Covert M.D. (2 page)

Damn. Now what was she going to do? Her car was parked in the main garage on the other side of the hospital, so there was no way she could follow the men. Unless…

Her eyes narrowed on the back bumper of the van, which was fitted with a hydraulic cargo lift. The lift was wide and flat, with plenty of hand holds. She could jump right on.

She touched her back pocket and was reassured by the shape of her miniature tool kit. Given the chance, she might even be able to get the van open.

Cadaver Man reached up and pulled the loading dock’s garage door down, but the vehicle was still visible through a smaller opening nearby.

Nia’s heart pounded as the van’s engine started up. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her dark jeans and slipped out from the hiding spot.

“I can do this,” she said, reaching for the latch of the outer door as Cadaver Man ground the gears, searching for first. “I can do this. I can—”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Rough hands grabbed Nia, spun her and shoved her up against the wall, into the deep shadows. She panicked and screeched in terror.

Her assailant was taller than she, though only by seven
or eight inches, and his rangy body jostled against hers as they struggled. She shoved against him. “Let me go!”

Oh, God, had she missed a third man? Panic spurted through her veins, and she shot an elbow at her attacker’s chin in a one-two move that her self-defense instructor had assured her should be followed by a knee to the groin.

Her captor blocked the elbow, but his grip slackened. “Nadia?”

She knew his voice instantly, but it was too late to stop the “two” of her one-two attack. She kneed him right where it hurt. Hard.

Rathe McKay, the most famous of HFH’s investigators—and Nia’s first lover—went pale, sank to the floor and wheezed.

Outside, the van revved and pulled away, its occupants unaware of the scuffle behind them on the loading dock.

Nia stood, stunned, as emotions battled within her. Guilt that she’d hurt him. Confusion as to why he’d sneaked up on her and why he was even in the hospital. And above all else, excitement at seeing him again after all this time.

Although his desertion had nearly destroyed her before, he still had the ability to leave her breathless. Because, damn it, even curled up on the floor, swearing, Rathe McKay looked good to her. Real good.

His close-cropped hair was lighter than she remembered, prematurely silver, though he was only thirty-eight. The seven years since she’d last seen him had
added new lines to his angular face, making him look older than his calendar age even as they added to his appeal. His wide shoulders and chest spoke of coiled energy, and his arms and legs still boasted the leashed power she remembered, the grace that could carry him soundlessly through rainforests or dance him elegantly through the classiest ballroom.

And his eyes, when he opened them, still stared through her as though he could see into her soul.

“Rathe, I’m so sorry—” Horrified guilt swamped the shock. She offered a hand, but paused when a terrible possibility occurred. She withdrew her hand. “What are you doing here?”

He scowled, though something else moved in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or wariness. Then those abstract emotions were gone, blanked out by the familiar stoniness. “I should’ve known something was wrong when Wainwright wouldn’t tell me who I’d be training.”

Rathe was her mentor?
No. Impossible. Her stomach roiled, though there could be no other explanation for his presence at Boston General in the wee hours of the morning. But how had their boss, Jack Wainwright, managed it? Everyone knew Rathe McKay only took exotic assignments overseas. And more important, everyone knew he didn’t work with women.

Nia was one of the few who knew why.

Dismay pounded in her temples. She couldn’t work with Rathe. He would ruin everything.

“No,” she whispered. “This can’t be happening.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Rathe cursed in Russian, his
voice dark and rich like the language. “Was that kick for—” he sucked in a pained breath and straightened slowly “—self-defense, or for what happened before?”

The question jabbed right beneath her heart. She wasn’t prepared for this. Wasn’t prepared for
him.

“Before?” Though guilt stung—she wouldn’t have kicked him if he’d identified himself as friend rather than foe—she wasn’t willing to apologize again. Wasn’t willing to be vulnerable to him again. She crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling to buy a steadying moment. For all the times she’d thought about seeing Rathe again, this scenario didn’t even come close to what she’d imagined. “Let me see. Would that be
before
when you took my virginity, kicked me out of your hotel room and disappeared without a word…or
before
when my father,
your best friend,
begged you to come visit him on his deathbed and you never showed?”

Eyes dark, Rathe advanced on her, walking gingerly. She stood her ground and lifted her chin so she could glare scalpels at him, though her stomach knotted with nerves and a flare of traitorous warmth. They stared at each other for a heartbeat. Two.

Finally he turned away, muttering, “This is why women shouldn’t be allowed in Investigations—they can’t separate their personal lives from their professional ones.”

And there it was. Rathe McKay’s motto: Women Don’t Belong in the Field. Period.

Denial howled in Nia’s head, in her heart, but she held the emotions in check because, damn it, he was
right. This wasn’t the time or place to bring up the past. She had a job to do.

And part of that job was proving to her HFH mentor that she was a capable investigator, fully ready to work in the field.

So she found a frosty smile that hopefully showed nothing of her tumultuous emotions. “You’re right. I apologize for being unprofessional. What’s done is done. Jack Wainwright said he was pairing me with an older, more experienced investigator, so I suppose I should be honored he chose you. You’re as old and experienced as they get.”

It was a low blow, aimed at what her father had laughingly called Rathe’s Methuselah complex. Though only ten years her senior, the HFH superoperative had always acted twice that.

He narrowed his eyes and scowled. “There won’t be an investigation. I’m calling Wainwright in the morning and having you reassigned. This is no place for…” He gestured as though the words were unnecessary.

“This is no place for a woman?” Nia clenched her fists at her sides. Though the HFH Head Office didn’t discriminate, there were a few old warhorses who did. Rathe, who’d been in the field more than fifteen years already, considered himself one of them.

“This is no place for Tony’s daughter!” He grabbed her by the arms and shook her as though she was eighteen years old again and he’d caught her prying into his field notes. “For God’s sake, Nadia. You know this isn’t what your father wanted for you. What would he say?”

Righteous anger speared through her. “He’s dead. The last thing he said on this earth was, ‘Where’s Rathe?’” And for that she had hated them both.

Emotion darkened his eyes, though she wasn’t sure that it was remorse. He spread his hands. “Nadia, for what it’s worth, I’m—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, not willing to hear the apology, not willing to let him think that a betrayal of such magnitude could be scrubbed away with a few words. “Don’t bother. You’re right, this isn’t the time or the place for personal conversations. We have a job to do.”

She turned and stalked toward the freight elevators at the far end of the subbasement.

“Nadia.” His voice seemed to caress the word, bringing back memories best left unremembered.

She stopped and glanced back, steeling herself against the sight of him, strong and virile, an image that could have stepped out of her aching, mindless dreams.

Or her nightmares.

“I prefer to be called Nia now. Nadia is a child’s name, and I’m not a child anymore.” She lifted her chin, daring him to comment. “We have a meeting with the heads of the Transplant Department at 9:00 a.m. sharp—don’t be late.”

This time she didn’t look back, not even when he called her name. They had three hours until the meeting. She’d need every minute of that to prepare herself for the case.

And to armor herself against the disturbing presence of Rathe McKay.

BY NINE THAT MORNING, Rathe was back to walking upright as he stalked through Boston General, but his temper hadn’t mellowed much.

It was temper, he assured himself. Temper that had his blood surging through his veins with a tricky tingling sensation. Temper that had him feeling more alive, more engaged than he had in months or maybe longer.

Temper.

What was Wainwright thinking, partnering him with a woman trainee? He didn’t work with women. And even if he did, Nadia French was the last girl he’d choose.

Rathe shook his head, annoyed. No, that wasn’t right. This was about her being a woman, not about her being Tony’s daughter or about a mistake he’d once made in an airport hotel.

His refusal to work with the opposite gender was based on logic and experience. Period. There was nothing personal about it, and nothing personal between him and Nadia.

Sure, his first glimpse of her had been a kick in the gut, a surge of warmth and energy, but that was only basic man-woman biology. His yang approving of her yin. Nothing personal.

Her thick, dark hair was shorter than he remembered. In fact,
she
was shorter than he remembered, as though his mind had decided her scrappy personality couldn’t fit inside such a tiny shell. He’d remembered her eyes right, though. Dark brown, swirling with darker prom
ises, they used to look at him with adoration, as though he was the hero he’d once thought himself.

Now they shone with anger. That was personal. And it was unacceptable in a partner.

Already five minutes late for the briefing, Rathe ducked into a windowed alcove and punched his superior’s number into his mid-wave cell phone, a high-tech HFH toy certified safe for use in hospitals. When Jack Wainwright answered, Rathe wasted no time with pleasantries. “I want her off the case. Now.”

There was a rumble of amusement. Jack had trained Rathe himself, back before a stray bullet had landed the older man behind a desk. There was respect between the two but little reverence. “McKay. I didn’t expect to hear from you until at least nine-fifteen. The meeting can’t have even started yet.”

“It hasn’t. I met my
partner
in the laundry room at 2:00 a.m. this morning. She was getting a jump on the case. She doesn’t seem to get that investigators never,
ever
go Lone Ranger.” It was HFH policy, and might be enough to convince Jack to pull her off the job.

“You were there, too, so don’t pretend you give a damn about policy.” Jack’s shrug carried down the line. “I know you don’t work with women, McKay, but it’s not like you two are in the middle of a war zone. It’s a bit of petty drug trafficking at a well-funded urban hospital. Enjoy it.”

Rathe gritted his teeth, knowing the cushy assignment was Jack’s way of saying he thought Rathe needed a break from the real action. “She’s a liability.”

“No, she’s not. She’s a transplant specialist, she’s fearless, and she was requested by name.” Jack’s voice hardened into a direct order. “Use her. Teach her. This is what the next generation of HFH investigators looks like, McKay. Get used to it.”

The phone went dead in Rathe’s hand, and he scowled.

Enjoy it. Get used to it.
Jack’s words replayed in his mind as he jogged up the stairs to the sixth floor, which housed the Transplant Unit.

Fine. They thought he was burned out? He’d show them. He’d make this the fastest, cleanest investigation they’d ever seen. And he’d do it handicapped with a female partner.

He hit the top of the stairs, and an echo of heat reminded him that it wasn’t that simple.

His partner was Nadia French. Nia. Tony’s daughter.

Rathe had wanted to see his old friend one last time, had ached to apologize, to forgive and be forgiven and to hold Nadia when her father died.

But sometimes a man had to break a promise to keep a promise. And so he had stayed away.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the doors into the office of the director of transplant medicine.

“You’re late.” From her chair on the visitor’s side of the lake-size desk, Nia frowned at him. “I’ve already told Dr. Talbot about the men with the suspicious laundry hamper, and the van with the—”

“I’ll take it from here,” he interrupted. “Try to remember that I hold seniority on this case.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, sir, Dr. McKay, sir.”

Rathe ignored her and held out a hand to the older of the two men in the room, a distinguished, white-haired gentleman sporting a bow tie and elegant, steel-rimmed glasses. “I’m Rathe McKay.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. McKay. Your reputation as the medical community’s answer to Indiana Jones precedes you.” The older man’s handshake was firm. “Michael Talbot. And this,” the director of transplant gestured to his companion, a handsome, well-groomed man, “is my assistant director, Logan Hart.”

The assistant director nodded but didn’t offer a hand. In his early thirties, Hart exuded breeding and education from the ends of his professionally sculpted hair to the tips of his tasseled black leather shoes. He looked a far cry from Rathe, who’d gone from the foster-care system straight to a combined undergraduate/medical degree on an HFH scholarship.

And where had that thought come from, Rathe wondered. He was the man he’d become, not the boy he’d been.

Frowning, he took the visitor’s chair beside Nia and focused his attention on the men. “My superior has been in direct contact with your administration. I expect you to grant me all of the necessary access and let me run my own investigation. In exchange I’ll provide you a written report of my findings once a week. Is that clear?”

There was dead silence in the office as the balance of power shifted neatly into Rathe’s hands—which had been his intention. He needed to take control of the situation right away.