A Cop's Second Chance Read online

  His mission is everything—until he meets her...

  After losing his brother to gang violence, Miami cop Sean O’Malley goes undercover determined to stop gang recruitment in the area. But his black-and-white views are shaken when he meets Aleta Porter, a beautiful social worker with a less than pristine past.

  Working closely with Aleta is the kind of distraction Sean doesn’t need. But when a threat from Aleta’s past reemerges, Sean will have to decide what comes first: his duty...or his heart.

  “Thanks,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “For what?” Sean asked.

  “For not judging me too harshly.”

  He shrugged. Working with the kids at Sunshine Center had been a wake-up call, showing him another side of life. His family was far from wealthy, but his mom and dad could afford athletic shoes at least.

  “We’ve all made mistakes,” he said.

  “Even you?” she asked, brows raised.

  “Nope,” Sean said. “Everyone who knows me admits I’m absolutely perfect.”

  Her laughter floated over him like a warm embrace, touching him in places no one had reached in a long time.

  He needed to be careful around Aleta. She’d given him fair warning that she could take care of herself, and she was obviously one dangerous lady...

  Dear Reader,

  I’m excited about A Cop’s Second Chance, the third story in The Rookie Files, my miniseries about a group of police officers who began their careers together.

  Aleta Porter, who survived the cruel streets of Miami as a young woman, believes everyone deserves a second chance and dedicates her life to helping young people stay out of trouble. Sean O’Malley, whose brother was killed by gang violence, becomes a police officer so he can lock young felons away. Aleta and Sean are instantly attracted to each other when they are forced to work together, but something has got to give...especially when a violent ex-boyfriend breaks out of prison and comes looking for Aleta.

  I loved writing about Sean and Aleta (and Bubba, her evil ex!). I hope you enjoy reading their journey. Please visit my website at sharonshartley.com.

  Sharon

  SHARON HARTLEY

  A Cop’s Second Chance

  Sharon Hartley is so fascinated by cops and the dangerous people who complicate their world that she attends every citizens’ police academy she can find. Having worked as a court reporter for many years, Sharon plays “what if” on her old cases and comes up with fictional ways to inject them into her stories. After time on the computer creating plots where the bad guys try to hurt the good ones, she calms herself by teaching yoga, plus hiking and birding in the natural world. Sharon lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, with her soul mate, Max, hundreds of orchids and a Jack Russell Terrorist. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com.

  Books by Sharon Hartley

  Harlequin Superromance

  The Florida Files

  The South Beach Search

  Accidental Bodyguard

  Stranded with the Captain

  Her Cop Protector

  To Trust a Cop

  The Rookie Files

  The Billionaire’s Son

  A Cop’s Promise

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  Join Harlequin My Rewards today and earn a FREE ebook!

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  For my mother, who also believed in second chances.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Excerpt from Cavanaugh’s Missing Person by Marie Ferrarella

  PROLOGUE

  BUBBA BURNETT STEPPED into the cell. The sound of the lock engaging behind him shot a surge of fury up his spine. The anger lodged in his brain, and his field of vision narrowed, making it hard to see the tiny room. When the guard moved away, his steps crisp and determined, Bubba lifted his chin and howled. The harsh sound echoed off cold concrete walls, feeding his sense of isolation.

  He stopped only when he became aware of his aching throat.

  His own voice would be the only one he’d hear for two weeks. Two long weeks. Each time they banished him to solitary, the isolation got harder to take.

  This was all that bitch’s fault. His fury surged again as he pictured Delilah as she’d been the last time he’d seen her. When he’d learned her real name was Aleta.

  She’d been white-faced and nervous, clutching a tissue with graceful, manicured fingers.

  On the witness stand testifying about what had happened that night when the Rivera brothers had tried to screw him. Screw them. Screw her. Screw everyone.

  Everything was the bitch’s fault. He was stuck in this godforsaken prison because of Aleta’s betrayal.

  Bubba sucked air into his lungs and surveyed the cell. A bed. A sink. A toilet. Nothing else. He didn’t need anything else. He was Bubba the Beast.

  He savored a moment of pleasure as he recalled the shock on his fellow inmate’s face as he’d plunged his shiv into the fool’s gut. Roscoe had gotten what he deserved. Anyone who disrespected Bubba Burnett paid the price. Like the Rivera brothers.

  Aleta Porter would get what she deserved, too, once he got out of this hellhole.

  Which would be soon. Three weeks max. He had a plan. Well, yeah, actually it had been Roscoe’s plan, but just as well the clown would never see the outside again. If Roscoe could tell one person about the weakness in security during food deliveries, he could tell someone else. And that someone else might tell a guard.

  Bubba flopped onto the cot and stared at the ceiling. All he needed to do was get through the next few weeks. Then he could find the bitch and witness the expression on her terrified face when he plunged a knife into her gut.

  He didn’t care what happened after that.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AS ALETA PORTER moved across the parking lot, she chatted with her colleague Pom Demarco. It had been another difficult day at the Sunshine Center. They’d stayed late to handle a crisis at 4:30, although she didn’t mind the extra time. Besides, Friday had finally arrived, and tomorrow promised to be a good day at the center. No school meant more kids to coach.

  “So are you going to join me at the Clevelander?” Pom asked, naming a bar in South Beach. “TGIF and all that good stuff.”

  “What’s his name?” Aleta asked.

  “Who?”

  “The guy you’re trying to fix me up with.”

  Pom sighed. “Miguel. And he’s really sweet.”

  “Not tonight, Pom.”

  “And not any other night.”

  As Aleta tossed her friend a quick, apologetic smile, she spotted Cyrus Alonso, a ten-year-old boy, on the other side of the parking lot conversing with a tall, lanky dude in his late twenties. Who the hell is that? Alarm quickened her steps as she recognized the stranger wore red and yellow, the colors of the Devil’s Posse.

  The most violent g
ang in Miami.

  Posse recruiters had been hanging around the center lately looking for converts. Were they after Cyrus, one of her favorite preteen clients? He’d been doing so well. Not on my watch, you gangbanger jerk.

  “Will you look at that,” Aleta murmured, coming to a halt.

  The recruiter, who sported a goatee, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to the boy.

  “What?” Pom asked. She swiveled her head to where the pair stood beside a pristine blue muscle car.

  Cyrus shook his head, refusing the offered cancer stick. The man shrugged and lit one for himself.

  “Oh,” Pom said. “Ice Pick.”

  “That’s the enforcer for the Posse?” Aleta asked. She knew his reputation but had never seen him.

  “Yep. Nothing but trouble.”

  “How do you know that’s Ice Pick?” Aleta asked, her focus still on Cyrus. The boy appeared impressed with how his companion sucked on his cigarette and exhaled tiny little circles of smoke. Jeez. Give me a break.

  “He’s the brother of one of my clients,” Pom said. “His sister spent a couple of weeks in the women’s shelter last month. She was beat up pretty bad.”

  “He actually came to visit her?”

  “Yeah. And then her boyfriend disappeared.”

  “I’m guessing Ice Pick got rid of him.”

  “That’s the assumption.”

  “I think I’ll go introduce myself,” Aleta said.

  “Stay out of it,” Pom said. “That guy is dangerous.”

  “So am I.”

  “Aleta.”

  “Have fun tonight.” Aleta gave her colleague a wave, and hurried across the parking lot. Cyrus and Ice Pick broke off their conversation when she approached. Too bad. She’d been hoping to catch at least a word or two. She’d love to know what they were talking about.

  “Hey, Cyrus,” Aleta said, making her voice cheerful.

  Cyrus looked away from his new friend, guilt stamped all over his face. What nonsense had Ice Pick been feeding the kid? No doubt how cool he’d be if he would only join his gang. Wrong.

  Ice Pick’s eyes narrowed, assessing her.

  “I’m Aleta,” she said, wishing she’d worn something more authoritative than her coaching uniform of navy shorts and a yellow Sunshine Center T-shirt. He might be a recruiter, but so was she. She’d flipped more than one gang member over from the dark side.

  She held out her hand to shake, but he ignored her. The gangbanger towered over her, and her original impression that the dude was a lightweight was altered by his impressively developed biceps.

  She dropped her arm. “And your name is?” she asked, pretending this jerk hadn’t just dissed her.

  “Why you want to know my moniker?” he demanded. Hostility flowed off him like a wave of negative energy.

  “Because you’re a friend of Cyrus’s, right?” Aleta smiled at the boy.

  Eyes wide, Cyrus glanced from her to Ice Pick and back.

  “Cyrus is my good buddy,” Aleta continued.

  Ice Pick laughed. “So you want to be my friend, too?”

  “Why not?”

  “I have enough friends, lady.” Ice Pick grinned at Cyrus, displaying a mouth full of gold teeth. “Like I told you, Mr. Alonso, I got friends in this world that take good care of me.”

  “My name is Aleta.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  Ice Pick shrugged and glanced over her shoulder.

  Aleta resisted the urge to look behind her. How insulting. He wouldn’t even make eye contact. And he’d called Cyrus “Mr. Alonso.” A kid like Cyrus basked in that shallow kind of respect.

  Time for chitchat was over. She needed to exert her authority. Most importantly, she couldn’t let Cyrus see her display any fear of this gangbanger.

  “What are you doing here, sir?”

  Ice Pick focused on her again. “You a social worker or something?”

  Aleta placed her hands on her hips. “Something like that.”

  “She’s my basketball coach,” Cyrus said, speaking for the first time.

  Knowing how much courage his words had taken, Aleta again smiled at her young client. Cyrus had all but defended her to the enforcer of the Devil’s Posse.

  Ice Pick dragged on the cigarette as his gaze raked her body in a dismissive sweep. He blew the smoke in her face. “Yeah, right. A b-ball coach that’s a bitch? I don’t think so.”

  Aleta inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly. “Please watch your language,” she said, refusing to let her anger surface. Losing her temper wouldn’t help this tricky situation.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll have you removed from the property.”

  “Yeah?” Ice Pick dropped his cigarette to the ground and stepped toward her. “You and who else, bitch?”

  “Like the lady said, watch your language.”

  The words, spoken by a steely male voice, contained an unmistakable threat. Aleta gaped at the unfamiliar man who’d appeared beside her, a man wearing a priest’s collar who was even taller and larger than the gangbanger. Who was this strange priest? She’d been so focused on Ice Pick, she hadn’t heard his approach.

  The priest stared down the gangbanger with a piercing gaze that wasn’t the least spiritual or forgiving.

  The gangbanger glared back.

  “Do you have business at Sunshine Center?” the priest demanded in that same deep, authoritative voice. Totally unlike any voice she’d ever heard in confession. His dark clerical shirt appeared crisp and brand-new, not limp like Father Mac’s frayed robes.

  “So what if I do?” Ice Pick asked, with a glance to Cyrus. “What’s it to you?”

  “State your business.”

  Ice Pick leaned against his tricked-out car, his red-and-yellow oversize jersey a clear contrast to the metallic blue of the hood. “And what if I don’t want to?”

  “Then you’ll need to leave. You’re trespassing.”

  Ice Pick laughed, as if he considered that idea ridiculous. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

  “I’m Father O’Malley, a new assistant priest in this parish.”

  The priest had uttered the words as if he were a United States marshal from the Old West who’d taken over a new town with serious outlaw trouble.

  Ice Pick made a face of disbelief. “So? I don’t have to do what you say.”

  “Yeah,” Father O’Malley said, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, “you do. And before you leave, you will apologize to this lady.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “For your language.”

  Still resting casually on his vehicle, Ice Pick shook his head. “What? You think you’re some kind of badass honky priest?”

  “No. I think you’re a pathetic little punk.”

  Aleta sucked in an audible breath. Uh-oh. Now he’d done it. He’d dissed Ice Pick.

  Ice Pick leaped to his feet. “Who are you calling a punk?”

  “You. If you don’t know that, then you’re a stupid punk.”

  “Shit, you and this bitch can just suck my—”

  O’Malley sprang forward and slammed Ice Pick’s face into the hood of the car. The priest jerked the gangbanger’s arm behind his back in a hold that would break his right arm if he resisted.

  Her heart thudding against her chest, Aleta glanced to Cyrus. The kid stared at the priest with his mouth wide open. Do I look that surprised, too?

  “I told you to watch your language,” Father O’Malley said. “Now apologize.”

  And the priest wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Shit, man. You’re going to break my arm,” Ice Pick complained, his mouth twisted in a grimace.

  The priest sh
oved Ice Pick’s face harder against the blue metal of the car. “Try again.”

  “’Pologize,” Ice Pick managed in a strangled voice.

  Father O’Malley wrenched the gangbanger off the hood with one hand, opened the driver’s door with the other and shoved him inside.

  “You’re not welcome here,” the priest told him. “Don’t come back.”

  “You’re a dead man, priest,” Ice Pick said, his voice venomous, staring straight ahead.

  “Threats from punks don’t scare me,” O’Malley said. “Get out of here.”

  With the car’s tires screeching, Ice Pick peeled out of the parking lot.

  “Wow,” Cyrus said when the bright blue car was out of sight. “That was awesome.”

  “No, it was not,” Aleta said. “Violence is never the answer to our problems.”

  “I have to disagree with you there,” Father O’Malley said. “Violence is the only thing some people understand.”

  Aleta whirled on the priest. “Did you really say that?”

  * * *

  SEAN STARED AT the woman he’d just rescued from certain disaster. He’d expected gratitude, not a load of bleeding-heart crap. This woman had the whole package—gorgeous face, curvy body—but no clue how to handle thugs. Which meant she had no business working at this sorry-ass excuse for a center that wanted to save people who weren’t the least bit interested in being saved.

  A woman who looked as hot as this one thought she could make nice with a punk? She was more likely to get raped. Maybe his lieutenant was right. Maybe he was needed here after all.

  “You’re welcome,” Sean said.

  “Excuse me?” she demanded. “What do you think I should be thanking you for?”

  “For saving your butt.”

  “Oh, please. My butt did not require saving,” she said. “I was handling the situation.”

  “That gangbanger would have eaten you for dinner if I hadn’t intervened.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?” she repeated. Placing her hands on her hips, she evaluated him with one long sweep of her gaze.