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    Florida Knight: Golden Beach Book, #5
    Florida Knight: Golden Beach Book, #5
    Florida Knight: Golden Beach Book, #5
    Ebook378 pages5 hours

    Florida Knight: Golden Beach Book, #5

    By Blair Bancroft

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    About this ebook

    When Michael Turco's brother is injured in a tournament at a Medieval Fair, the Florida Highway Patrol lieutenant suspects it wasn't an accident and begins his own personal investigation. Which causes him considerable anguish when he has to enlist the aid of Kate Knight, who is his entree into the Lords and Ladies of Chivalry (LALOC), a Medieval re-enactment group. Kate, who has been fighting her way out of abuse for years, is equally appalled, as she will be forced to share a postage-stamp-size tent with him nearly every weekend until the mystery of a series of disasters at Medieval Fairs and LALOC events is solved.

    Michael has his own problems, finding the adjustment to LALOC's Medieval lifestyle, including costumes he can't believe he's wearing - and bowing to a chair? - a severe trial. He must also cope with a multitude of quirky personalities among Medieval enthusiasts who take themselves very seriously indeed. Plus a rash of new, ever more serious "accidents." And then there's Kate, who seems to be mellowing until she gets a look at him in full FHP uniform.

    Author's Note: Florida Knight is a look at the double lives led by those who embrace the Medieval re-enactment lifestyle. The story is fictional, the background is not. I volunteered for many years at the Medieval Fair at the John & Mable Ringling Museum in Sarasota, and I was a long-time member of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA). I wrote Lady Knight at that time. But since then a number of other books have used that title, so I changed this re-edited version to Florida Knight. For those who are interested in learning more about weekend immersion in Medieval culture, check out: www.sca.org.

    Reviews:

    "Lords and Ladies! Prepare thyself for an enchanting tale of mystery and romance! ... I had a great time reading this novel! Bancroft's characters are funny and heartwarming. I found myself rooting for all of them. The connections between them are genuine, their troubles tugging on my heartstrings and their successes making me smile. ... Bancroft couldn't have chosen a more original background."
    Heather Eileen,Romance Junkies

    "Blair Bancroft gives us an excellent tale of two people who have wrapped their hearts into a cocoon of self preservation. Kate's history is a horror story of abuse and neglect. Michael's present as a patrol officer is often filled with the dregs of society. Both have felt they had to keep others at a distance to survive. The tale of Mona and Bubba, Kate's friends, is a mixture of heartbreak and strength that adds much to the book. The author does a great job weaving their relationships while giving us an education about people who crave simpler times when chivalry was alive and well."
    Dee Dailey, The Romance Studio

    "I just finished reading a great book. It travels through time, but not in the usual manner of time travels. There is no element of disbelief. ... It brings the reader into the story not by guile or subterfuge but simply by telling a compelling story. The hero is a man for all seasons ... Lady Knight an outwardly strong woman who has built a wall around her senses. Can Officer Turco scale that wall? I highly recommend this book. If you love historicals or contemps this tale is for you as it has both elements and is a great mystery."
    FoxyladyCarey

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateSep 10, 2012
    ISBN9780985706319
    Florida Knight: Golden Beach Book, #5
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      Florida Knight - Blair Bancroft

      Florida Knight

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2012 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Chapter 1

      God save the King!

      God save the King! The crowd roared, echoing the words of the Joust Marshal. The sound poured over the green grass of the tournament field, rippled the silk hangings of the King’s pavilion, shot out over the blue waters of the bay sparkling under a late winter sun. The marshal’s gaily caparisoned Clydesdale, long accustomed to the noise, stood four-square, ears barely pricked as the sound washed over them.

      Hip, Hip, Huzzah!

      Hip, Hip, Huzzah! the crowd returned. Eager, blood-thirsty. More than ready for the battle to begin.

      The grim, unsmiling man, sitting seven rows up in the bleachers, never opened his mouth. Michael Turco participate in this madness? Never! Eyes narrowed to slits against the brilliance of the sun, his brain narrowed in cynical disbelief, he wondered what he was doing here.

      More to the point, what was baby brother doing here?

      The Joust Marshal took a visible breath, his red silk surcoat heaving above his ham-like thighs, and bellowed introductions to the tournament’s four knights. Dutifully, the crowd cheered as the knights charged onto the field. Though fully armored and gauntleted, their helms were fixed to their saddles, their faces clearly visible. Each carried a silk banner emblazoned with heraldic symbols, which flapped in the wind as they circled the field to the excited shouts of the crowd. Black on yellow, blue on white, white on scarlet—and, lastly, a red dragon rampant on a black background. According to the Joust Marshal—the infamous Black Knight.

      Baby brother. Mark Turco.

      Michael’s scornful features rearranged themselves into a perfect blank. He was not going to recoil at the sight of his brother decked out like a circus performer. A long-sleeved tunic of chainmail peeked out from beneath black armor that had been burnished until it glowed. Not to mention the overkill of black shirt, black tights, black boots so tall the flexible leather tops covered the knight’s steel knee guards.

      But the face . . . The face was good, even if the hair—like the other knights—was too long. Mark, the family’s youngest. Rugged, handsome as sin, dark eyes sparkling with a devil-may-care bravado that brought women flocking after him. Not that Michael could see the sparkle from his place in the crowd, but he didn’t have to. He was damned fond of his brother, even if the boy was crazy enough to make his living on a tournament field.

      Boy. Hardly that any more. Mark’s midnight black hair had had twenty-five years to grow. Caught tight in a leather thong at the nape of his neck, it betrayed an ancestry even darker than the Celts. Combined with high cheekbones, a hawk-like nose, a permanent tan and eyes almost as dark as his hair, Mark would have looked more natural, Michael thought, with his hair in double braid and feathers, a bow and arrow at his side instead of a broadsword.

      But the crowd loved him. The loudest cheers followed the Black Knight in a wave of sound as he circled the field.

      Hip Hip Huzzah! The crowd in the bleachers on the north side of the field signaled its support of two of the knights, who had just been designated the champions of Chivalry, the Forces of Good.

      A great roar of rage, a growl of aggression, rose from the south side of the field, now declared supporters of the Forces of Evil, which, of course, included the Black Knight. Shit! Michael’s scowl deepened. The people around him appeared deliriously happy to be designated the Dark Side. Why was it people enjoyed being the bad guy? Some of kind of Robin Hood thing that just wouldn’t go away?

      Around him, the crowd alternately cheered, booed, and growled as the knights put aside their banners, accepted lances from their squires, and rode full-tilt at six-inch rings displayed on horse-high posts.

      Rings! Great bloodthirsty tournament this was! Okay, so spearing a ring from the back of a lumbering giant of a horse while wearing full armor was not the easiest game in the world. But Michael still found it hard to believe he was related to someone who did this sort of thing for a living. It was absurd. And yet . . . when the Black Knight put his lance through a two-inch ring while moving at a gallop, Michael had to admit to a moment of satisfaction. Way to go, Bro’.

      And now the moment the crowd had been waiting for finally came. The Joust Marshal rode his Clydesdale to the center of the field. Standing in his stirrups, he shouted to the crowd. Would the supporters of Good and Evil like their champions to settle their differences with armed combat?

      Yea! thundered both sides of the field, the Forces of Good and Evil in firm accord on the lust for blood. For a moment, a fraction of a moment, Michael’s jaw wavered. Catching himself in the nick of time, he clamped his mouth into a thin line. Damn! He’d nearly joined the call to arms. His features—more rugged, more sharply etched, less handsome than The Black Knight—twisted in disgust. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could anyone take this stuff seriously?

      A gust of breeze off the bay tugged at the colorful silks on the knights’ horses, sending a flitter of yellow and black, blue and white from opposite ends of the tournament field. The knights donned their helms, snapped the visors down over their faces.

      How the hell could they could see anything at all, let alone each other? Idiocy! There ought to be law . . .

      Squires handed fresh lances into gauntlets that extended as far as each knight’s elbow. The knights tucked their lances under their right arms, pointed them straight ahead, horizontal to the ground.

      The Marshal of the Joust lifted his arm, brought it down in a sweeping signal to start. Hooves pounded the grassy turf as the two knights charged each other. A collective intake of breath as the crowd reacted to the powerful thud of lance on armor. The Blue and White Knight held up the remains of his wooden lance, neatly shattered near the middle. So who won? Michael wondered. The man with the broken stick had obviously hit his mark, even though his shattered lance made him look like the defeated.

      A squire ran onto the field, replacing the broken lance. Once again, the men squared off. Horses charged. This time, Yellow and Black took the hit, toppling off the side of his high-backed saddle. The solid whack of armor-encased flesh hitting the ground was clear to all. Michael didn’t even try to repress a wince. No matter what the guy was paid, it wasn’t enough. Yellow and Black, however, managed to stagger to his feet, draw his sword. Long and broad, it glinted in the noontime sun as he continued to challenge the Force of Good.

      But of course Good could not triumph over Evil in a manner contrary to the Code of Chivalry. The Blue and White Knight dismounted slowly, resisting the momentum of his heavy armor which could send him tumbling onto the ground with as much punishing force as his opponent. The crowd roared its approval as the Good Knight faced his enemy with both feet on a now-level playing field.

      Against his better judgment, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off the two knights as they clashed, clanged, thudded, and grunted their way through their well-choreographed match. When the Yellow and Black Knight went belly up on the trampled field, the crowd on the side of Good thundered, Hip Hip Huzzah! The voices of Evil booed.

      The Good Knight gave the Bad Guy a hand up. The voices of Evil cheered.

      Okay, baby brother, it’s your turn. Go get ‘em! Michael winced, stung by the irony. What in God’s name was he thinking, rooting for the Forces of Evil? Just went to show that family loyalty could screw up a man’s common sense.

      The Forces of Evil, exhorted by the Joust Marshal, sent a menacing, challenging growl soaring across the field toward the Forces of Good. The Scarlet and White Knight took position at one end of the field, the Black Knight at the other. No holds barred on this one, Michael thought. Their horses, Percherons both, wore armor. This was to be Heavy Combat, the devil take the hindmost.

      On the first pass, the thud of wood against armor echoed across the tournament field. Both knights rocked back against their saddle supports. Both held up shattered lances. The squires ran forward.

      Each knight secured his new lance, sat straight and ready, waiting for the signal from the marshal. Once again, the horses charged forward. The crowd screamed, gasped, as lance clanged against armor, a direct hit on the visor of the Black Knight’s helm. In front of Michael’s disbelieving eyes, Mark toppled from his saddle, hitting the ground in a crumpled heap of armor, chain mail, broadsword, and leather.

      Michael Turco hadn’t survived ten years on the job by hesitating. There was no way that head shot was part of the show. No way Mark was going to get to his feet. Heedless of purses, packages, fingers and toes, he clambered down from the seventh row of the bleachers and was on the field before the other three knights and the Joust Marshal could dismount. Shoving aside the squire who was attempting to remove The Black Knight’s helm, he knelt at his brother’s side.

      Mark, Mark!

      No reply, no movement. Michael fought his way under his brother’s shoulder armor, searching for a heart beat. Nothing but a blasted barrier of chain mail. He struggled with a gauntlet, repressing a growl as the squire, looking as scared as Michael felt, reached out to help. Obviously, the kid knew a lot more about gauntlets and armor than he did. Michael allowed the boy to work the heavy glove off Mark’s right hand.

      There was a pulse. For one brief moment Michael allowed his eyes to close. One tiny blink and he was a cop again. Mean and tough, and on the job. Do you know how to get that damn thing off? he demanded, nodding at Mark’s helm.

      I tried, the squire burbled. The visor’s stuck; so’s the whole helm.

      Michael had visions of steel jammed back against his brother’s face, into his nose, into an eye . . . He looked up into the shocked face of the Joust Marshal. Give me your sword, he barked.

      Who’re you? the Marshal demanded.

      If they thought he was going to flash his badge, they were nuts. His brother. Lieutenant, FHP. Now gimme the damn sword!

      A sharp look, a nod. The marshal handed over his sword.

      Using the tip of the sword as a lever, Michael pried at the face plate, bending it back, away from his brother’s face. The young squire fixed his fingers under the neck edge of the helm, ready to slip it off at Michael’s command. Michael gritted his teeth as he fought for the control necessary to bend steel and not let the blade slip into the flesh beneath. Someone would pay for this, he vowed. For this utterly senseless, unnecessary stupidity.

      Try it, he growled to the squire.

      The young man tugged, shook his head. Michael could feel the crowd around them now. A tight suffocating ring. Get them back! he shouted to the Joust Marshal. Get them the hell out of here. Did anyone call 911?" Oh, hell, he should have thought of it sooner. He was a professional, for God’s sake. He was not supposed to be in a situation like this with his heart pumping like a jackhammer and sweat dripping off his chin.

      Ambulance is on the way, someone told him.

      Michael went back to work on the face plate. This time the helm moved. Slowly, probably painfully. But it didn’t matter to Mark. Blood was everywhere. Smeared across his forehead, obliterating the black of his eyelashes, spilling over high cheekbones now pale beneath his deep tan. There was no sign of movement, no sound. Except for the faint pulse in his wrist, the Black Knight was lifeless.

      It’s metal, the damned thing’s metal, someone muttered in Michael’s ear. I didn’t know . . . didn’t feel it . . . I swear I never meant . . .

      Michael shut out the sound. Later he would remember. Every word, every nuance. But not now, not this moment.

      Mark still hadn’t stirred. Not a moan, groan, or flutter of his dark lashes. Michael found himself searching his memory for some sort of prayer, long forgotten. Too long. He settled for incoherent fragments, mostly Please, Why? and an anguished Take me instead!

      The Forces of Good and Evil broke ranks as a golf cart moved silently onto the field. A narrow stretcher was fitted along one side. The First Aid crew looked as if they couldn’t decide if they were eager to deal with a problem more serious than too much sun, or terrified of the sudden responsibility. Michael was not impressed. He could only hope the person who said an ambulance was on the way knew what he was talking about.

      No way he’s going anywhere on that thing, Michael declared. He needs a neck brace.

      We’ll just check his vitals, the golf cart’s driver assured him. Then spotted the enormity of his problem as Michael’s armor gleamed black and shiny under the hot Florida sun.

      Oh, shit, the man breathed.

      Chapter 2

      Something remarkably like a sigh drifted through the open door between Kate Knight’s desk and her employer’s office. She lifted her head, listening for a repeat.

      Nothing but the soft hum of her computer, the faint sound of traffic outside. Since her employer, Barbara Falk, was the most outgoing, perpetually optimistic person Kate had ever known, she must be mistaken. That sound could not possibly have been a heart-felt sigh. Kate glared at her computer. More likely, the noise was in her head, a reflection of her own bleak mood.

      Not that she had any excuse for her less-than-buoyant spirts. It might have taken her twenty-four years to break free from her former life, but she’d done it, creating the life she wanted and living it, quite contentedly, for seven years now . She had the world’s best boss, a job she was good at, part-time hours that gave her the opportunity to do the things which were the other half of her life. What more could anyone ask?

      Kate. Attorney Barbara Falk filled the office doorway. A white silk blouse perked up the black expanse of her moderate-priced pantsuit. A cap of auburn hair, which had never been allowed to show a strand of gray, glowed above a cheerful face as round as the ample curves of her body. At the moment, however, she looked as glum as Kate felt. Before you leave, I’d like to speak with you.

      Kate went very still. Dear God. That heartfelt sigh took on reality, an ominous tone.

      Of course, she murmured, I’m almost finished with Fred Bailey’s Petition to the Court.

      A nod, a slight curve of Attorney Falk’s lips—far less than her usual ebullient smile—and Kate’s boss returned to her desk in the inner office. Another bad sign. Barbara Falk—who had an aversion to gadgets, including interoffice phones—usually just shouted for Kate. That she had hauled herself out of her chair and walked all the way to the door was not good. Not good at all.

      Appalled, Kate found the letters on her computer screen wavering, fading in and out. Her mind raced. Barbara was retiring. She could no longer afford an assistant. She needed someone who was willing to work full time. She . . .

      Stop. Think! Since Kate kept the books—at least enough to turn over to the accountant each month—she knew Barbara Falk’s business was solvent. And, besides, Barbara didn’t really need the money. She’d returned to law after her children were grown. Wills, Trusts, Probate, an occasional divorce. At no time had Kate’s boss shown any ambition to accumulate more business than she already had. Nor any sign she planned to retire from a practice that was less than ten years old. So what was going on? Probably nothing more than Barbara taking a day off, wanting dates for Kate’s vacation . . .

      Blast it! She needed this job. Well-paying part-time work was hard to find, even for a skilled paralegal. And she was skilled. She took pride in her work. So why this tide of dread that suddenly weighed her down, this feeling that something momentous—and possibly dire—was about to happen?

      Nerves. There were those who said Kate Knight didn’t know the meaning of the word, but it just wasn’t so. If they’d known the wimp she once was . . .

      Had she had it too easy since she walked away from her previous life? Must contentment inevitably be punished? Was she was about to lose it all?

      She was an idiot. A foolish, fanciful creature unworthy of twenty-first century females. Kate scowled at her computer screen, forced her fingers to the keyboard. On the Petition of FREDERICK G. BAILEY, for Subsequent Administration of the above estate . . .

      Twenty minutes later, Kate walked through her boss’s door. Clinically, she noted her raised heart beat as she took a seat in one of the comfortably upholstered chairs in front of Barbara’s desk. She crossed her legs at the knee, noticing a slight shine on her navy crepe slacks. Not to worry, she thought grimly. Suitable office attire was something she wouldn’t have to worry about if she no longer had a job.

      Uh, Kate . . . Barbara Falk faltered. Idly, she played with a glass paperweight filled with swirls of blue and silver.

      Kate’s depression deepened. Her boss was never at a loss for words. Dear God, it must be really bad.

      Kate, I’ve had a most unusual request. Barbara Falk paused, obviously uncomfortable, before plunging ahead. You probably know Bill has a lot of friends in law enforcement. Well, one of them asked him to find someone who could–ah–help one of their investigators. Bill thought of you.

      Bill was William A. Falk, Barbara’s husband and, at one time, a prosecuting attorney in the DA’s office. Through the ensuing years of a private practice which had become the largest, most prestigious law firm in Golden Beach, he had kept his police contacts—city, county and state. His wife’s determined independence was their sole bone of contention, which Bill Falk handled by a public display of amused tolerance.

      Kate could not, however, imagine any way in which her world could intersect with an investigator. Then again, helping a detective—whatever he wanted—was better than losing her job.

      I–um–knew you probably wouldn’t be thrilled with the idea. Barbara was still focusing on the paperweight, unable to meet Kate’s eyes. But the matter seemed important, so I–ah–I invited the investigator here to meet you. Attorney Falk glanced at her watch. Something close to relief showed on her pleasant, rounded features. Oh, my, he’s due here any minute. Kate’s boss straightened a stack of papers, reached in a desk drawer for her purse. I’ll just introduce the two of you, then dash off so you can have a bit of privacy. Don’t bite his head off, Kate, Barbara added more briskly. Listen to the man. Please!

      "Barbara!"

      The outer door swung open. Footsteps approached the inner office. At the look on her employer’s face, Kate swallowed what she was going to say, but stubbornly refused to turn and look. She had been set up, and she didn’t like it.

      Oh, my! Barbara breathed.

      Okay, so it was rude not to look. She wanted to keep her job, didn’t she? Kate turned her head.

      Oh my and Wow! When she’d suspected something momentous was about to happen, this was definitely not on her list of possibilities. Somehow Kate was on her feet, even as all the ridges of her brain, and places south, seemed to be curling at the edges, threatening to go up in smoke.

      Lieutenant Turco, Kate Knight. Barbara’s voice was a distant buzz, the name sailing straight over Kate’s head. Her lips curved into a semblance of a smile as her hand was swallowed in a grip as strong as it was brief.

      Attorney Falk, having satisfied the minimum dictates of courtesy, made good her escape.

      Kate never noticed her boss’s rapid retreat. When a woman towers ten inches over five feet, it takes a lot of man to look down on her. Lieutenant . . . Whatsit almost made her feel delicate. Tall, dark and lean, his was not a face one wanted to meet on a dark night. A prankster’s caricature of hardline features snatched from Willem Dafoe or Jack Palance. All angles and planes, with deep-set black eyes surrounded by a maze of frown lines, lips that looked like they never smiled, topped by a cap of short straight black hair. The scowl he turned on Kate could only be described as ferocious. Clearly, the lieutenant was not pleased to be here.

      Kate Knight. That your real name? he challenged.

      Kate’s tongue seemed to swell until it filled her mouth. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know. She had to say something. She would not let him do this to her. She was stronger, far stronger than the woman she used to be. Of course, she snapped, green eyes challenging black.

      A curt nod, he waved her to a seat. Her own. Instead of sitting on the rose leather sofa designed for client comfort, he perched himself on Kate’s desk, even though she’d been certain his ramrod stiff back would never bend. He was close enough she could smell his aftershave. Something sharp, tangy, and oh-so-macho. He’d dressed for the occasion, Kate noticed. Blue jacket over light gray pleated pants. Sparkling white shirt, discreet navy tie. The overall effect was intimidating. Kate’s pulse pounded its way up another few notches toward massive stroke.

      He slapped a wallet-style badge down in front of her. Michael Turco, Lieutenant, FHP.

      Obviously, he expected her to be impressed. And she was. City cops, county cops were a dime a dozen. A state cop—a state investigator—was something else again.

      Did they tell you why I’m here? Michael Turco asked.

      Just that I might be able to help in some way.

      As he tucked his badge back inside his jacket, Kate thought she caught the bulge of a shoulder holster. It was the closest she’d ever been to a gun. Which was, of course, why a shiver was scooting up her spine. Couldn’t be any other reason, right?

      He shot her a look, and Kate felt photographed, X-rayed, cataloged, and tucked into storage for instant recall at any moment in the next fifty years. How far beneath her tall skinny figure did he see? Beneath the silver blond hair ruthlessly confined in a French braid above a narrow face almost as strong and angular as his own? Except that her worry lines, her badges of age and experience, weren’t nearly as deep. And, with an inward sigh, Kate had to admit her chest bulged only slightly more than his.

      If he was disturbed that so little had been done to prepare his way, Lieutenant Turco didn’t show it. Okay, here’s the story, he declared. You’re a member of this LALOC group, right?

      From the tone of his voice he might as well have been asking if she was a member of Al Qaeda. Ridiculous! In the history of the world there had been few less harmless groups than the Lords and Ladies of Chivalry. Kate gritted her teeth and nodded.

      Suddenly, he was on his feet, pacing the short distance between the outer door and Barbara’s office. Lieutenant Turco ran a hand through his buzz cut, betraying the first sign of uncertainty Kate had seen in his hard-as-nails façade. I have a case—somewhat personal, he admitted. It’s high priority only to me, but I’ve been given permission to pursue it in my spare time. He took a deep breath which sounded perilously like a groan. To do that, I need your help.

      And it was killing him, Kate realized. This was a man who hated to ask for assistance of any kind. So this isn’t official? she ventured, fighting to stay calm, think rationally, even as she felt bolts of tension shooting from his taut panther-like body like a shower of sparks from a welding torch. Lieutenant Michael Turco was more than the confined space of her office could accommodate. Either the office, the lieutenant, or she, was likely to go up in flames at any moment. Maybe all three.

      Dammit, of course it’s official, Michael growled. It’s just not top priority. Do you think we went to all this trouble to find an insider so I can play at sword-fighting? His palm slammed against the heavy wood of the door into the corridor. The pacing stopped. After a frozen moment, he turned to face her. Okay, okay, none of this makes sense, does it? My fault. Investigators are cool, ruthless types. We drink hard, never crack a smile, don’t give a damn about our families. Robots without emotion, that’s us.

      "So this is personal."

      Very.

      Kate scooted her chair back a few inches as, once again, the cop from the Florida Highway Patrol sank onto her desk. He was by far the most overwhelming man she’d ever met.

      Another of those sharp, assessing looks. Mrs. Falk really didn’t tell you what this is all about?

      No. Kate was a fighter. She looked straight into the depths of those fathomless black eyes and waited.

      There was a so-called accident at The Medieval Fair in Manatee Bay a month ago . . .

      I was there, Kate interjected. As a vendor. I was at my booth and didn’t see it, of course, but everyone was shocked. Things like that just aren’t supposed to happen.

      Damn right they’re not. Michael Turco’s dark eyes drifted away into his own personal hell. He didn’t care what the Bible said about vengeance being the Lord’s. This was his own personal crusade, and he’d do damn near anything to bring it off.

      He turned the full intensity of his gaze back to the woman in front of him. She wasn’t young, only a few years less than his own thirty-six. And she was a lot stronger and tougher than he’d expected. About as far from a classic Fair Maiden as a girl could get. He’d pictured a sweet young thing, a malleable creature who’d do whatever he told her. Kate Knight was a surprise. Not a good one. She raised all his hackles, red-flagging the instincts that had kept him alive for so long. And at the moment those big green eyes were demanding, Get on with it! Tell me what’s going on.

      The kid who was hurt at the tournament is my brother. Ten days in a coma. He’ll be in rehab for months. Learning to speak, walk, read. We’re still not sure if he’s going to make a full recovery. Ignoring her words of sympathy which, he had to concede, seemed genuine, Michael plowed ahead. So, yes, it’s personal. But when I started to check the immediate source of the problem, I turned up a whole can of worms. It would seem the Age of Chivalry has acquired something rotten, its own Wicked Sorcerer you might say.

      Kate hadn’t expected him to be whimsical or clever. He was right, of course. She had a stereotyped niche in her brain labeled Cops, and she was finding it difficult to see him as the all-too-human man he obviously was. He was also beginning to interest her. Her reactions to him, as a state cop and as a man, might frighten her, but the situation was intriguing.

      The knight who hit Mark—that’s my brother—tells me he had trouble with his lance, the balance wasn’t right. That’s how he happened to strike Mark in his visor. Afterwards he discovered his lance was metal, not wood. A substitution had been made. We questioned the kid who fought him, the two squires at that end of field. They were all Mark’s friends, traveled the circuit with him. Michael shrugged. I’m told I frightened them half to death, but the truth is, in the end I had to believe them. It’s about ninety-nine percent certain they had nothing to do with substituting a metal lance. So I began to look farther back, check what’s been happening at other Medieval Fairs over the past few months. Have you heard any rumors?

      The question was sneaked into his narration in what Kate supposed was his best interrogation mode. It was effective. Words tumbled out as she hastened to reply. After the accident at the Fair in Manatee Bay, rumors started. A whisper here, a whisper there. Other accidents. Odd, unexplained incidents. The vendors aren’t as close as the traveling performers since we don’t all go to the same fairs, but the gossip travels fast once it begins. So, yes, there was talk.

      What about LALOC . . . they have any problems?

      The question was so soft, so casual, Kate almost missed the significance. She should have made the connection,

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