore of his skin and he broke into a run. Seamus Watson, eighty-year-old patriarch, retired cop who walked with a cane, followed Chiefs football and teared up at family weddings the same way Duff did was a casualty of this mess? No. Not allowed. “How bad?”

“Bad. Niall’s trying to stop the bleeding. Get down here. Now.”

Duff had no one left to chase. The shooter’s trail had gone as cold as the snowflakes clinging to the black wool of his tuxedo.

“On my way.”

Chapter One

July

“Who cleans up a scuttled boat?”

Frowning at the smell of bleach filling her nose, Melanie Fiske waded barefoot into the ankle-deep water that filled the wreck of her late father’s fishing boat each time it rained and opened the second aft live well, or rear storage compartment where fish and bait had once been stored. She expected to find water, rust, algae or even some sort of wildlife that had taken up residence over the past fourteen years, like the nest of slithering black water moccasins she’d found hidden inside three years ago.

Poisonous snakes had been reason enough to stop her weekly sojourn to the last place her father had been alive. But too many things had happened over the past few months in this idyllic acreage where she’d grown up—the rolling Ozark hills southeast of Kansas City—for her not to explore every available opportunity to find out what had happened to her father that night he’d allegedly drowned in the depths of Lake Hanover and was never seen again.

Now she was back, risking snakes, sunburn and the wrath of the uncle who’d raised her, to investigate the wreck, tipped over on the shoreline of Lake Hanover next to the old boat ramp that hadn’t been used since the boat had been towed ashore to rot.

All these years, she’d accepted the story of a tragic accident. She’d been so young then, motherless since birth, and then fatherless, as well, that she’d never thought to question the account of that late-night fishing expedition. After an explosion in the engine, he’d fallen overboard, and the eddies near the dammed-up Wheat River power plant had dragged him down to the bottom. It had been a horrible, unfathomable tragedy.

But she’d caught her aunt and uncle in too many lies lately. She’d seen things she couldn’t explain—arguments that hushed when she entered a room, trucks that arrived in the middle of the night to take handcrafts or baked goods to Kansas City, fishing excursions where no one caught a thing from the well-stocked lake. And maybe most importantly, her uncle’s control was tightening like a noose around her life. There were rules for living on the farm now that hadn’t been there when she’d been a teenager, and consequences for breaking them that bordered on abuse.

Yes, there were bound to be flaring tempers as they transitioned from a simple working farm to a stopping place for tourists from the city seeking outdoor fun at the lake’s recreational area or a simple taste of country life without driving farther south to Branson and Table Rock Lake. There were reasons to celebrate, too. The farm had grown from a few family members running a mom-and-pop business to a small community with enough people living on the 500-acre property to be listed as an unincorporated township. But Uncle Henry still ran it as though they were all part of the same family. Their homes and small businesses were grouped like a suburban neighborhood nestled among the trees and hills. Instead of any warm, fuzzy sense of security, though, Melanie felt trapped. There were secrets lurking behind the hardworking facades of the family and friends who lived on the Fiske Family Farm.

Secrets could hurt her. Secrets could be dangerous.

When she’d hiked out to the cove to look for fourteen-year-old bloodstains or evidence of a heroic struggle to stay afloat after the engine had blown a softball-sized hole in the hull of the boat, Melanie hadn’t expected to find new waterproof seals beneath the tattered seat cushions that closed off the storage wells. The first fiberglass live well she’d checked had been wiped clean. Blessedly free of snakes, this second storage compartment also smelled like bleach.

Only this one wasn’t completely empty.

Curiosity had always been a trait of hers. Her father had encouraged her to read and explore and ask questions. But her uncle didn’t seem to share the same reverence for learning. The last time she’d been caught poking around for answers up in her uncle’s attic, she’d been accused of stirring up painful memories of a lost brother, and not being grateful for the sacrifices her aunt Abby and uncle Henry had made, taking in an eleven-year-old orphan and raising her alongside their own daughter. Melanie had moved out of the main house that very night and things had been strained between them ever since. And though she wasn’t sure how much was her imagination and how much was real, Melanie got the sense that she had more eyes on her now than any bookish, plain-Jane country girl like her ever had.

Squinting into the thick forest of pines and pin oaks and out to the glare of the waves that glistened like sequins on the surface of the wind-tossed lake, Melanie ensured she was alone before she twisted her long auburn hair into a tail and stuffed it inside the back of her shirt. Then she knelt beside the opening and stuck her arm inside the tilted boat’s storage well. The water soaking into the knees of her blue jeans was warm as she stretched to retrieve the round metal object. Her fingers touched cold steel and she slipped one tip inside the ring to hook it onto her finger and pull it out.

But seeing the black ring out in the sunlight didn’t solve the mystery for her. Melanie closed the live well and sat on the broken-down cushion to study the object on her index finger. About the circumference of a quarter and shaped like a thick washer with a tiny protrusion off one edge, the round piece of steel had some surprising weight to it. Unravaged by nature and the passage of time, the ring couldn’t be part of the original shipwreck. But what was it and how had it gotten there?

With a frustrated sigh, she shoved the black steel ring into her jeans. Her fingers brushed against a softer piece of metal inside her pocket and she smiled. Melanie jumped down onto the hard-packed ground that had once been a sandy beach and tugged the second object from her pocket as she retrieved her boots and socks.

It was her father’s gold pocket watch. She traced her finger around the cursive E and L that had been engraved into the casing. A gift from her mother, Edwina, to her father, Leroy Fiske had never been without it. From the time she was a toddler, Melanie could remember seeing the shiny gold chain hooked to a belt loop on his jeans, and the prized watch he’d take out in the evenings to share with his daughter.

But the happy memory quickly clouded with suspicion. The workings of the watch had rusted with time, and the small photograph of her mother inside had been reduced to a smudge of ink. Melanie closed the watch inside her fist and fumed. If her father’s body had never been found, and he always had the watch with him, then how had it shown up, hidden away in a box of Christmas ornaments in her uncle’s attic?

Had this watch been recovered from the boat that fateful night? Why wouldn’t Leroy Fiske have been wearing it? Had it gone into the lake with him? Who would save the watch, but not the man?

The whine of several small engines dragged Melanie from her thoughts.

Company. She dropped down behind the boat to hide. Someone had borrowed two or three of the farm’s all-terrain vehicles and was winding along the main gravel road through the trees around the lake. Maybe it was one of the resident fishing guides, leading a group of tourists to the big aluminum fishing dock past the next bend of the lake, about a mile from her location. It could be her cousin Deanna, taking advantage of her position as the resident princess by stealing away from her job at the farm’s bakery and going out joyriding with one of the young farmhands working on the property this summer.

“Mel?” A man’s voice boomed over the roar of the engines. “You out here? Mel Fiske, you hear me?”

“Great,” she muttered. It was option C. The riders were out looking for her. As the farm’s resident EMT-paramedic, she knew there could be a legitimate medical reason for the men to be searching for her. Minor accidents were fairly common with farm work. And some folks neglected their water intake and tried to do too much, easily overheating in Missouri’s summer heat. But she really didn’t want to be discovered. Not here at her father’s boat. Not when her aunt had asked her to leave the past alone, since stirring up memories of Henry’s brother’s drowning upset her uncle when he needed to be focusing on important business matters. Finding her here would certainly upset someone.

Like a swarm of bees buzzing toward a fragrant bed of flowers, the ATVs were making their way down through the trees, coming closer. Melanie glanced up at the crystal blue sky and realized the sun had shifted to the west. She’d been gone for more than two hours. No wonder Henry had sent his number-one guard dog to search for her.

It wasn’t as if she could outrun a motorized four-wheeler. She glanced around at the dirt and rocks leading down to the shoulder-high reeds and grasses growing along the shoreline. She couldn’t outswim the men searching for her, either. Her gaze landed on the sun-bleached wood dock jutting into the water several feet beyond the reeds. Or could she?

Melanie unzipped her jeans and crawled out of them. After tucking the watch safely inside the pocket with the mysterious steel ring, she stripped down to her white cotton panties and support bra and sprang to her feet. With a little bit of acting and a whole lot of bravado, she raced onto the listing dock and dove into the lake.

The surface water was warm with the summer’s blistering heat, but she purposely swam down to the murky haze of deeper water to cool her skin and soak her hair so that it would seem she’d been