Page 4 of Welker

This conundrum of a woman had been on his squad since day one of Downeast SWAT’s charter, and he’d instantly respected the buttoned-down, competent, Chief Deputy Sheriff. He hadn’t, at first, been physically attracted to her. Hell, no. His tastes ran toward svelte blondes; a little on the daffy side; high on the sexually-seductive scale.

Neither of which described Moira in the least.

Moira was…stoic. A reliable, stalwart team player, a non-rocker of boats. If something needed to be done, she’d do it. If controversy arose, she was never involved. During get-togethers the team would often have once an operation was complete, she never drank, never said anything inappropriate, and was always the first to leave.

Over the months and months of having her as a colleague, Welker had to admit he still didn’t know her at all. He just understood there were hidden depths to Moira Bliss than those that met the eye, which had made him more and more intrigued by the iron-willed woman. So much so, that he’d begun teasing and flirting with her to see if he could shake her out of her all-business, all-the time, demeanor; get some kind of a rise out of her. But, alas, none of his irreverent overtures produced results, and Welker had to admit to himself that his good-natured taunting, over time, had turned into something a little more…fervent, inside him. A niggling of something a little more needful.

The woman intrigued him. She was a secret he couldn’t crack; a case he couldn’t solve, and the more stymied he was, the more captivated he became. He not only looked forward to seeing her every time there were drills or call-outs, but in those moments, he found himself seeking her carefully adjudicated input, her focused way of attacking the problems they found themselves up against.

Only recently had he started being truly honest with himself. It was an anomaly, but… He wanted Moira’s attention on him, as well as on the job.

Weird.

That’s not how he rolled, with women. They were either family, family friends, or conquests. There was never a woman in his life who’d been…Moira.

Right now, what was even more fucked up, was that when she’d called, and he’d pictured her alone, hunkered on her roof with an asshole group of MC members after her, he finally figured something out…

Dammit. He cared for Moira.

Like…cared, cared.

Somehow, the woman—who continually treated him with complete respect while on the job, and total disinterest during the teams’ get-togethers—had burrowed her way under his skin, and…

Shit.

Did he want to be best buds with her? Date her? Take her for a quick tumble and see what was under those freshly pressed unisex-uniforms she always wore?

Welker wasn’t sure.

What would the woman look like with her tightly braided brown hair loose and framing her bright, square-chinned face? If he removed the shaded glasses she always wore, would her eyes be blue? Green? Brown?

All those thoughts swirled together in Welker’s brain as he drove, refusing to coalesce into real answers.

Focus, asshole, Welker told himself. Now is not the time. You have a team-member in trouble, and she needs your help, not your mental meanderings.

Two miles out from Moira’s house, Welker turned on the siren and blue lights that he’d had installed in his personal truck, and thought ahead to how he’d play things from here on out.

It depended on what would happen, now that he’d audibly alerted the MC that the authorities were on the way.

If the gang disbursed, afraid that a corps of cops was approaching, Welker would damn well recon in and make sure they’d all completely vacated her property. He’d also make sure Moira hadn’t suffered a single scratch, or there’d be hell to pay.

If the assholes, however, decided to hang around and take their chances with law enforcement, Welker would have to make it seem like an entire team was coming down on them. Which lent credence to what Mason had ordered; that he should probably hold off until additional back-up arrived.

But what if the assholes found Moira on the roof?

The chances of her coming out unscathed while facing at least seven adversaries were slim. It wouldn’t matter that she was one of his finest, most well-trained squad members. Numbers were numbers, and unfortunately, when they weren’t in your favor, things had a tendency to go sideways.

He glanced at his phone on the seat next to him, willing it to ring again. If his loud approach had persuaded the MC to bolt, wouldn’t Moira have called him?

Fuck. He didn’t dare contact her. Depending on her position, her ring-tone could alert the intruders as to her position.

“Come on, Moira. Call,” he glowered at the phone.

He was closing in on the small dirt road to his right that led toward her property.

The only reason he knew that was because he might have cyber-stalked her acreage to see what kind of place she lived in. Her address, after all, was on file with SWAT, so he hadn’t actually crossed too many lines, checking her out. He’d simply assuaged his curiosity.

And that was a good thing, now. Because he knew the lay of the land.

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