Nerves of Steel (7 page)

"Just my luck. I ask the police for help, and they send the class clown. So, R. Michael Drake--"

"That's Detective R. Michael Drake."  He leaned against the gurney, seemingly relaxed.

"Detective," she amended.  "You're Commander Miller's idea of thoroughly investigating the FX case?  And you do that how, exactly?  By romping through the halls of the hospital?"

"That wasn't my fault, Dr. Hart.  I was just trying to keep you from making a scene and blowing my cover."  He frowned and stepped toward her so that only a single square of linoleum separated them.  "Just what were you thinking, chasing after me like that?"

Cassie's cheeks burned with embarrassment.  Looking away from him, she smoothed out her wrinkled scrub top, tucked it back into her pants, and tightened the drawstring.   "I wasn't planning on catching you." 

"What was your plan?"  His voice deepened with anger.  "You had no idea I was a cop.  What if I was the real deal?  Anything could have happened." 

He wrong.  Nothing would have happened.  Not right here in her own ER.

She started to tell him that, to point out the video camera that had begun recording as soon as the lights were turned on in the trauma room, but his expression was so damned smug, superior, that her own anger rose to the surface.

"If you people did your job, I wouldn't have to worry about the possibility that some lowlife was stealing drugs from my ER!"  She met his gaze head on.

"You can stop worrying now, I'm here."

"Right, and you're doing a hell of a job so far."

He leaned closer, and she thought for an instant that he was going to touch her.  His eyes darkened to a deep indigo.  She held his stare, ignoring the sudden kick in her pulse rate, and the moment passed. 

"You could have gotten hurt." 

"No, I wouldn't have." She needed to believe that, to hang on to some semblance of control, here on her turf.  "I didn't."

His lips clamped tight, and he took a deep breath before speaking again.   "Look, Dr. Hart.  You do your job and leave me to do mine.  No more amateur detective work.  You hear or see or find anything, you come to me." 

The last wasn't a request but an order thrown over his shoulder as he stormed out.

CHAPTER  11

Back at the nurses' station, Cassie scribbled a note on a resident's chart.  Tedious paperwork meant to distract her from what had happened in the trauma room with Drake.  She sighed, shoving the papers aside.  It was annoying to admit, but Drake was right.  The FX was a police problem, she should stay out of it.  Before someone got hurt.

"I've got Ortho for you," the desk clerk called out.

"It's about time.  That hip fracture has been waiting for hours.  What line are they on?"  She reached for the phone.

"They're, ah, right behind you." 

She turned around in her chair.  Leaning against the cubicle wall, his arms crossed and a smirk on his face, was a tall man with short blond hair and large gray eyes.  His white coat gleamed in the bright lights, pristine and wrinkle-free, making him look like a soap opera actor who had just stepped on stage.

"Ella," he drawled.  "Long time no see." 

Cold flooded Cassie's veins as tendrils of fear worked their way through her body.  She winced at his use of the nickname she hated, tried to grab onto anger, to force out the panic the sight of him brought.  "Richard."

He pushed himself from the wall and came over, grabbing the back of her chair, trapping her against the desk.  She shoved her chair back hard, banging into his legs, and rolling over one Ferragamo clad foot.  Childish, but it felt good.   Like maybe she was in control, could remain in control.  She spun out of the chair to face him on solid ground.

"Same ole Ella, I see."  He slid the chair out of the way.  Leaving no barricade between them.  He was dressed in blue scrubs and a surgical cap spilled over the rim of one of his pockets.

"I thought you lost your privileges."  A nurse glanced up at her raised voice, and Cassie fought to regain a façade of professionalism.  Her jaws ground together.  Leave it to Richard to get her flustered here in her own territory.

"Finished rehab and got reinstated."  He held out a hand.  "What, no hug, not even a handshake for your husband?"

"Ex-husband.  You're lucky I don't have a restraining order."  The words emerged clipped, filled with venom.  Good, hang on to the anger, it kept the fear at bay.

Richard's smile hardened.  "C'mon now, Ella.  You never got anything you didn't ask for.  Besides I know it was you that called the Medical Board and turned me in."

She wished.  But someone else had done her that favor.  "I'm not having this conversation."  She handed him a chart, forcing her hand to remain steady.  Her mouth was dry, parched by fear.  "Your patient is in room six." 

She turned and marched down the hall.  Footsteps echoed on the linoleum behind her.  She ducked into an empty suture room.

The door banged open, and she jumped.

"You still have feelings for me," Richard said, easing the door shut behind him.

Cassie backed away until the tile wall halted her.  Back to the wall.  Again.  Memories flooded over her.  Her heart began to pound as if trying to escape the cramped confines of her chest. She struggled against the knot of panic constricting her chest.  "Go take care of your patient, Richard.  You wouldn't want to lose your privileges again."

"Don't worry, that won't happen."  He straightened to his full height, towering over her.  "I'm a changed man."

"Fine.  I'm glad.  How about if you go do your job, and I'll do mine."  Wasn't that what Drake had told her earlier?  She wished the detective would make an appearance now.  Why was there never a cop around when you wanted one?

Richard reached out a hand.  Cassie flinched, old habits hard to break. 

"Ah, Ella, you're always so serious," he said, caressing her cheek.  "Don't you remember all the fun we had?"

"How would you know?"  She batted his hand away.  "You were drunk most of the time."

He took a deep breath, looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to her.  "I never said I was sorry, did I?"  His hand rested on her shoulder, and this time she did not flinch at his touch.  "That's one of my greatest regrets.  Losing you."

His voice was sincere, but Cassie knew Richard was an accomplished actor when it came to getting something he wanted.  She met his eyes.  A warm gray, they had promised her the world when they first met.  Promised now to grant her that dream once more.  Could he have changed that much in a year? 

She edged away.  "I've patients to see."

His fingers closed on her shoulder, and his other arm came up, boxing her in, her back against the tile wall.  She swallowed, gulped in air as if she was drowning.

"Ella, this is important."  A note of pleading entered his voice.  He leaned his body toward her.

The scent of his cologne overwhelmed her.  Drakkor Noir.  Once upon a time she had painstakingly chosen it for him, hoped that he would like it, yearning to please.  Now she inhaled its aroma and terror filled her, burning and choking.

The room seemed suddenly empty of oxygen, the walls moving in on her.  She felt dwarfed, a scared rabbit caught fast in the hand of a giant.  Cassie fought against the panic even more than she struggled against Richard's physical advances. 

"Get off me, Richard.  I swear I'll--" She clamped her lips shut, immediately realized her mistake.  Don't agitate him.  Don't fight back.  It will only make things worse.  Damn, when would she learn?

"You'll what?" he demanded.  "Call the Medical Board?  Afraid it'll be hard to play that card twice, Ella.  Especially when I've had squeaky clean drug tests.  Why can't you give me a chance?"

His leaned forward, his body pressing against hers, his erection obvious beneath the thin cotton scrubs.  She knew what would come next.  He would force her to her knees to finish arousing him, then he would take her on whatever surface was handy: the floor, the scrub sink, the gurney.  It wouldn't matter to Richard.  Not as long as he was in control.

Cassie wasn't about to let that happen.  She'd wasted almost three years of her life on him.  He wouldn't get another second.

She placed both hands against his chest and shoved him back.  Finally, air to breathe that wasn't polluted by the smell of his cologne.  She turned away, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Dammit, Ella.  What we had meant something.  You can't ignore it, pretend it never happened."  He spun her back to face him.  "One chance, is that too much to ask for?"

"Yes," she said.  His eyes narrowed, and she knew her small act of defiance would cost her dearly.  Richard was used to getting what he wanted out of life.  Rehab hadn't changed that.  His grip on her wrist tightened, and he raised her arm over her head, pinning her against the wall.

"You folks need anything?" came a voice from the doorway.

Richard jerked away.  Cassie slumped against the wall, shaking the blood back into her numb hand.  Drake, playing his role as an orderly, carried a stack of suture trays into the room.  How much had he seen? 

"Private conversation," Richard snapped.

"I'll just be a sec," Drake replied with an amiable grin.  "They asked me to stock in here."

The two men stood staring at each other, neither fooled by the other's veneer of civilization. 

While Richard was distracted, she sidled away from him, out of reach.  She fought to slow her breathing, to regain any sense of the woman she'd thought she'd become since she'd left Richard.  Who did she think she was fooling?  No amount of Kempo lessons, no amount of time could repair the damage she'd done to herself when she allowed Richard into her life, her heart.

Richard glared at Drake, whose grin never wavered, then turned to Cassie.  "We'll finish this later, Ella."

CHAPTER 12

As he watched the door close behind Hart's ex, Drake clenched the suture trays hard enough to leave indentations in the plastic.  Hart and her personal problems were none of his business.  Unless the ex had been hassling her about FX?  Didn't sound like that from what he'd heard, but he might have missed something.

He set the trays down on the counter and opened the small refrigerator below.  Stacks of bright blue chemical ice packs were arranged in the freezer door.  He grabbed one and approached her.  She stood against the far wall, her gaze darting from him to the exit, searching for an escape. 

He cradled her wrist in his hand and saw the dusky imprint of finger marks marring her pale skin.  She shuddered at his touch.  Reflex.  From what he'd seen, one born of long habit.

"Hold still," he told her.  "Trust me, this helps."  He raised his own arm, still reddened by her wrist-lock-from-hell and was surprised to see a faint blush of scarlet color her cheeks.

"Your timing always so good?" she asked. 

"It's what they pay me for."  He wished it had been better.  Wished he'd heard the entire conversation, could be certain it had nothing to do with stolen drugs.  "Did that have anything to do with my case?" 

She shook her head, still looking down, hiding her features behind a veil of dark curls. 

So different from the woman he'd seen fighting desperately for her patient.  He curbed the urge to reach out to her, to stroke her hair, pull it back so he could see her face.  "So, who was that creep?"

Hart slid the ice pack from his hand as she stepped away from him.  Her posture was stiff, brittle.  The fading bruises on her arms were a yellow-ochre color made garish by the bright lights.  "That creep was my ex-husband, Dr. Richard King."

"Domestic dispute."   Drake pretended he'd never heard of King or his recent problems with drugs.  He opened and closed his fist, keeping his face impassive.  "You want to press charges?"

"No, it won't happen again.  He caught me by surprise, is all."

"I see.  Just like I did earlier?"  Her dark eyes flared at his sarcastic tone, but then her gaze sidled away from his to stare resolutely at the Ethicon poster on the wall.  He opened the door.  He could take a hint.  Hart was none of his business.  Other than proving if she had anything to do with the FX thefts.  "Guess I'll get back to work." 

And why not?  She'd given him a cup of coffee.  He'd given her an ice pack.  Because of her, he'd done his first real art in months.  Because of him, she'd been saved from an unpleasant encounter with her ex.  It all evened out, just the way Drake liked it.  So, why couldn't he force his feet past the threshold? 

He turned back to her.  The case could wait another minute or two.  "Why was he calling you Ella?"

Her head jerked up at that.  "What's the R in your name stand for?" she flung back at him.

"Rembrandt."

She scowled in surprise, then laughed, a rich, bubbly sound that echoed through the tile-walled room and was choked off too soon.  Drake wasn't certain if she was more surprised by his answer or that he'd answered at all.    He leaned against the open door.  "My mom wanted an artist in the family."

"So you became a cop to spite her?"

"No, just following in my father's footsteps.  And," he returned to her side, let the door swing shut, "I'm good at it."

"Modest too.  Rembrandt Michael Drake." 

"Mickey to my friends," he added and immediately chided himself for it.  This woman couldn't be a friend, could not be anything but another suspect until this case was over.

"Think I'll just stick with Drake."   

"What are you going to do about King?" 

"Nothing."  Her grip threatened to strangle the ice pack.  It bulged, ready to explode from the pressure.  She stalked to the door.  "Just forget about it."

"Anything you say. Ella," he delivered the last with a grin, wondering how she'd gotten the nickname. 

She whipped the ice pack at him.  He snatched it from the air with ease. 

"Don't call me that."

Drake tracked Richard King down in one of the cast rooms.  He was surprised to see the surgeon treat his patient, an elderly woman, with kindness.  King could be charming when he wanted, Drake noted as the woman laughed at the surgeon's jokes.  He watched King closely.  The way he moved, the way his eyes shifted, the catch as he turned and regained his balance.