He got in his SUV, considering all he'd learned about Mia Mitchell. She cared, too much, but she coated her feelings with a sarcastic veneer so that nobody would know. He thought about that moment in his kitchen, when he'd caught her looking at him… She'd been interested. He was sure of it. Then when he'd denied interest in a woman like Holly Wheaton-That's not the kind of man I am, he'd said-in Mia's eyes he'd seen respect. So what kind of man was he? Perhaps it was time to find out.

Wednesday, November 29, 12:30 a.m.

Mia lived on a quiet street lined with identical apartments. They weren't fancy, but they appeared clean. Flower boxes hung from most of the windows. He didn't think Mia had one. He couldn't see her taking the time for flowers any more than she'd taken the time for Fluffy the goldfish. Christine had been quite a gardener. She'd loved her roses.

Mia had left so little space behind her car that maneuvering his SUV had been a challenge, his front bumper nearly kissing her rear. Too many double entendres there, he thought. Leave it alone. He watched her get out of her car wearily. Leave her alone.

He knew he should. But for some reason he seemed unable to. She was watching him with steady eyes. Then she approached, waiting as he rolled down his window.

"Tell me something, Solliday. Do you always follow your partners around?"

It was a fair question, he thought. "No."

"Then why me? Am I that pathetically inept that you have to watch over me?"

"No." The trouble was, he wasn't really sure why he was here. No, that wasn't true either. He knew. He just didn't like it. Go home, Reed. Do not get out of this vehicle. He got out of the SUV. "I didn't want to leave it like that."

Her jaw tightened. "It was nothing. We went to get the tape. We got the tape."

Technically, he'd gotten the tape. And she had not. Holly Wheaton had made sure the distinction was crystal clear. Now, looking in Mia's eyes, he could see that she still smarted from the confrontation. "Mia, she's just a vindictive woman."

Color rose in her cheeks. "I'm all right. I promise I won't cry myself to sleep."

"Will you sleep?"

"If you ever go home, I might," she said irritably. "I've dealt with bitches far bitchier than Wheaton, trust me. Hell, I'm far bitchier than Wheaton. Look, I appreciate your concern. But go home. We'll study that damn tape backward and forward tomorrow. I promise." She turned and squeezed through the space between their vehicles.

He followed her, all the while telling himself to just do as she asked. Go home. But his feet didn't obey and placing one hand on the SUV's hood for support, he nimbly sprung over their bumpers, landing on his feet. "Mia."

"Dammit, Solliday." She yanked open the passenger door. "For the last time, I am okay. For the last time, go home." She bent over, her hand searching under the seat.

For a second he damned the ratty jacket that effectively covered her past her hips. Then he thanked it. "What are you doing?"

"Getting your sister's plastic bowl."

"You don't have to give it back now. She has plenty of bowls."

"I wasn't going to give it back. I only ate half of mine. I'll eat the rest for breakfast."

He winced. "Lasagna for breakfast."

"It's got all the major food groups, so don't knock it." She straightened, lifting the plastic bowl in the air like a trophy. "Lasagna, breakfast of champions."

His eyes followed hers to the container she held, then shifted to the left when he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. A car approached, too fast for the speed limit on her street. The window was rolling down and a face peered out. Reed had a split second for recognition to dawn before he saw a flash of light as the streetlamp reflected against the steel barrel of a gun.

"Reed! Get-"

Mia's words barely registered as his reflexes took over. He leapt, and in the next moment they were both on the sidewalk, his body covering hers.

A heartbeat later a shot cracked the air and her driver's side window shattered. He pressed her flat to the ground as a second shot took out her windshield and a third pinged off the hood inches from the top of his head as the car sped away, tires screeching and the odor of burning rubber filled the air. They were gone. At least the car was. It would be stupid for the gunman to leave the safety of his vehicle. But the guy had shot at a cop in front of her own apartment, so how smart could he be?

Reed lay there, straining to hear footsteps over the pounding of his heart in his ears, waiting for a fourth shot that never came. His body fully covered hers, one arm hooked around her waist, his face buried in her hair. His shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall where he'd landed and rolled. Her right arm extended straight out from beneath him, her weapon looking huge in her small hand. She'd drawn as he'd taken her down. He'd done the same. Gripping his nine-mil, he lifted his head. "Are you hit?"

"Only… by you." Her elbow jabbed his ribs. "Dammit, Solliday, I can't breathe."

You're welcome, he though sourly and lifted himself a fraction of an inch so she could breathe. "God." She shuddered out the breath, greedily took in another. "You hit?"

"No." He sucked in a deep breath of his own. Now that it was over, his muscles didn't seem capable of any movement at all. "I got a glimpse of his face. Looked like your Getts."

"I know. I saw him, fucking little bastard. Same MO that got him in this mess to start with. Drive-by shootings, killing innocent bystanders. You'd think the fucker would learn his lesson, but no. He's still shooting up the damn neighborhood with no care for bystanders caught in the crossfire." She was muttering as her breath hitched. "He's already ditched the car by now. He always does." Her body sagged beneath him and she rested her cheek against his forearm. "Dammit." The last was a weary murmur, as if she hadn't the energy for more.

His own body slumped. Any of those bullets could have hit them. If he'd been a second later, she could have been dead. If her car had been any smaller, he could have been dead, too. That last shot had come way too close for comfort. He dropped his head and took another breath, this time smelling the lemon of her hair instead of burning rubber or gunpowder. Awareness was returning in degrees as the adrenaline began to ebb. Glass was everywhere around them. The sidewalk was hard against his elbows and his left knee would have a hell of a bruise by morning. But she was small beneath him, soft and round. And for the moment, learning on him. It was a vulnerability he suspected she let few people see.

That she let him see was… sweet. Thrilling. And combined with the feel of the soft curve of her rear end against him… undeniably arousing. Get up, Solliday, before you- But it was too late. He grimaced as his body stirred and with an effort he pushed himself to his hands and knees, hoping he'd been fast enough, hoping she hadn't noticed. Carefully he straightened, wincing as the discomfort in his knee took his mind off the ache elsewhere. He shook his shoulders free of pebbled glass, then bent his head and brushed more glass from his hair.

She pulled herself up to sit against her car, every movement slow and tentative. It was the second time in as many days she'd taken a blow to her injured shoulder. He'd tried to take most of the brunt of the fall himself, but he'd obviously hurt her just the same.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She drew a breath and took her radio from her belt. "I'm okay. Just knocked the wind out of me." But she didn't meet his eyes as she called for Dispatch and he wasn't sure if she had noticed his physical response or if she was just embarrassed that he'd seen her as anything less than a superwoman.