To Serve And Protect Temptation

(Many thanks to all of you who have read, enjoyed and commented on this series. My compatriot in crime, Linda, and I, have enjoyed writing them. This story jumps time again, this time almost 20 years into the future from the others. It's not necessary to read the other stories to enjoy this one, I hope. But it might make sense faster if you do.)

Pat Gibson tipped the man who had brought her bags up to her hotel room and closed the door behind him. She looked around for a moment then closed her eyes and let herself fall backwards onto the king-size bed. Following a muffled "Oof" at landing; she relaxed, twisted her body and yawned. After 5 minutes she reluctantly opened her eyes and got off the bed. Too much to do to take a nap right now.

She picked up the phone on the nightstand, checked the instructions and punched in a series of numbers. As she waited, she levered her feet out of her black running shoes.

"Jackson County Sheriff's Department, Uniform Division, Sergeant Wilson speaking," a clear contralto voice answered the phone.

Pat grinned. "Inspector Gibson, please."

"Whom shall I say is calling?" inquired the voice on the other end. Pat could hear the woman trying valiantly to smother a laugh.

"This is Deputy Inspector Gibson, and stop wasting my time, Sergeant. I swear, every little whippersnapper seems drunk with power just because she answers the phone for..."

"Oh for goodness sake, Mom," Sergeant Carol Gibson Wilson interrupted the tirade. "Quit practicing how you deliver the 'Welcome' speech you give the new cadets. I heard it from Aunt Linda when I went through the Academy."

Pat laughed along with her daughter. "How are you feeling today honey?" Carol had taken a nasty tumble two weeks previously while involved in the foot pursuit of a robbery suspect. She had badly twisted her knee, an injury that fortunately had been saved from being aggravated by her landing on top of the subject.

"I'm fine Mom. I get to work regular hours, 8 to 5, just like a normal person. Daddy's office is warm and comfortable and I sit down and relax the whole time, just answering the phone and keeping his schedule."

"In other words baby, you hate it."

"Momma, I am so incredibly bored I can't stand it! I want to be back out on the street with my husband Roger and that twit of a younger brother you named after Dad. They're having all the fun and I'm missing it. Police work is on the streets for goodness sake, not in the office."

"You'll be back out there shortly." Pat paused. "Enjoy it darling. We did." She sighed. "Now its up to you and your husband and your brother. Much as we miss it, your Father and I are a little too stiff in the joints for street work. Oh well, let me speak to your Father."

Pat heard her oldest child call "DAD! Mom's on the phone."

"Hey honey," Pat's husband of over 20 years greeted her. "How was the trip?"

"For an only five hour drive it was tiring. I just thought I'd let you know I'm here. I'm in room 613 and as soon as I get dressed I'm going to wander down and get signed in."

"Okay honey, see you when you get back. I love you."

"I love you too, Mike."

Pat pulled out a clean uniform and dressed in the dark blue slacks and open collared white shirt that marked her as a senior police official. She debated momentarily putting her sidearm on. She was in a hotel full of cops, after all. A certain movie to the contrary, she didn't think diamond thieves were going to be raiding the conference.

She carefully checked her reflection in the mirror. The gold leaves on her collar balanced the gold badge and nameplate. Satisfied that everything shone she picked up her briefcase, stuffed her room card in her back pocket and headed downstairs.

The registration desk was easy to spot over by one of the conference rooms on the ground floor of the sprawling hotel. Not only was it festooned with signs but there was a milling crowd of men and women in law-enforcement uniforms.

Pat joined the line. Looking around, she didn't immediately see any familiar faces. There would probably be several people she knew though. The state was large but the ranks of the upper level cops were pretty much not unfamiliar with each other.

Just then Pat heard a voice behind her. "Pat? Pat Morrison?" She turned.

"Jim Davis! How are you?" Memories came flooding back to Pat of when she was a rookie patrol officer in that other city so many years ago. Jim had been just as new as her. They had graduated from the Academy together. Jim had asked her out several times, before realizing that, as she had tried to delicately put it "Men were not her cup of tea".

He looked pretty good. A little heavy set around the middle that bespoke of too much desk work and not enough exercise. He wore silver oak leaves on his collar points and his badge was gold. Engraved on it was "Assistant Chief".

"Congratulations, Jim."

"Thanks Pat," Jim replied with more than a hint of smugness in his voice. He always had been full of himself, Pat recalled. Although not really a bad guy, he had been convinced he was god's gift to women. He had hit on her several times, even when it was open knowledge that she had been living with another woman in a state much more than that of roommates.

"So what are you doing here?" Jim's face clouded a bit, as he realized that Pat's presence at this training seminar indicated she probably was fairly important in whatever department she was with.

"I'm a Deputy Inspector, Jackson County Sheriff's Department. I'm head of our Academy and therefore in charge of training too, which is why I'm here. And its 'Gibson', not 'Morrison'."

His eyes dropped to her nameplate. The expression on his face was priceless, a mixture of chagrin at not picking up on the obvious, coupled with sheer amazement. "You're married? I thought you were gay!" He burst out loudly, causing other nearby heads to turn their way.

Pat couldn't resist. "Oh I was. Just had to find the right man you know." She loved the shocked expression on his face. While indeed she had found the right man, she had never been gay. Rather she had been bisexual with a distinct leaning towards other females, at least at the time she had been working with him.

One of the people who's heads had turned headed their way. He was a tall, strongly built black man in his late forties or early fifties. He had a uncertain smile on his face. When he reached Pat he stopped and asked, "I beg your pardon, but 'Gibson'? Are you by chance Mike Gibson's wife?"

"Yes I am," Pat replied.

The man's face lit up with a broad smile. "Hi there, I'm Jack Washington. Many years ago, Mike and I went through SWAT Commander training together and two years ago we were both at the National Academy Course at Quantico. Even without the pictures he showed of you and your family, I would have been able to recognize you just from how much he talked about you."

"Well! I sure am glad to finally meet you Jack. Mike has talked about you for years too." Pat took a minute and introduced Jim. "This is Jim Davis. He and I were rookie cops a lifetime ago."

"Listen, a group of us are getting together in the bar for dinner and a few beers. Why don't you both join us when you get signed in?"

"Sounds great."

Registration took only a few minutes. Pat headed out to the bar with Jim following behind.

"Speaking of behind and behinds," Pat thought, "Jim is watching mine rather closely. I hope that's not trouble brewing there." She dismissed the thought. She had certainly handled bigger problems than him before.

The beer flowed freely and the laughs rose as the group of senior officers traded stories about themselves and their departments. Pat had a particularly great time talking with Jack. When she shared her story about getting knocked on her ass once by a perp because Mike had confused the street numbers during a call, Jack laughed the loudest. When she told them how he had to make it up to her, she thought he was going to cry from the laughter.

"I didn't know that one, Pat," he finally managed to gasp. "He talks about you so much, but that one he never brought up. I can see why."

Pat took advantage of a break in the conversation to lean over to Jim. "Jim, as an old friend I need to mention one small thing to you." At his wide grin, Pat continued sweetly, "If you put your hand on my thigh one more time I'm going to break it off and shove it up your ass."

Joyce Smithers sat in her chair in the lounge and listened to the woman across the tiny table babble on about what a wonderful time she had shopping. She nodded her head, making an occasional murmured "Really" and "How nice" whenever the other woman paused for breath. That didn't seem to be too often.

What had happened to her life, the mature, attractive blonde woman wondered. It had been years since she had had an actual relationship with another woman. She had partied and been the popular girl for so many years. Then one day she had woken and discovered that time had caught up to her after all.

Now, she thought bitterly, she dated younger and more empty-headed women. Like Theresa there. Shopping and parties seemed to be all she cared about. Just like she had been once herself, she knew. She had thrown away the one woman who had really loved her, the one woman who had cared for her as a person. She had been so sure of her hold over Pat, so sure that even though Joyce had hurt her deeply, that she would come running back to her. It hadn't happened. The very qualities in Pat that had driven Joyce crazy back then; her independence, her self-reliance, her ability to think for herself; the things that Joyce desperately wanted in a woman now, those things had kept Pat from coming back.

She wrenched her attention back to Theresa.

"Can we go up to our room now. please? I want to show you those shoes."

Inwardly she groaned, then forced a smile on her face. "Of course we can, sweetie." She signed the bill on the edge of the table and stood. She held her hand out to Theresa and moved towards the door, bypassing the loud table of uniformed cops. The cops started to stand up, apparently breaking up their get-together. As she rounded the table, a petite female officer turned and suddenly Joyce was face to face with her ex.

The two women stared at each other for a long, silent moment. Joyce looked her old lover over, barely aware that Pat was doing the same.

"Pat."

"Joyce."

For long moments they simply studied each other. Pat thought Joyce looked very attractive. Her blonde hair was as carefully styled as ever, without a hint of gray. She looked simply elegant; still tall, still immaculately dressed.

"You look good Joyce."

"So do you Pat," replied Joyce in a thoughtful tone. Her ex did look good. There were some gray strands in the dirty blonde hair. Pat's hips seemed a bit wider, her body more rounded and fuller. It was almost as if she had... Joyce's mind shied away from a thought. She considered Pat more closely. With a start, Joyce realized the most attractive thing about Pat was the look of content and happiness she wore. It seemed like a permanent fixture.

Joyce became aware of Theresa's insistent tug on her arm. "Please, Joyce. I want to go to the room." The tone of voice was almost a whine. Joyce caught a glimpse of amusement in Pat's eyes but then saw it replaced by a look of sympathy that somehow was even more irritating. How dare Pat feel sorry for her.

She whirled, took Theresa's hand and marched off. She determinedly did not look back. If she had, she would have seen that Pat was considering Theresa, and her expression had become more thoughtful. However when they reached the elevator bank she snuck a quick look over her shoulder. Pat was nowhere in sight.

Pat had checked he watch and realized she had an early morning ahead of her. She headed up to the room, thinking about Joyce and the woman she had seen with her. Pat had first decided the other girl was an airhead, but after having watched the way Theresa had clutched Joyce's arm she wasn't sure of that any more. There was a real attraction there.

When they reached their room, Joyce showed proper appreciation for how much money Theresa had spent for shoes that matched half a dozen pairs already in the closet at home. Of course, she herself probably had that many similar ones, if not more. She still really enjoyed shopping. She just wanted Theresa to appreciate more.

"Honey?" the object of her musings spoke brightly. "How about we hit that scrumptious new club across the street? I hear the band is really yummy."

Joyce smiled at Theresa. She knew the smile was strained and hoped that the younger woman didn't pick up on the patently false aspect of it. "You go ahead, baby. I have the beginnings of a headache and think I'll just lay down for a bit."

"Okay," Theresa accepted Joyce's statement. For a moment, a look crossed the younger woman's face that Joyce couldn't identify. She moved slowly to the door and turned. "Are you sure?" Joyce nodded, almost hesitantly. Theresa lingered a bit longer and then was gone. Well, that was surprising. Joyce had always assumed that given a choice, Theresa would immediately opt for the party, for the club, for the dance floor. She hadn't thought staying at home at night was on her list of "fun things to do". Maybe she was underestimating again.

Joyce leaned back in the reclining chair provided in her suite and let her mind drift back to past. She closed her eyes and remembered her first meeting with Pat, so many years ago...

"I can't believe it!" Joyce fumed to herself. "I'm gone for a couple of hours and someone broke in. What the hell is going on, its like nothing's safe anymore, like," She suddenly broke off her silent tirade because she smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke. With a gasp, she realized that she had walked right through the door and whomever had broken in might still be there.

She rushed across the street to where the elderly Mrs. Roberts lived. The widow of a World War II Navy Officer was old but by no means senile. She listened to Joyce's spilled words. The older woman all but pulled Joyce inside her house, slammed and locked the door, and then called the police.

"Now then," she told Joyce. "You sit there and try to calm down a bit, dearie. I'll make us some tea."

The water wasn't even boiling when a black and white patrol car roared down the street, its lights flashing. A small officer leaped from the front seat, drew a revolver and checked the front door. Another car pulled up to the side of the house and the cop in it ran around back. The first officer entered the front door.

A few short minutes later the two uniformed figures emerged from the house. The second, taller cop got into his car and drove away. The smaller one used his radio and then started across the street. Mrs. Roberts opened the door and invited the him in as he came up the steps.

"Thank you Ma'am," came a contralto voice. Joyce realized the officer wasn't a him at all. She entered, doffed her Stetson style hat and ran her fingers through her short, dirty blonde hair. "I need to speak to Ms. Smithers, please. I understand she reported the break-in from here."

"I'm Joyce Smithers."

"I'm Officer Morrison, Ms. Smithers. I need some information for my report, please."

The female officer unfolded her metal clipboard and took out an incident report form. Step by step, she filled it out, asking Joyce the necessary questions in a calm, soothing voice. Midway through the writing, Mrs. Roberts managed to get them both seated on the couch and served them tea.

After completing the form and reassuring Joyce that she would arrange for the beat car to check frequently during the next few days, Officer Morrison had seemed a bit reluctant to leave. Their elderly host, enjoying the unexpected company, had prolonged the stay by regaling them with tales of the adventures her late husband had in the South Pacific during World War II, where unfortunately he had been killed.

The older woman proudly showed them pictures and letters sent home from ports and bases around the Pacific. She gestured to a larger picture mounted in a silver frame. "Wasn't he handsome?" Both younger women agreed. "I always thought he looked just like Henry Fonda."

During the recitation Joyce had seen the police woman looking at her out of the corner of her eye a couple times. Once, when they both stretched a bit during one of the pauses in the older woman's flow of chatter, their fingers brushed against each others. Joyce felt a tingle, but couldn't tell for sure how the other woman had reacted.

Finally the police officer rose from her seat, saying she needed to get back on patrol. She thanked their host warmly, for the tea, for the stories and for her quick actions in getting Joyce safely inside and calling the police. She then turned to Joyce.

"Here's my card, Ms. Smithers. My office number is on the front. I've written the case number on the back of the card. You'll need it when you pick up a copy of the report for your insurance company." The woman donned her hat again and smiled at Mrs. Roberts. "Thank you for the tea Ma'am." She turned to leave and whispered to Joyce, "Henry Fonda? I thought he looked like Roger Smith."

Joyce went back to her house and began to clean up. All afternoon the image of a woman in uniform kept popping into her mind.

That evening the doorbell rang. When Joyce answered the door she found the woman officer from that morning standing at the door. Joyce knew this wasn't an accident. In the back of her mind she had somehow come to expect it.

"I just stopped by to see if you were alright," the woman cop began hesitantly. She was out of uniform now. She wore an open leather jacket and jeans. Under the jacket she had on a light blue t-shirt. In spite of all that, she did not seem at all butch. Maybe it was her eyes. They were deep and warm. Blue, Joyce thought, only to decide a moment later they were green.

"Please come in Officer..." Joyce began. She blushed as she realized she had not remembered the other woman's name.

"Morrison, Pat Morrison, Ms. Smithers," the woman cop replied.

"Joyce."

Pat followed Joyce into the house. Both walked slowly, their eyes on each other, moving as though they were in some dream. Neither spoke again until the door was closed and they were standing in the living room.

The policewoman spoke first. "I, I don't know what I'm doing here."

"Yes, you do," Joyce replied softly.

With that simple statement Joyce leaned over and kissed Pat. At first it was no more than a light caress of lips. The two women's hands tentatively brushed over each other. The hesitant kiss broke for an instant and the two women looked into each other's eyes. Joyce saw confusion and passion and more in Pat's eyes. There was a longing there, and somehow she knew it was matched in her own eyes.

Slowly they came into each other's arms. Their lips clung, then Joyce tugged Pat's bottom lip. The release of it was immediately followed by her tongue gliding into Pat's open mouth. The kiss deepened. Pat's arms tightened around Joyce and pulled her right against her firm body.

Joyce's embrace matched Pat's. Their hands roamed and touch and fondled. The two gay women kissed wildly until suddenly Joyce's hand touched something hard under Pat's jacket, and even in the moment she couldn't resist whispering in the other woman's ear.

"Baby, you won't need the gun. Or the handcuffs either, although we might have fun with them."

Pat tore off her jacket. She peeled her shoulder holster off and carefully place it on a nearby chair. Automatically, she covered it with her jacket. She turned back around and blinked. Joyce was gone.

She smiled. At the archway to the hall was a shoe. When she reached it, she saw another shoe a bit farther on. The trail down the hallway was littered with Joyce's clothing. Pat passed through an open door, into what was obviously Joyce's bedroom. The tall slender blonde was stretched out on the bed, wearing only a wisp of black lace panties.