Brittain was hesitant at first. Amber wondered again what she’d done, what the child had seen to put that uncertainty into the young girl’s eyes. She gave her a nod, and beckoned with both hands, letting her know it was OK.
She then signed out; I would never hurt you, darling. I love you as if you were my own.
Britt read it not as much in the hands and fingers, as she did in the eyes of the vixen. Those golden orbs told her everything. The fear in her face melted away, and a huge smile broke across it as she threw herself into Amber’s arms.
“Oh, Amber! I love you, too!” The little girl pressed herself in tight against the vixen. “I wish you could stay here forever with me! Mister Tiger and Mommy would make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again!”
Amber smiled as she held the precious little girl tightly to her, but she couldn’t keep the sadness from creeping into it. She sighed.
If only that were so.
Chapter 5
Stella was still fuming as she climbed into her black-and-white Avenger Motors Centurion Mark III Pursuit Special. The crème de la crème of police interceptors, the Mark III, was one sweet ride. She’d only had it three months, and it still had that new craft smell. And she was only in it because Matt had pulled some strings on her behalf.
Technically, she was not a front-line officer anymore and didn’t warrant such an expensive piece of equipment. The Mark III’s were, by far, the most advanced and fastest police interceptor to come out in over a decade. They were expensive to operate and maintain, with only the best patrol pilots assigned to them. Stella had never had a reputation as a prima donna, never one to expect that which she hadn’t earned or wasn’t due, but she’d fallen in love with the sleek black-and-white as soon as she saw them unload the first one at the Motor Pool. As a cop, this was her one indulgence.
Well, not counting a certain Special Inspector.
The Centurion was ultra-retro, harkening back to the mid-twentieth century, that Golden Age of automobiles, when cars were works of art, not bland, uninspiring aluminum pods, to be recycled like yesterday’s beer cans. A time when cars were built to resemble rocket ships and airborne flights of fancy. Its lines flowed like water … natural, rounded and fluid. Shiny, glorious, mirrored chrome smoothed out the edges, as a baker might put the finishing touches on the perfect wedding cake. It even had just a single, blue bubble light, integrated with the siren, atop the cockpit, classy and understated, unlike the strobing, overdone, epileptic’s nightmares other squad cars had become.
Of course, being a first responder emergency vehicle, it had to be functional. The Mark III was a street brawler dressed in a black and white tuxedo. It was not merely a boring, mundane hovercar, bound to the speed-and distance-controlled roadways by retaining sensors and speed regulators. It was an actual aerocraft, like the Pegasus or SkyLiner. It had override capabilities, which allowed its operator flight autonomy to fly over or around gridlock or dangerous situations. And it could do so with blinding speed and unmatched maneuverability. The two Vulcan fusion-pulse engines not only put out some major thrust but also did it efficiently and quietly. This made it the perfect vehicle for stealth missions and lightning raids. The Weiss Black Cat retro-rocket steering system was racing-inspired. The Centurion could spin 180 degrees in mid-air on a zero turning radius doing a hundred miles an hour. An officer had better know their Mark, for if they didn’t, it could get away from them very easily.
Although she would never ever admit it to anyone, just looking at it would arouse her from time to time. She just couldn’t help herself. Everything about it was sexy. Sometimes when she climbed into the pilot’s seat and buckled in, the sensation was so pleasurable, she felt like she was strapped inside a giant sex toy.
She always enjoyed putting the hammer down on the way home in the afternoon. She enjoyed the freedom of rising above the crowded, gridlocked, computer-dominated roadways. Today would be no exception, especially since she had some pent-up anger to burn.
Burlington had let his temper get the best of him today. He’d been embarrassed in front of a man he detested, and she’d taken the fall for it. Yeah, the mix-up with Frost’s man had been on her watch. But with everything that had been going on … anybody could have missed that. It wasn’t that she was trying to escape blame or make excuses. Stella Jones would man up when it came time for her to take her lumps. That wasn’t it. As bad as she hated to admit it, it was something petty, something totally unprofessional.
Her lover had dressed her down in public. Not her commanding officer. Her lover.
As she ignited the twin Vulcan engines and allowed them to cycle up, she could see now how their extracurricular activities had started to bleed over into their professional lives. Despite the best efforts of both, it was only a matter of time until it happened. It was affecting not only her but him as well. Would Matt have been so testy if they’d not been sleeping together? He had always been a cop’s cop, the kind any trooper would take a bullet for. Six months ago, he would’ve never busted her balls in front of some ass berry merc. Did he think that bedding her gave him the right to dress her down like a cadet at the Academy?
And what about her? Why was this sticking in her craw so much? It was only one incident. Why was she making such a federal case out of it? Could it be she was just as guilty as he was for allowing their personal lives to intertwine into the professional? Why had this stuck with
