Red Alert (4 page)

It wasn’t until she was halfway across Kneeland Street that she realized her feet were burning. She
looked down and stared stupidly at her gray-smeared toes, which were barely covered by torn panty hose.

She’d lost her tall brown boots. They’d been sucked off by the cement, left behind when Erik Falco had risked his own life to drag her out of the muck.

That small detail brought home the danger before she was ready for it. Her stomach knotted on a surge of nausea and her throat closed down until only a trickle of oxygen seeped through.

She was suffocating.

The gray waves closed in on her, surrounding her, compressing her. Killing her.

Not here, Meg told herself. Not now. Not yet. Not where she would cause a scene on hospital property. Her father was right. Her science was controversial enough without her personal exploits adding fuel to the flame. The thought of her dependable, rock-steady sire helped hold off the shakes and she forced her trembling legs to carry her the rest of the way across the street, barefoot.

She thought she heard her name called in deep, masculine tones, but she didn’t turn back. If it was one of the officers, he could phone the lab. If it was Falco, he could go to hell.

She had no intention of prostituting her work to some megacompany that cared only for profit.

And if he tried to force the issue with her bosses, she’d fight him tooth and nail.

“DAMN STUBBORN WOMAN.” Erik cursed under his breath as she disappeared through the main hospital
doors. Then again, why did that surprise him? She’d already managed to block his representatives at every turn, fighting to keep her discovery in the public arena by administering it through the university rather than a private company.

He respected the effort. Too bad it was doomed, because he had no intention of failing. Her fetal cell isolation process would be his, with or without her cooperation. His whole pharma staff was on it.

At the thought of his staff, he grabbed for his cell phone and speed dialed the office. “Get me Raine.” When she answered the transfer, he said, “Sorry for the quick turnaround, but I need you back at the hospital right now.”

“Another stint as Mrs. Phillips?” Raine asked, her voice carrying an unfamiliar lilt that put him on edge.

Six years earlier, her résumé had overridden his reluctance to work with a pretty, single woman his age, and he’d hired her into the then-startup FalcoTechno. They had grown together, Raine and the company, and she’d proven herself to be an exception to his rules. She was a beautiful woman who kept her mind strictly on business. One he could trust to get his back.

They’d stayed out of each other’s personal lives. Hell, he hadn’t even realized she’d been married until six weeks earlier, when he’d found her in the men’s bathroom, crying, disoriented and puking.

She’d confessed to being pregnant with her husband’s baby…a year after the divorce was final.

The experience had forged an uncomfortable
intimacy between Erik and Raine, one he’d tried like hell to ignore until he got word that Dr. Meg Corning had once again blocked his offer to buy the rights to her Noninvasive Prenatal Testing technology.

When his request for a meeting had been denied—not just once, but three different times—he’d gone with Plan B and asked Raine to pose as a prospective test subject to get inside information. It had been her idea that they pretend to be a married couple so he could get a firsthand look. He’d agreed, but couldn’t help worrying that she’d gotten the wrong idea.

Or that she was playing him.

God knew, he’d fallen for it before.

Now, his fingers tightened on the phone. “No more Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. She pegged me as a ringer.” Which was almost a relief.

“Then why do you need me?” Raine asked.

Not wanting to worry her unnecessarily, he said, “Just meet me in the Boston General lobby as soon as you can, okay? And bring the garment bag from my office closet. I need a change of clothes.”

He cut the connection before she could ask why. He started to head back to the hospital, but a hail brought him up short.

“Mr. Falco? Lieutenant?”

Erik turned at the once-familiar title. “Falco, please. Or Erik. I haven’t been a cop for nearly eight years.”

The two plainclothes detectives wore badges clipped to their belts and standard-issue shoulder
holsters beneath their jackets. The younger of the two—who looked close to Erik’s age of thirty-eight—wore a brown suit that complemented his brown hair and clean-cut good looks, while his partner, who was closer to sixty, with a droopy, almost fishlike face, wore washed-out blue.

Both suits were decent quality but off-the-rack, just as Erik’s had been back when he was on the job, back before a woman and his own stupidity had killed a good man and cost Erik the use of his leg and the life he’d known.

The brown-haired cop said, “I’m Detective Reid Peters.” He gestured to his older partner. “This is Sturgeon. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Erik blocked a spear of resentful nostalgia for the cop-speak and leaned on his cane. “Fire away.”

Peters pulled out a PDA. It was a few generations older and much lower quality than Erik’s top-of-the-line pocket computer, but it was still a far cry from the spiral-bound notebooks of years past. The younger detective used a stylus to tap open a new file, then set the record function before he asked, “How well do you know the victim?”

“She’s not a victim—it was an accident.” Erik narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

The detectives didn’t answer, letting their original question hang.

Erik’s temper spiked a notch. “Don’t give me the silent routine. I was on the job—you know that or you wouldn’t have called me ‘lieutenant.’ So I’ll make a deal…you tell me what you know and I tell
you what I know. Otherwise, you can talk to my lawyers. I have an entire department full, and they’ll enjoy running you around for weeks if I tell them to.”

Peters shared a look with Sturgeon, the sort of nonverbal communication partners developed over many years of teamwork.

The sort of look that reminded Erik of his old partner, James Hadley. Jimmy.

After a moment the older detective shrugged. “It might not have been an accident. There’s supposed to be a metal railing separating the construction site from the sidewalk. The contractor swears it was put in last week, but it’s gone.”

“Contractors lie,” Erik said, having been stung on a few projects over the years. “Subcontractors cut corners. That doesn’t say ‘intentional’ to me.”

But his instincts jangled. The sluiceway had opened at precisely the wrong moment. When he’d looked at the cement truck cab moments later, the driver had been gone, the door hanging open.

Peters stared at him for a long moment as though assessing him. Finally he nodded. “Have a look at this.” He led them back through the police line, to the place where Meg had fallen through.

Erik took one look at the wooden railing and cursed bitterly. The panel had been neatly sawn through.

“So let me ask you.” Peters tucked the PDA into his pocket, giving an illusion of off-the-record, though he hadn’t turned off the recording feature. “Who was the target here? Boston General, Meg Corning…or you?”

Chapter Three

Raine knocked on the door to Meg’s office almost an hour later, still looking polished and professional. Beautiful.

In comparison, Meg felt like a train wreck. Jemma had managed to find her a T-shirt to wear under a set of green scrubs, along with a pair of gym shoes, but that had been the extent of scroungeable spare clothes.

Meg was itchy and uncomfortable, and beginning to wish she’d taken that trip to the ER and from there gone home.

But she’d wanted to speak with Raine personally. The dark-haired beauty might work for FalcoTechno, she might have come to the lab under false pretenses, but she’d inadvertently made herself one of Meg’s patients. Besides, whatever she’d done, she was a human being.

A woman. An expectant mother.

Meg waved her in. “Have a seat, Ms. Montgomery. I need to talk to you about something.”

“If it’s about what Erik and I did this morning, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not about that,” Meg interrupted. “It’s about the blood sample you gave us. There’s a problem.”

The bloom in the other woman’s cheeks drained to pasty white, then took on a hot flush. “With the pregnancy?”

She didn’t call it
the baby.
She called it
the pregnancy
. That, in Meg’s clinical experience, was a telling detail. But this wasn’t a counseling session, so she focused on the information that could save Raine’s life. “It’s not just the pregnancy. Our genetic screen revealed that you carry two gene mutations that put you at a high risk for developing blood clots in your arms and legs, or having a stroke or heart attack.”

Meg had long ago learned that the blunt delivery was usually best in these cases. Just get it out there and deal with it.

“The pregnancy increases all of these risks exponentially. In addition, you have an increased risk of miscarriage—it’s your body’s way of trying to protect you from the other problems. There’s good news, though—we can put you on supportive therapy starting now. If you’re on interferon gamma and a strict monitoring program for the duration of the pregnancy, your chances are very good.”

Raine moaned, a low exhalation of air that carried shock and fear. Her face reflected a shifting gamut of emotions, but she didn’t say anything. Just clasped her hands in her lap and breathed deeply.

Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Is there someone you’d like to call?” Meg asked. “A family member, perhaps? I’ll be happy to give you some privacy, if that would help.”

But Raine shook her head. “No. No family.”

“Your boss, then?” Meg realized she’d been petty to order Erik away from the lab. He and Raine might not be married, but she’d definitely sensed a connection between the two.

And why did the thought bring a twinge?

“No.” Raine shook her head, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin. “I can handle this on my own.”

But there was a faint quiver in her voice, and she looked as though a finger tap could knock her over.

“I’ll have one of my people take you down to Admissions and start the paperwork. We’ll need you to stay here for a day or so. After that, we can do the treatments on an outpatient basis.”

Raine nodded slowly. “Fine. Of course.”

Though the other woman had lied to her, and worked for the enemy, Meg’s heart ached in sympathy.

God, she hated this part of the job.

She rose, detoured around the desk and leaned down to touch Raine’s arm. “We’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

Swallowing what sounded like a sob, Raine nodded. “Thank you.”

Meg led her out to the lab reception area. Jemma was away from her desk, but she saw Max’s silhouette just inside the lab. She touched Raine’s arm. “Wait here.”

She pushed through the lab doors. “Max, I need you to do me a favor.”

The big, dark-haired man set his lab notebook aside. “Sure, boss. What’s up?”

“Remember those clotting factor and Factor V Leiden mutations you found the other day?” She jerked her head in the direction of the door. “She’s out in the lobby, and pretty freaked out—with good reason. She didn’t want me to call anyone, so can you take her down to Admissions and help expedite wherever you can? I think she could use somebody on her side right now.”

Max nodded. “Of course.” He rose, shucked off his lab coat to reveal jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, and headed for the lobby.

When he was gone, Jemma’s voice spoke from behind Meg. “Bad idea, boss.”

Meg turned, startled. “What?”

“Sending Max off with her. You’re going to trigger his DIDS.”

“His
what?
”

“Damsel In Distress Syndrome. That’s what we call it behind his back, anyway.” Jemma shrugged, but her eyes were clouded with faint worry. “Max is big and tough and mean-looking, but he’s a sucker for a pretty woman with a sad story. Classic knight-on-a-white-horse mentality. If she doesn’t watch out, he’ll try to rescue her.”

“I didn’t know.” Meg stared out into the now empty lobby. “Should I call him back?”

“Too late now. And besides, who knows? Maybe
it’ll work out for him this time. She looks like she could use someone to lean on right now.”

“True enough.” Figuring what was done was done, and the important thing was getting Raine started on the life-saving therapy, Meg headed back to her office. But as she packed to leave for the day and tasted cement dust at the back of her throat, she was plagued by a faint sense of resentment that nobody ever volunteered to rescue her.

Or rather, someone had, but he was no white knight.

More like a sapphire-eyed devil intent on taking over her life’s work.

MEG SLEPT POORLY that night, haunted by dreams of suffocation. Near 2:00 a.m., she gave up, snapped on her bedside lamp and read until dawn.

She was at the lab early, wearing the high-cut burnt-orange suit she only hauled out when she needed to remind herself that she was smart enough and tough enough to deal with whatever was going wrong.

Jemma met her at the door. “Cage wants you in his office, ASAP.”

Meg cursed. She wasn’t ready to meet with the head administrator before she’d even had her second hit of coffee. But with her work in a state of legal flux, she couldn’t afford to ignore the summons. She took the elevator up from the fifth floor to the tenth and pushed through the door to Cage’s office without knocking. “Sorry I’m late. I was discussing some extremely promising results with—”

She broke off and her stomach dipped to her toes.

She’d expected to see Zach Cage, the darkly handsome ex-major league pitcher who had taken over the reins of a troubled Boston General some three years earlier. She hadn’t expected to see Erik Falco, wearing another dark gray suit and lighter gray shirt, this time with a vivid blue tie that picked up the cobalt in his eyes.

Worse, before the door had shut behind Meg, it opened again to admit a thin-hipped woman in her early forties with short, dark hair and piercing eyes. Annette Foulke, the nontenured Assistant Director of the Biochemistry Department at Thrace University, was Meg’s equal in the hospital’s hierarchy and had been anything but subtle in her efforts to block Meg from being voted tenure.