Читать книгу: «Partner-Protector»
She rested her elbow on the corner of the detective’s desk and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You understand that I don’t always see evidence in the same way you do, Mr. Banning.”
His green eyes filled with skepticism. “So I’ve heard.”
“I don’t dream this stuff up, Detective. I possess a psychic ability to sense things. When I put my mind to it, I can see things especially clearly. When I touch people or objects, I pick up emotions, memories—”
“You predict the future.”
Kelsey bristled. “Look, Banning, do you want to know what I saw or not?” She waited for his prompt to continue. “I believe I’ve accidentally come across an object that has something to do with one of those prostitutes who’ve been murdered around Christmas and New Year’s over the past decade.”
“Nine murders in eleven years,” he clarified. “Don’t tell me you’ve found the murder weapon?”
“No. But it’s something one of the victims touched. I’m sure of that.”
“So you’ve found some object that somebody touched, and you think it will solve the case for us?”
Mr. Uptight, Suit-’n’-Tie wasn’t going to cut her a break, but she wasn’t about to back down. Lives were at stake!
Partner-Protector
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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For Denise O’Sullivan.
I’ve worked with many people at Harlequin over the years, but you’ve always been there—on the front line or in the background, watching over me like a guardian angel.
We share a love for Intrigue and dark, tortured heroes. You answer my rambling e-mails kindly and precisely. You don’t see anything wrong with my penchant for blowing up things and stabbing people <g>.
And you taught me the valuable lesson that it’s all about the reader.
Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PZ. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Detective Thomas Merle Banning—Once the rookie computer geek of the Fourth Precinct, brains, hard work and a couple of gunshot wounds had finally earned him some respect. So why was he being partnered with a psychic consultant to solve a cold-case murder? And why did somebody want her dead?
Kelsey Ryan—The Flake. With a nickname like that, how could anyone, especially the cops, believe she’d “seen” a grisly murder?
Rev. Ulysses Wingate—He runs a mission in downtown Kansas City for those in need.
Doc Siegel—Someone has to graduate at the bottom of the class.
Zero—A prince among pimps. Or so he claims. His girls might have a different opinion.
Rebecca Page—The crime beat reporter wants to finish the story her father never could.
Patrick Halliwell—He gave money to reputable causes. And some not so reputable.
Ed Watkins—He’d worked the Fourth Precinct for a lot of years.
Jezebel—Eleven years ago, she’d known how to show a man a good time. She’d paid for her expertise with her life.
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
Epilogue
Prologue
“I beg you. Please. Don’t.”
She backed away as far as she could go, giving a soft, startled yelp when she hit the hard, dark wall. Trapped.
Splinters of rough wood caught in her hair, scratched the bare skin of her shoulders. She crossed her arms in front of her, but there was no place to hide, no way to shield herself.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know there were rules.”
But there were no words to placate the anger she saw, no words to assuage the hatred. She was cold. Shaking. Crying.
He was coming.
“Sorry about the gift, big boy.” Fear dulled her reasoning, made her grasp at the first thought that flashed in her mind. “Big boy. You like that?” She reached out, but he wouldn’t take her hand. She curled the rejected fingers into her fist and clutched it over her naked breast.
She tried to smile, but her lips quivered. The tears kept falling. The wall was cutting into her back and she was afraid.
“I can call you that. Big boy. I can do whatever you want.”
Her breath caught in her chest and couldn’t seem to get past her pounding heart. He didn’t care. She’d laughed.
She shouldn’t have laughed.
“Most men bring cash. I didn’t understand. I’m surprised, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I can learn to appreciate it.”
He caressed her face. She jerked her head to the side, hating his touch. Her cheek scraped against the unfinished wood. The pungent smells of cold and rot stung her nose. His finger traced a gentle path down her neck, over her breast. Such a loving caress. She nearly gagged.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to go to that distant place inside her head she always went when men touched her. But she couldn’t find it. He was talking now. She couldn’t make out the words. She was cold and shaking and naked and so afraid.
She had to make this right.
Her life depended on it.
She bit her lips to bring their color back. She lowered her arms to show him everything he’d come for. She dropped her voice to a husky pitch that had seduced before.
She looked up into his shadowed expression. “Just tell me what you want. Anything you want. I’ll do it. No charge.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scarf. It was long and narrow, tattered as if it had come from an old woman’s attic or a flea market. Its mustard-yellow trim and fuschia dots were the only colors that registered in the darkness.
Mustard and fuschia, with the hard wall cutting into her back and his nonsense words condemning her.
The damn thing was ugly. But she didn’t look away.
She held her breath as he let it unfurl, shivered as the silk slid over her breasts.
“That’s pretty,” she lied. “Is that for me, too?”
Her entire body jerked at the exact moment she realized it wasn’t another gift.
“No!”
Suddenly it was too dark to see anything, to know anything beyond the pain that clutched at her throat. She pounded her fists. She twisted. She fought.
Scratches flayed open as he shoved her brutally against the wall. Her hair tangled in the wood’s coarse texture and ripped from her scalp.
As darkness closed in, fear dragged her down into its frigid grasp. Her screams gurgled in her throat. Her windpipe snapped. Starved for oxygen, her lungs imploded. Lights danced before her eyes. Her knees buckled. Blackness caved in all around her.
No more pain.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
Kelsey Ryan was clawing at her own throat when the voiceless words roused her from her nightmare.
Only, she knew it was no nightmare.
She snapped her eyes open and looked straight into two round, dark eyes, a black nose and a pair of paws on the pillow beside her. “Frosty?”
Real dog. Real time. Real world.
Not dead.
Kelsey grabbed the miniature poodle and sat up, hugging him tight, burying her nose in the soft mop of silver curls atop his head and inhaling his familiar scent. The rasp of his friendly tongue along her jaw and neck warmed the winter chill that clung to her skin.
“Did I scare you, sweetie?” She swiped her spiky bangs from her eyes and leaned over to turn on the lamp beside her bed. No wonder her faithful guardian had been so concerned. She’d trashed half her room this time. “Mama’s sorry. I’m okay.”
She kissed his furry head, then set him on the floor. Her reassurance was apparently all he needed to hear before trotting back to whatever chair or rug he’d deemed his bed for the night.
Kelsey untangled her legs from the wedge of sheets she’d thrashed between her legs and climbed out of bed. The late December deep freeze radiated from the polished wood floor through her stockinged feet. But even bundled in the gray sweats she wore for pajamas, she knew she wouldn’t feel warm any time soon.
She righted the clock that had tipped over. Three-thirteen in the morning. Hopefully, she hadn’t screamed out loud. Not that her retirement age neighbors paid her too much mind. As long as she kept her sidewalk shoveled in the winter and her yard trimmed in the summer, they seemed content to leave her alone in her cottage-style house in an old neighborhood on the north side of Kansas City.
Still, a random scream in the dark of night…
Wave after wave of shivers cascaded down Kelsey’s spine. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and hugged herself, trying to block out the memories. But they wouldn’t stop. She pursed her lips and breathed deeply, but the remembered terror wouldn’t go away.
There’d been nothing random about what she’d sensed.
She’d felt that woman’s pain.
She’d lived that woman’s fear.
She’d seen that woman’s death.
A crushing sense of destiny opened Kelsey’s eyes. Something had triggered that episode. She had to find it.
Moving quickly now, she methodically put her room back in order. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she waited for the inevitable attack.
Kelsey picked up the wad of blanket she’d kicked to the floor, and tucked in the sheet she’d ripped from the corner of the mattress. After retrieving the pillow she’d tossed against the wall, she picked up the dolls that had toppled over on the nightstand where she displayed them. She must have knocked them over when, barely awake, she’d reached for a tissue in the middle of the night.
One by one, she stood her little treasures up and rearranged them. The porcelain-head doll her grandmother had sewn such exquisite dresses for. The brocaded Beast doll she’d made herself with paints and thread and love. The fairy-tale princess—a Christmas present to herself—she’d found in an antique shop to go with him.
Kelsey picked up the princess by her narrow waist.
Cold. Fear. Pain. “Help me!” Death.
The same bombardment of words and images jerked through her.
She dropped the doll as if her fingers had been burned.
It lay on the bed now, a seemingly innocent package of old silk and beads and embroidery. She stared at it. Hard. Knowing what she must do. Hating it.
Gandalf the Grey hadn’t dreaded touching the One Ring as much as she was loathe to touch that doll again. But she pulled the afghan from the foot of the bed and tossed it over the doll. Careful not to touch it directly, she carried it into the kitchen, dug the box it had come in out of the trash and carefully placed it inside.
Then, with every light in the kitchen blazing, she pulled out the phone book and looked up a number. The call could wait until morning, but there’d be fewer people around to laugh this time of night.
She knew that woman had been all alone. Wouldn’t be missed.
Kelsey understood the feeling without having to see it in a dream or vision or impression.
That meant she was the only one who could help.
Conscience, and a promise to her grandmother said she must.
Pushing aside her own fears and stiffening her spine, Kelsey took a deep, fortifying breath and dialed.
“K.C.P.D. Crime Hot Line,” a tired, bored voice answered.
Not for the first time in her life, Kelsey wondered why she’d been cursed.
“I’d like to report a murder.”
Chapter One
“You’re assigning me to The Flake?”
Detective Thomas Merle Banning stared across the office at his captain, Mitch Taylor. Nice back-to-work-after-Christmas present.
Yeah, right.
“Actually, I’m assigning her to you.” The distinction wasn’t any comfort. “You’re the detective, she’s the departmental consultant.”
“She’s the nutcase everybody jokes about in the coffee room.”
“Nonetheless, she’s expecting to meet with you later this morning.”
How the hell had he gotten so lucky? He no longer had anything to prove, did he? His arrest record was solid, his aim good enough to earn a marksman’s pin, his reports spotless down to the minutest detail. And no one who knew him—with two rare exceptions—dared call him nerdy Merle to his face anymore. He’d long since outgrown terms like rookie and computer geek.
But this smacked of some kind of practical joke or penance.
“Why don’t you just shoot me now and put me out of my misery?” He marched across the room in his determined, rolling stride and faced Mitch across his desk. “I thought you were putting me on the cold-case detail for the next few months while Ginny’s on maternity leave.”
“I am.”
“Then put me on a desk. Let me work. Don’t waste my time with this woman.”
“This woman believes she’s seen something that can help one of those cases.”
With his regular partner, Ginny Rafferty-Taylor, assigned to extended bed rest for the last trimester of her pregnancy, Merle had already been taken off the active homicide investigation team and relegated to sorting through boxes of dead-end cases. He hadn’t argued the reassignment because Captain Taylor had played to his ego, telling him he had a real knack for uncovering details others missed and patiently piecing together random clues to complete investigative puzzles.
But no amount of ego stroking was going to make this right. He worked with the smartest, prettiest, classiest woman on the planet. Not UFO-chasing, crystal-ball-reading, hocus-pocus crackpots. It was hard enough to lose Ginny. But to let another woman try to take her place as his partner?
Make that departmental consultant.
Merle scrubbed his palm across his clean-shaven jaw and shrugged. “The Flake?”
“She has a name.” Captain Taylor’s resonant voice reprimanded him like the father he’d lost so long ago. “Kelsey Ryan. She has a degree in criminal justice studies and teaches a course in psychic forensic science over at University of Missouri-Kansas City.”
Psychic science? Wasn’t that some kind of oxymoron? “What the hell is that? Since when does K.C.P.D. rely on psychobabble to solve cases? She’s nothing but a PR nightmare. No one will take me seriously if she’s attached to me. I’d rather work alone.”
He pulled back the front of his tweed jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks, pacing the confines of the small office. The twinge in his right knee was more pronounced with the bitter temperatures plaguing the city these past few weeks. But pain was just something a mature man lived with. Banning had been on the force for seven years now, had been a detective for five. He’d long since outgrown his naive new kid on the block status.
Taking a couple of bullets that left his body scarred and his soul ancient beyond his twenty-nine years did that to a man.
In those seven years of service, he’d unholstered his weapon only twice while on duty. He’d been forced to kill a man each time.
Those were the kinds of odds that sobered a man’s way of thinking. Made him understand the value of cold, hard facts and leaving nothing to chance.
That’s why this made no sense.
He stopped and looked into his superior’s sage brown eyes. “Why me, Captain?”
For such a big, robust man, Mitch Taylor was surprisingly gentle as he adjusted the framed picture of his wife and young son on the desk in front of him. When he sat down, Merle took the clue and eased into a chair on the opposite side. The old man wanted to talk, and Merle had learned it paid to listen to the veteran cop.
“One thing I’ve learned about you over the years, Banning, is that you’re smart. You don’t just learn from your books and computers, but from people. From mistakes and successes, your own and others’. I’m counting on the fact you might be willing to learn something from Ms. Ryan, too.” The captain nodded toward the blind-covered windows that separated his office from the rows of desks and cubicles that formed the Fourth Precinct detective division. “I can name at least a half-dozen men out there who’d just brush her aside. But I can count on you to be gentleman enough not to laugh in her face when she tells her story.”
Merle couldn’t stop the sarcasm from bleeding into his voice. “You want me to work with her because my mother taught me good manners?”
“Someone has to talk to her. Take her statement, at the very least. If there’s any credibility to what she has to say, I know you’ll be fair.”
The captain thought Kelsey Ryan was that important? Or was this more ego stroking to bribe him into taking a job nobody else wanted? He still wasn’t about to accept this assignment wholeheartedly, but there was a certain wisdom in pleasing the boss. “All I have to do is take her statement?”
Captain Taylor nodded. “She claims she can help with the Holiday Hooker murders.”
“Let me guess. She thinks she was a hooker in another life.”
That one actually made the old man smile. “Don’t dismiss her yet. We can’t afford to alienate any citizen right now.” He shoved this morning’s Kansas City Star newspaper across the desk and pointed to a headline near the bottom of the front page.
K.C.P.D. No Closer To IDing Remains Of Infant Girl
“Ouch.” The discovery of a baby Jane Doe’s body in one of the area landfills more than two months ago had galvanized the entire department from homicide to missing persons to traffic cops. Every man and woman on the force seemed to take it personally that that child had been killed. But even the special task force assigned to the investigation had been thus far unable to put together many leads.
“Ouch is right.” Captain Taylor boxed up his emotions and set them aside the same way Merle had to. “The new commissioner, Shauna Cartwright, is desperate for some good press for a change. She’s ordered us to pay attention to every report that comes in. And to solve some cases.”
“So meeting with Kelsey Ryan would be doing a favor for the commissioner?”
“You’d be doing a favor for me.”
“All right, then.” It was enough that Mitch Taylor had asked him to do this. That the captain trusted he was the best man for the assignment—even if it was a lousy one. And hell, his hide was thick enough to withstand a little razzing from his peers.
Merle pushed to his feet, adjusting his jacket over the badge and gun clipped to his belt. “I’m off to make headlines for the department.”
“Just make sure they’re good ones.”
“Yes, sir.” Before leaving, Merle paused, exhaling caution on one overly curious breath. “How is Ginny doing?”
Mitch might have inside information on the petite blond detective. He was more than Ginny’s boss. He was her cousin-in-law and her husband’s best friend. They were all part of a big, happy family that Merle could hang out with and admire, but never truly be part of.
Mitch didn’t know his secret. Didn’t even question Merle’s interest. After all, it was perfectly normal for a cop to inquire about his partner’s health and well-being. “She’s fine. These last three months on total bed rest is driving her nuts, but Brett’s keeping a close eye on her to make sure she does everything the doctor says.” God, how that big brute loved his wife.
Just as Merle loved her.
But he was nothing more than Ginny’s friend. The kid brother she’d never had. His feelings were anything but brotherly for his detective partner. But she loved somebody else.
Merle nodded, breathing through the pain with a smile, hiding much more than Mitch or anyone else would ever guess. “Give her my best when you see her.”
“Why don’t you stop by? She’d love to see you. Hell. According to Brett, she’d love to see anybody.”
Merle laughed right along with him. “I’ll do that.”
The phone on Captain Taylor’s desk rang. He put up one finger, ordering Merle not to leave quite yet. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Maggie?” His gaze shot to Merle’s. The call had something to do with him. “I’ll tell him.”
Merle splayed his hands at his hips, waiting as the captain hung up the phone and stood. He tilted his chin ever so slightly to maintain eye contact with the bigger man. “What’s up?”
Was that a smirk? The captain’s barrel chest heaved with a sigh. “If nothing else, your flake is punctual. Maggie says Ms. Ryan just checked in. She’s waiting for you at your desk.”
Merle crossed to the blinds and peeked out, needing a moment to gather the gentlemanly composure Captain Taylor thought he had in such abundant supply. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He’d seen her in grainy black-and-white news photos, and in caricatures scribbled onto notepads. But nothing had prepared him for the real thing.
He saw her hair first. It stuck out from the crown in an explosion of short, flamboyant curls, with little wisps spiking around her ears and onto her cheekbones and neck. A sweep of bangs curled down over her forehead, flirting with her eyebrows and parting to one side as she pushed them off her face with the tips of her turquoise-gloved fingers.
But the gelled, pop-star style wasn’t the most noticeable thing. It was the color. Red. Not copper. Not auburn. But a flashy, unnatural tint that reminded him of rubies and fire engines and flagging down ships.
A quick scan farther down her body indicated that subtlety just wasn’t part of her vocabulary. Her knee-length, black-and-white checked coat hung open. A knitted scarf of bright turquoise draped around her neck and clashed with the electric-blue, snowman-patterned sweater she wore over a long denim skirt and clunky black lace-up boots.
Her cheeks and nose were flushed from the cold and wind outside. But instead of huddling her posture for warmth, she sat ramrod straight, shamelessly glancing all around the office and taking note of everybody’s business.
But there was a sharpness to her light brown eyes that conveyed more than nosy curiosity. She was gauging distances, occupations, degrees of interest in her presence the way any con artist would upon entering a den of cops.
There was a hint of arrogance about her, a defiance that surprised him.
Kelsey Ryan didn’t want to talk to him any more than he wanted to talk to her.
Merle frowned. He didn’t know whether he felt relieved or insulted by that observation.
“Is something wrong?” asked Mitch.
Oh, yeah. But this was for the commissioner. For good press. For Captain Taylor. Out loud, Merle said the only thing he could. “No, sir.”
He adjusted his tie as if donning a suit of armor.
Then he opened the door.
BROOKS BROTHERS. Ten o’clock.
Kelsey kept her body facing straight ahead, but turned her eyes to watch the man approach.
Khaki slacks. Navy tweed blazer. Maroon silk tie. Dark blond hair cut too short for any strand to be out of place. Chiseled features cleanly shaven and devoid of humor. Trim, evenly-proportioned build from broad shoulders to slim hips. A coiled strength to his stride to hide the hitch in every step.
The little frisson of awareness that shimmied down her spine was inconsequential.
This guy was too neat. Too clean. Too buttoned down and under control to be open-minded at all.
Ho boy.
He was the worst kind of cop to tell her story to. Not that any of them in her limited experience had been gung ho about taking her talent seriously.
Still, that woman last night had been so alone.
For a few seconds last night, Kelsey had shared her stark, hopeless terror.
That woman had no one but Kelsey to help her. To remember.
As the detective neared the desk, she guessed him to be about six foot, maybe half a foot taller than herself. And despite the slight smile that touched the corners of his mouth, she didn’t sense that he’d gotten any friendlier since stepping out of that office. Kelsey rose to meet him, instinctively clutching at the crystal pendant hanging beneath her sweater and camisole, warming her skin.
“Detective Banning?”
He nodded and extended his hand. “Ms. Ryan.”
Since she still wore her turquoise gloves, she didn’t hesitate to clasp his hand and exchange a polite, professional greeting. It might be the only civility she’d find here this morning.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to the straight-backed chair beside his desk, then sat in his own chair and pivoted to face her. “So you found out something about the Holiday Hooker murders you’d like to report?”
Kelsey glanced down at the black leather backpack propped beside her chair and thought of the box with its well-wrapped doll tucked away inside. She wanted to hand over the tragic object with all its hate-filled psychic residue and get its poisonous influence out of her life.
But that would be disloyal to that sad, frightened woman whom she’d gotten to know so well in her last few seconds of existence.
Kelsey’s grandmother had taught her to use her curse as a gift. Grandma Lucy Belle had said that by helping others who couldn’t be helped in any other way, her inherited talent would feel less like a burden. Kelsey’s grandmother had been so wise. So loving. She wouldn’t disappoint the faith Lucy Belle had had in her.
Detective Banning was watching her with more politeness than patience when she looked up. Letting the calmness of the blue crystal pendant her grandmother had given her work its spell over her nerves, Kelsey took a deep breath. She rested her elbow on the corner of the detective’s desk and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You understand that I don’t always see evidence in the same way you do, Mr. Banning.”
His green eyes filled with skepticism. “So I’ve heard.” He thumbed through some papers on his desk, but she had a feeling he wasn’t reading any of them. “Captain Taylor tells me you had a dream about a murder last night, and called it in.”
Kelsey sat back, disappointed, but not surprised by his misinformation.
“I don’t dream this stuff up, Detective.” She adopted her most succinct, teaching-the-uneducated voice and explained. “I possess a psychic ability to sense things. When I put my mind to it, or when my guard is down like it was last night, I can see things especially clearly. When I touch people or objects, I pick up emotions, memories—”
“You predict the future.”
Kelsey bristled. “No. It doesn’t work like that. I can’t help you win the lottery. Sometimes I can sense what a person is thinking or feeling about the future, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. I have better luck reading the residue of something that’s already taken place in the past.”
“Luck, huh?”
Poor choice of words. She’d set herself up for that one. “Look, Banning, do you want to know what I saw or not?”
He nodded, but she didn’t see any glimmer of understanding lighting his eyes. “Okay. So you touched something last night, got a little freaky sensation and called the cops.”
Crude and suggestive, but basically accurate. Kelsey decided to let the lesson drop and continued on. “I believe I’ve accidentally come across an object that has something to do with one of those prostitutes who’ve been murdered around Christmas and New Year’s over the last decade.”
“Nine murders in eleven years,” he clarified. But he didn’t ask about the object.
She nudged her backpack with her boot, grateful for all the layers separating her from the doll’s frightening aura. “I don’t know if this is something that belonged to one of the victims or to the killer.”
His gaze dropped to the backpack, as well. “Don’t tell me you found the murder weapon?”
“No. But it’s something one of them touched. I’m sure of that.”
“So you found some object that somebody touched, and you think it will solve the case for us?”
Mr. Uptight Suit-’n-Tie wasn’t going to give her a break. “Look, I don’t presume to do your job. But since the murders haven’t been solved yet, I assumed you might appreciate a little help. I’d like a chance to explain what I know.”
He was already standing up by the time she finished her lecture. “So this could take a while, right? Why don’t I get us some coffee. How do you take yours? Black? Cream or sugar?”
Kelsey tipped her gaze up to his, refusing to be so easily dismissed. “Both, please.”
With a curt nod, he strode across the room. Kelsey watched him move. While she regrouped her tranquility and determination with some deep, even breathing, the analytical part of her mind strayed. She wondered if Detective Banning, with more control than grace in his movements, had one leg shorter than the other. And whether the stiffness of his right knee was the cause of his limp or the result of it.
She knew one way to find some answers.
But touching Merle Banning, skin to skin, wasn’t an option she wanted to pursue. Hadn’t she freaked out enough men over the years by holding hands or sharing a kiss?
Of course, she could always think about her disastrous relationship with Jeb if she ever needed a reminder about why she had no business getting involved with a man. His cruel jokes and abusive words should have been enough to kill any interest she might have in the male species.
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