Читать книгу Doing It Right - MaryJanice Davidson - Страница 13

The next night, Jared was still thinking about the woman and still mentally yelling at himself to forget about her. You’ll never see her again, he told himself, followed by, Also, the whole thing was probably a hallucination brought on by too much paperwork. Proof that spending too much time on chart work is bad for you. Trouble was, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Even now, when he was supposed to be snoozing in the third-floor on-call room, he was tossing and turning on the narrow, smelly bunk, fantasizing about what’s-her-name instead of getting the sleep he needed. And the first rule of internship and residency was to sleep whenever you could. Sleep standing up if you had to.

He’d asked around, but no one knew of a beautiful blond goddess who ran like a deer and punched like a middleweight champion. Some of the nurses had suggested it was time he started dating again. One of the orderlies told him once he got more sleep, the hallucinations would stop. That was the trouble with being the hospital wiseass … when you had a serious problem, no one believed it.

Tap-tap.

Hell, it wasn’t like he was hard up for female companionship. He worked with at least ten female docs and three times that many nurses. Not to mention X-ray techs, the lab ladies, the social workers—heck, wasn’t the hospital chaplain a woman? One of the benefits of being an ER doc was that he got to visit all the wards, got to meet all the—

Tap-tap.

—staff outside his department and he should just—

Tap-tap-tap.

“What the hell is that?” he muttered, getting up and crossing the room. He had a flashback to one of his literature classes. “Who is that tapping, tapping at my chamber door?” he boomed, pulling back the curtain and expecting to see … he wasn’t sure. A branch, rasping across the glass? A pigeon? Instead, he found himself gazing into a face ten inches from his own. “Aaiiggh!”

It was her. Crouched on the ledge, perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet, she had one small fist raised, doubtless ready to knock again. When she saw him, she gestured patiently to the lock. He dimly noticed she was dressed like a normal person instead of a burglar—navy leggings and a matching turtleneck—and wondered why she wasn’t shivering with cold.

He groped for the latch, dry-mouthed with fear for her. They were three stories up! If she should lose her balance … if a gust of wind should come up … The latch finally yielded to his fumbling fingers and he wrenched the window open, grabbing for her. She leaned back, out of the reach of his arms, and his heart stopped—actually stopped, ka-THUD!—in his chest. He backpedaled away from the window. “Okay, okay, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, now would you please get your ass in here?”

She raised her eyebrows at him and complied, swinging one leg over the ledge and stepping down into the room as lightly as a ballerina. He collapsed on the cot, clutching his chest. “Could you please not ever ever do that again?” he gasped. “Christ! My heart! What’s going on? How’d you get up there? Did the nurses lock all the entrances again? They do that when they’re overworked—”

“‘Quoth the Raven, nevermore’,” she said, and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the pot set up next to the window. At his surprised gape, she smiled a little and tapped her ear. “Thin glass. I heard you through the window. ‘While I pondered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping, rapping at my chamber door.’ I think that’s how it goes. Poe was high most of the time, so it’s hard to tell. Also, the man you saw me bludgeon into unconsciousness dropped a dime on you today.”

“He what?”

“Dropped a dime. Rolled you over. Put you out. Phoned you in. Wants to clock you. Wants to drop you. Made arrangements to have you killed, pronto. Sugar?”

“No thanks,” he said numbly.

“I mean,” she said patiently, “is there sugar?”

He pointed to the last locker on the left and thought to warn her too late. When she opened it (first wrapping her sleeve around her hand, he noticed, as she had with the coffee pot handle), several hundred tea bags, salt packets, and sugar cubes tumbled out, free of their overstuffed, poorly stacked boxes. She quickly stepped back, avoiding the rain of sweetener, then bent, picked a cube off the floor, blew on it, and dropped it into her cup. She shoved the locker door with her knee until it grudgingly shut, trapping a dozen or so tea bags and sugar packets in the bottom with a grinding sound that set his teeth on edge.

She went to the door, thumbed the lock with her sleeve, then came back and sat down at the rickety table opposite the cot. She took a tentative sip of her coffee and then another, not so tentative. He was impressed—the hospital coffee tasted like primeval mud, as it boiled and reboiled all day and night. “So that’s the scoop,” she said casually.

“You’re here to kill me?” he asked, trying to keep up with the twists and turns of the last forty seconds. “You’re the hitman? Hitperson?” Who knocked for entry? he added silently.

“Me? Do wet work?” She threw her head back and pealed laughter at the ceiling. She had, he noticed admiringly, a great laugh. Her hair was plaited in a long blond braid that reached halfway down her back. He wondered what it would look like unbound and spread across his pillow. “Oh, that’s very funny, Dr. Dean.”

“Thanks, I’ve got a million of ’em.” Pause. “How did you know my name?”

She smiled. It was a nice smile, warm, with no condescension. “It wasn’t hard to find out.”

“What’s your name?” he asked boldly. He should have been nervous about the locked door, about the threat to his life. He wasn’t. Instead, he was delighted at the chance to talk to her, after a day of thinking about her and wondering how she was—who she was.

“Kara.”

“That’s gorgeous,” he informed her, “and I, of course, am not surprised. You’re so pretty! And so deadly,” he added with relish, “you’re like one of those flowers that people can’t resist picking and then—bam! Big-time rash.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I think.” She blushed, which gave her high color and made her eyes bluer. He stared, besotted. He didn’t think women blushed anymore. He didn’t think women who beat up thugs blushed at all. He was very much afraid his mouth was hanging open, and he was unable to do a thing about it. “Dr. Dean—”

“Umm?”

“—I’m not sure you understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“Long, tall, and ugly is out to get me,” he said, sitting down opposite her. He shoved a pile of charts aside; several clattered to the floor and she watched them fall, amused. “But since you’re not the hitman, I’m not too worried.”

“Actually, I’m your self-appointed bodyguard.”

“Oh, well, then I’m not worried at all,” he said with feigned carelessness, while his brain chewed that one—bodyguard?—over.

“You could take on an assassin with one hand while writing a grocery list with the other. You’re certainly a match for whoever that guy sends after me. So, do I pay you? Should we even be talking about money? What’s the etiquette here?”

She blinked. “Uh … that won’t be necessary. Dr. Dean—”

“Jared.”

“—may I say, you’re taking this remarkably well?”

“Work in an ER for a year,” he said, suddenly grim. “You learn to recover your equilibrium pretty damned quickly.”

“Touché,” she said quietly.

“So now what?”

“Now you don’t get killed.”

“I mean, what happens now? What do we do?”

“We?”

“We’ve got to sic the cops on the bad guy, right? Do we, er, drop a dime on him?”

“No cops!” she yelped, startling him. She hadn’t been this rattled when Uggo had been trying to smash her face in. “We’ll keep you out of trouble until this blows over. End of plan.”

“Blows over?” he practically shouted. “I have to—we have to put our lives on hold until ole One Eyebrow goes away? Forgive me, but I thought you were a little more pro-active than that.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, “but when the law is involved, I can’t be as pro-active as I’d like.”

“But … aren’t you in trouble, too? Won’t Jerk-off try to kill you?”

“Oh, he’s been trying,” she said casually, as if a large, frightening, ugly man trying to kill her was of as much consequence as a threatened spring shower. “For years. He’ll never get me. Too dumb. Too slow.”

“Too lame a bad guy, sounds like,” he muttered. “It’s almost embarrassing to be on his shit list.”

She frowned. “This is serious. You’re a sitting duck because you’re different.”

“You mean because I have two eyebrows?”

She giggled into her cup and he was absurdly pleased with himself. “I mean, you’re a citizen. A taxpayer, one of the good guys. Not like Carlotti.”

He pounced. “Not like you?”

The smile vanished, poof! “You ask a lot of questions, Dr. Dean.”

“Jared. And you’re still in trouble with this guy, same as I am. Who’s going to look out for you? I mean, if you get sick or short of breath or have chest pains, I’m your man, but if a hit squad starts shooting at you to shut you up, I’ll be the one cowering in the corner with my hands over my ears.”

She smiled and tried to hide it, but he saw it and grinned back at her. “Carlotti knows he has nothing to fear from me in court,” she explained, getting up to refill her cup. She disdained the sugar locker and drank it black, making an appreciative face. He couldn’t believe it—of all the things to happen this evening, beautiful Kara enjoying the hospital’s interpretation of coffee was the strangest. “I can’t testify against him.”

She didn’t elaborate, but Jared was able to figure that one out. There were only two reasons not to testify against anyone: fear—which Kara didn’t seem to know the meaning of—and having something to hide. You didn’t testify for the D.A. if the D.A. had something on you as well.

He wondered what she had done.

“So let’s go see the D.A.,” he said, seizing the bull by the horns.

“You may, if you like,” she said quietly, “but you’ll go alone and I would prefer to wait and see what happens.”

Which meant she knew a lot more than she was telling. He had the feeling that if he insisted on seeing the D.A., he’d for a fact never see her again.

He instantly decided that was an unacceptable course of action. Screw the risk to his personal health! He had to get to know this woman.

“So … what?”

“We wait until Carlotti is arrested. It shouldn’t be long. A lot of people are looking for him.” She said that with cool relish and he made a mental note to never get on her bad side. “When he’s arrested, you’re out of danger.”

“Doesn’t he have hench-thugs who could still get me?”

She nodded. “In theory. But they won’t make a move without him breathing in their ears. You can see the D.A.—his name is Thomas Wechter, by the way, second floor of the courthouse, take a left past the water fountain—and tell him your story, tell him you’re willing to testify, ask to see the rest of his case. If he has one.”

“What about you?” he asked, trying once again, even though he knew it was useless. The same tenacity that made other doctors literally pull him off a DOA wouldn’t let him back away from this. “You were wronged by Carstupidi. You should testify that he tried to kill you! I mean, Jesus, that big bully, if you hadn’t cleaned his clock, I would have.”

She snorted and he raised an eyebrow at her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just picturing you and Carlotti—but you were talking about the D.A. I can’t testify. It’s all up to you.”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked boldly, sure she’d rebuff him, or deny fear. Instead, she just gave him a level look.

“Nothing I could explain to you,” she said quietly, then got up, poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and walked to the window. She took the cup with her, he noticed. After a moment, he got it—she was so paranoid, she wouldn’t take a chance on leaving fingerprints behind. Interesting. “See you around, Dr. Dean. I’ll be in touch.” She stepped up to the windowsill.

“It’s Jared,” he yelled, darting after her, “and use the door, for God’s sake! Look, it’s right here.” He rattled the doorknob invitingly; she ignored him. “I can walk you to the main entrance. Ha! Some bodyguard!” he screamed and that got her attention; she paused and turned, looking at him over her shoulder, one foot already on the ledge. “Leaving me here to rot! I’m easy pickings for Carlotti’s hench-morons.”

She smiled. “Hardly. I’ll be close. Good night.” “Wait!” But the window closed firmly and when he darted to it to look out, it was so dark he couldn’t see her anymore.

Ten hours later, he let himself into his apartment. A long shift, but a busy and rewarding one—only one death and that one a DNR, an eighty-seven-year-old woman who had been praying for death for the better part of a year, according to her calmly tearful daughter. Tough, but it could have been so much worse. Was so much worse, frequently.

He often wondered how he had ended up where he was—a physician, someone who dealt with death every day. In school he’d been an amiable goof-off, the class clown, never taking anything or anyone seriously. Strange that he had been drawn to a career that was, at times, absolutely the furthest thing from humorous.

It wasn’t that he’d lost someone close to him, had been marked forever by the death of a parent or close friend. Hell, he’d never had so much as a pet die on him. But in college he’d taken an EMT course, and as part of the training he had to volunteer at a busy metro hospital.

Looking at the suffering around him, he watched the doctors and nurses ease that suffering, pull off miracle cures, reunite families. He remembered thinking, That looks a helluva lot more satisfying than working in an office or going out to L.A. to do stand-up. Making people laugh is one thing. Giving them their lives back is another. He had gone home that night and applied to five premed programs. His father, seeing his slack-ass son filling out college applications instead of watching Friends reruns, had nearly wept with relief.

He was walking through the living room, intent on the kitchen and a sandwich, when he saw Kara was deeply asleep on his couch, curled under a yellow fleece throw. He nearly walked into the end table.

He turned around, tiptoed back to his front door, and examined the lock. Absolutely no signs of tampering. Then he walked to the windows, which were all locked on the inside. The woman was a marvel, a ghost—a rich woman if she ever decided to use her powers to aid the forces of evil.

He went to stand over her again, wanting to talk to her, but also wanting to let her sleep. If she had stayed close, as she said she would—and he didn’t think she would lie to him—she’d had a long day, most of it probably spent huddled on ledges. She hadn’t heard him come in through the door and he hadn’t been taking particular care to be quiet. Clearly she was exhausted. He would let her sleep.

Except …

Except her hair, in the faint gleam from the streetlight, was muted gold, the color of nuggets brought up from the river, gleaming dully among the pebbles and worth thousands. It was the first time he’d seen it down and he itched to touch, caress …

He reached out a trembling hand and stroked her hair where it curved along her skull, realizing with happy dismay that he was falling in love with a woman he knew nothing about, not even her last name.

It was his last happy thought for a while. She came awake like a cat in the dark—one minute dead to the world, the next utterly alert. Her hand came up, seized his wrist in a grip slightly less breakable than handcuffs, and pulled. Hard. He rocketed toward her and somehow—he didn’t think this was possible to do from a prone position—she flipped him over the end of the couch. She didn’t let go of his wrist and a split second later he was on his butt in the dust and she was looking down at him from the back of the couch, still holding his wrist, which started to throb from the pressure.

“For heaven’s sake,” she complained, letting go. “Don’t scare me like that.”

He could feel his eyes bulge. “Don’t scare you?” he croaked, climbing slowly to his feet. “You’re the one who broke in, dammit! Jesus Christ, I come into my apartment—my apartment—and here you are, dead to the world, a—a breaker and enterer—”

“I didn’t break,” she said reasonably. “Just entered.”

“—and then you wake up and kick my ass all over my own living room. Who scared who?” He finished standing and was pleasantly surprised to find his legs were supporting him. His heart rate felt quite high—like about six hundred. “Some bodyguard!”

She snorted, then the snort turned into a laugh. She choked off the sound almost at once and looked at him, stone-faced. “I apologize for startling you. Something woke me up—”

He coughed, knowing his pawing her hair had been what awakened her and unwilling to impart that information at the moment.

“—and then I saw a large man—”

“A large, incredibly handsome, virile man,” he interrupted.

“—leaning over me and I acted instinctively. How’s the wrist? Good thing I didn’t break it on the way down,” she added thoughtfully.

“Yes, that is a good thing. I retract my whining. Instead I’ll count my blessings. You could have broken my arm, caved in my skull, reached into my chest, and pulled out my still beating heart and showed it to me.”

She looked away. “I’m not quite that bad. You have—” she eyed him as he hustled toward the kitchen, remembering he hadn’t eaten in seven hours—”admirable equilibrium.”

“That’s what all my bodyguards say,” he replied affably over his shoulder. “How about some breakfast?”

“That would be lovely,” she admitted, carefully folding the blanket she had been using. She placed it gently at the end of the couch and followed him into the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind my coming here. I didn’t hurt your lock—”

“I don’t mind,” he assured her. “You can come over anytime. Do you want a key?”

“It’s not necessary,” she said with a straight face.

“I know that. But maybe it’ll be a little faster than picking my lock every … No?” She shook her head. “Ho, boy. That’s some childhood you must have had.”

She changed the subject—but later, when he thought about the conversation, he realized she hadn’t changed it at all. “How is the little boy?”

He looked up from removing ingredients from the refrigerator. “Little boy?”

She perched on a stool beside the counter. “He came in the ER with multiple stab wounds. Red hair, about seven years old?”

“Ah. He was stable when I left. Amazingly, the bastard who did the cutting managed to miss virtually every major organ and blood vessel. His mother’s boyfriend,” Jared added, whipping eggs in a stainless steel bowl. “Carved the kid up when Mama left him. In Cleopatra’s time, they used strangulation as the death penalty. Kind of makes you long for the good old days, huh?”

She nodded seriously, though he had—he thought he had—been joking. Dark humor, the kind he took refuge in when terrible things happened to little kids. To anyone. “Someone should kill the boyfriend,” she said matter-of-factly. “That kind never stops.” She drummed her fingers on the counter, thinking.

“Now wait a minute,” he protested. “I can see you trying to fit killing the boyfriend into your busy schedule—between bodyguarding me and grocery shopping and single-handedly cracking every safe on the block—and you’ve got to forget it. If you killed everybody you thought deserved it, you’d never be done.”

“Don’t you think someone who stabs a little boy five times deserves to be removed from the planet?”

“I think it’s not our call.”

She snorted, such an incongruous sound with her delicate exterior that he nearly laughed out loud. “Spoken like a true sheep.”

He grated cheese irritably. “What, because I don’t go around like Vince the Vigilante, I’m a sheep?”

“No,” she said patiently, “you’re a sheep because you don’t right wrongs.”

He slammed the bowl on the counter and leaned across it, until his face was two inches from hers. “I had that child’s blood up to my elbows,” he said evenly. “Don’t tell me I don’t right wrongs.” He leaned back, forcing his temper down. “And how’d you know about the kid, anyway? I didn’t see you in the ER all night.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t be sorry, just use the door once in a while so I can see you coming and going.”

She didn’t smile, just looked at him with serious eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes,” he said, whittling away at a shallot until it was a delicate pile of white and purple shavings. “I know and I accept with thanks. For the record, I run into plenty of people whose lungs I’d like to remove without benefit of anesthesia. But if I concentrated on that, I couldn’t do my job. Saving lives is more important to me than avenging them.”

She shifted on her stool, causing the white T-shirt she wore to mold to her breasts for a moment. He looked away before he accidentally cut off his thumb. “That sounds nice. You’re great at your job, I could tell. The nurses,” she added dryly, “seem especially impressed with your … hands.”

He waved the knife at her. “Go on,” he said modestly.

“It’s true.”

“I said go on. Do they talk about how tall I am, how handsome, how smart, how I’m the most fascinating man they’ve ever known, the finest doctor, the best volleyball player?”

“They talk about how it’s been a while since you were caught in the meds closet with one of the orthopedic surgeons.”

He winced. “One time! It was only one time. I was young.”

“It was last year.”

“I’ve grown decades since then in wisdom. What else do you want in your omelet?”

“Whatever you’re having. Don’t change the subject. Are you still seeing her?”

“God, no.” He poured two large glasses of milk. “She used me to get even with her fiancé. A ten-minute grope in the closet and she was off to confess her infidelity and demand he start paying attention to her, uh, needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me,” he said gloomily, sliding the raw egg mixture into the pan. “And somehow I ended up with this ridiculous stud reputation. Most of the women who come on to me are looking for a no-commitment quickie and the ones I’d like to get to know think I’m a pig and won’t have anything to do with me.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, and he jerked his head up at her tone. She hadn’t sounded sympathetic. She’d sounded almost … pleased?

“It’s what I deserve,” he sighed, “for giving in to her womanly wiles.”

“What about your wiles? More milk, please,” she added when he opened the fridge to put the carton away.

“I am wile-less. And you never answered my question—how’d you know about the boy? And the orthopedic surgeon, for that matter,” he added under his breath.

“It’s an inner-city emergency room,” she pointed out, looking on with interest as he slid a perfect omelet onto her plate. “I could walk in on my hands and the only one to notice would be the triage nurse and the only thing she’d want to know was my insurance number.”

“Can you?” he asked, beginning to cook his own omelet.

“What?” she asked with her mouth full.

“Walk on your hands?”

She swallowed, dabbed her lips—full and pouty, his mind reported uselessly—grinned at him, then arched backward on her stool. In a moment her head and torso had disappeared and he could see her legs receding as she carefully walked away from him on her hands.

He applauded. She came back to her feet, slightly flushed and looking pleased, and took her seat, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “You’re amazing,” he said admiringly. “You can do everything.”

“You wouldn’t like me if you really knew me,” she said, then pressed her lips together so hard they went white. He had the feeling she wasn’t in the habit of making candid comments to near strangers.

“What’s not to like?” he said, trying to sound casual, to cover up the bald truth in his question.

She shook her head at him and finished her omelet in silence. “Wonderful,” she said, pushing the empty plate away. “The best breakfast I ever had. Where did you learn to cook?”

“My dad was a chef.”

“Was?”

“He and my mom retired and moved to North Carolina. Now they golf and wear ugly clothes and make fun of the tourists. It’s a shameful thing, I’ve been searching for a cure for them. Where are your folks?” He rinsed the plates in silence, sure she wouldn’t answer him.

“Dead,” she said finally. “They died when I was just a kid. I went to a foster family the week after they died, and when my foster mother broke my arm I ran away.”

“Jesus.” He crossed the room, wanting to take her into his arms, not sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s no big deal,” she said quickly. “It’s not like I remember my parents. You don’t miss what you never had.”

“Wrong, gorgeous. That’s the stuff you miss most of all.” And carefully, so carefully, he put his arms around her and drew her close.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at his mouth.

“Want to bet?”

Her mouth was a dream, the nicest dream he’d ever had, all sweet lips and lush softness. She pressed against him and he felt her breasts flatten slightly against his chest, felt her arms come around him, felt her mouth bloom beneath his. She sighed into his mouth and he shuddered, balling his hands into fists so he wouldn’t tear off her clothes and take her on the kitchen tile, which hadn’t been mopped since he was a med student. He heard her make a sound, some sound, a cross between a growl and a whimper, and heard himself groan in response. Then she came to herself—or perhaps came away from herself, back to the cool exterior she liked to show the world—and stiffened, took her arms away and pushed him back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not very, but not interested in gaining a black eye either, “but you’re so beautiful and—and good, I can’t resist you.”

She looked startled, then sad. “I’m not good. I’m bad. You should keep it in mind, Jared.” She touched her mouth, then looked at him with something like wonder.

“Anybody who has Carlotti for an enemy—who would protect a stranger from her enemy—isn’t bad.”

“I’ve done … terrible things. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he urged softly. He took a step toward her and she skittered back, nearly tripping over the stool to keep away from him. He was struck once again by the combination of power and vulnerability. She could snap his spine like a bread-stick, he was sure. And yet, she was afraid of his touch. “Or not,” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve done terrible things, too. In med school one time, I brought my cadaver to breakfast at the local Denny’s. Man,” he said nostalgically, “the food inspector sure got pissed. On the bright side, my cadaver was a cheap date.”

She giggled, then choked off the sound and looked at him severely. “No more of that,” she said. “I’m here to keep you safe for a few days, not to play wifey.”

“Don’t play wifey,” he said promptly, “marry me.”

“Ha, ha.”

He decided not to mention the fact that he wasn’t kidding. “So now what happens?” he asked.