The Colors of Love (2 page)

Rain sparkled on her face as she stepped onto the pavement. The man in the painting would wear a hat, rain beading on its surface.

She rummaged for keys, grasped them in one hand. If she wanted, she could buy a new car.

No, she would not waste all that money on a
new
car when her eleven-year-old green hatchback was still reliable. She'd splurge on a tune-up and new tires. Then she'd be able to buy the new easel she wanted and pay off her student loans. She'd stash the rest of the money in term deposits to tide her through until the autumn showing, in case Liz couldn't sell another Jamila painting until then.

Her car started on the second try, its engine sputtering before it settled into a quiet purr. Perhaps she should paint the man without his hat, rain beading on his hair and—No, she wanted the rain to blanket him with anonymity, a mythical figure in raincoat and hat, an impression of a warm fire somewhere, his woman waiting to greet him at home with a smile.

Jamie pushed the car into gear and made a U-turn on the empty street. Eight paintings sold for outrageous prices, her own successful first showing. Difficult to believe she'd stood in Liz's gallery for three hours tonight, a glass in her hand, lean green slacks on her legs under the colorful four-hundred-dollar shirt Liz had insisted she buy. The shirt wasn't a smock, and it wasn't a jacket, but it wasn't a blouse either. Jamie hadn't argued about buying it because she'd seen Liz groom other artists; she knew her mentor's skill in creating an artist's public image. And the colors were marvelous, shades of green and red swirled together so cleverly that when Jamie saw herself in the mirror, she actually
looked
like a successful artist.

She'd never sleep tonight.

God, she loved these crazy Seattle streets that ran along the hillside, the frequent intersections with steep cross-streets. Tonight, every time she looked down one of those streets, she found herself searching for men in raincoats, wanting to glimpse another hunched-over shape.

Once she had the wash on the canvas, perhaps she'd go outside and walk, although it was already past midnight.

Impulsively, she turned off toward Magnolia Bluff.

She drove deeper into the peaceful, hilly residential area of Magnolia, enjoying the rain-swept emptiness of the streets. In daylight she would see a beautiful ocean view, but it was after midnight now and she saw only parked cars and lights streaming from house and apartment windows, diffusing the feeling of isolation.

As Jamie braked for a stop sign, something seemed to move on the street ahead. She started out slowly, eyes narrowed, searching for a rain-drenched pedestrian, or an animal.

Nothing, just the rain pounding as the heavens opened wider. The sidewalk ahead was empty, none of the cars showing taillights. Perhaps she'd seen a leaf, wind driven, tumbling across the road. The night was turning nasty, rain driven now by a twisting wind. A gust buffeted the side of her car as big wet spots splattered on her windshield. She switched the wipers to high speed and leaned forward to peer through the pounding rain.

Something moved behind one of the cars on her right, a flash of something dark, the shifting of shadow on shadow.

Jamie braked although she couldn't really
see
anything. Something
had
moved, something...

Nothing. Jamie eased off on the brake.

A dark shape flew out between two cars, then a flash of white as Jamie braked hard, her tires protesting on the pavement.

She felt a thump.

Oh, God! She'd hit something. A dog?

She threw the driver's door open and scrambled around the front of her car, squinting against the brilliance of her own headlights.

A child.

Oh, God, no! A child lying on the road, only inches from Jamie's front wheel. Jamie fell to her knees beside a little girl, dark hair, white face.

She mustn't move the child, she knew that much.
Why
had she never taken first aid? She needed to put on her four-way flashers, call for an ambulance, but the child was lying in the rain, eyes closed. Was she breathing? How could Jamie tell in the rain, with—

The girl's eyes opened, dark eyes.

"Lie very still," said Jamie, her voice hoarse as she placed one hand carefully on the girl's chest. She could be hurt anywhere, and Jamie had no way of knowing. Broken bones, internal damage. "Stay still," she repeated urgently. "I'm going to get help."

The child squirmed under Jamie's hand.

"Where's Squiggles?" Her voice was thin, urgent. "I have to find Squiggles."

* * *

"Can you make the infection go away?" worried nine-year-old Timothy Wesley.

"We'll nuke it," promised Dr. Alexander Kent. "You'll sleep here in the hospital tonight to be sure we've blasted that infection into space, and by Monday you'll be back in school."

"I'll still be able to hear?" As Timmy asked the question, Alex saw the boy's mother flinch.

"I've had a good look at the graft on your eardrum, Timmy. It's healing wonderfully." Alex saw Timmy's mother, Teresa Wesley, relax at the news, too. "You did the right thing, telling your mom immediately when you got the earache." He looked up at the sound of rubber-soled shoes. "Here's Nurse Stanley. Roll over and we'll blast that infection."

Timmy giggled and rolled over.

"Thank you, Dr. Kent," said Teresa. She gestured to Alex's formal jacket and bow tie. "I'm sorry we ruined your evening. You were out."

"A charity benefit. It's no problem." He'd escorted Diana Thurston to the benefit, and she'd smiled her understanding when his beeper sounded, nodded when he said he'd try to return in time to drive her home.

"Go back to your party," said Teresa. "Have a good time."

"I will, and don't worry. Timmy's fine."

As Alex left the examining room, Nurse Stanley murmured, "Dr. Kent, can you take a look at another peds patient? Pedestrian struck by a car. Six or seven-year-old girl. Conscious. Crying. No visible injuries. She was brought in by the driver."

"Name?" asked Alex. What was a little kid doing out on the street this late?

"Unknown. We can't get her to stop crying."

Alex could already hear the child's sobs.

As he stepped into the examining area, a flash of color caught his eye. A woman, young, a riot of curling red hair spilling over her outrageously brilliant shirt. Alex pulled his eyes away from the woman and focused on the child, who was struggling against the nurse attempting to take her blood pressure.

"Let me—lemme go! Please don't—I need—gotta get Wiggles!"

"Hello," said Alex in a low voice, resting his hand lightly on the child's shoulder. "Can you tell me about Wiggles?"

The girl's sob caught in a hiccup and she stared at Alex. On the other side of the bed, the flamboyant woman's hands clenched together, as if only the grip of her fingers kept her motionless.

"I'm Dr. Kent," Alex told the child, forcing his attention away from the woman's green eyes. Red hair and green eyes; even without the bright clothes, she was as inappropriate as a rock band in a nursery. "Tell me about the wiggles."

"Sq-squiggles," corrected the child, her voice ragged from tears.

"Squiggles," he agreed as his fingers found the fast, strong pulse in her wrist. "Tell me about Squiggles."

"He's orange an' he squiggles away all the time. That's why I call him Squiggles. Daddy says I shouldn't name him anything, 'cause he can't stay."

"Squiggles is your pet?" Alex signaled the nurse to try the blood pressure now. "Tell me, do you hurt anywhere?"

"Just a little kitty," said the child, not seeming to notice the blood pressure cuff as the nurse fastened it firmly.

"Your kitten's name is Squiggles? What's
your
name?"

"Sara, an' Squiggles is all alone in the rain. If he gets wet, he'll get 'monia and die."

"Don't worry," said a low, melodious voice. "I'll find Squiggles."

Alex's head jerked up. The woman's wild red hair seemed to fill the room. Her lips, moving now, looked incredibly soft as she said, "I'll find the kitten for you, Sara."

Alex felt the child's jerk of hope.

"Promise?" she breathed.

"I promise," said the woman. Alex saw her eyes, green and sincere, and felt a jolt of anger. This was not a woman to search for a lost kitten in the rain. False sincerity, empty promises. Damn her.

"You're the driver?" he demanded of her eyes. "Not a relative? Do you know who her parents are?"

"No, I've never—"

"How did you hit her?"

"I was driving on Magnolia Bluff a few blocks from Thirty-fourth. I—I thought I saw something, but there was nothing there, just the rain." Her voice was melodious, husky. "Then suddenly I—something hit. I didn't see her until—"

"Wait outside," Alex said shortly, fighting his own urge to touch her shoulder with reassurance.

"I need to know she's okay."

He sent her a dark frown. "It's not
your
needs that matter here. There's a waiting room down the hall. Nurse Stanley will show you." He nodded to the ER nurse and turned back to the child.

He slid a small flashlight out of his pocket, "Sara, where's your mommy?"

"Mommy's in heaven. Will that lady really find Squiggles?"

People who made empty promises to motherless children should be shot, Alex thought grimly. Gently, he said, "Sara, look at my forehead right here, look at this spot while I shine my light in your eyes. Do you live with your daddy?"

"Mmm," agreed the girl, staring obediently at Alex's forehead.

"That's good. Keep looking while I look in your other eye. Is your daddy home?"

She shook her head vigorously, one brief shake before she winced and stopped.

"That hurts, does it?" The girl's left pupil was clear, but the right was slightly fixed. "Where's Daddy, Sara?"

"At work."

Alex felt her skull gently as he patiently drew details out of her. "Where does he work?"

"At the 'lectric place. It's a power station."

"Does your daddy have a name?"

"Of course, silly." He heard her breathe a laugh, then thought her headache choked it off. "My daddy's Wayne Miller."

"We're going to call your daddy at work and tell him you're here." He glanced at April Stanley, who had returned from showing the driver to the waiting room.

"He'll be mad at me," said Sara as April slipped away. "He'll be so angry because of Squiggles. Ouch! That hurts!"

"That's where you bumped your head when the car hit you. It'll feel better soon, Sara. Do you hurt anywhere else?" Her left shoulder and arm were both very tender, he noted. As he finished examining her, he continued gently probing for information.

"Who looks after you when Daddy's at work?"

"Mrs. Davis from downstairs. What if the lady can't find my kitty? It's raining, an' if Squiggles gets wet, he could get 'monia."

"Cats are very good at finding dry places to get out of the rain," said Alex reassuringly. "I had a cat once who used to hide under my front porch."

"We have a front porch. Maybe the lady will find her there."

"Squiggles might be under your porch right now, safe and dry. Now, Sara, Nurse Stanley is going to take you to get some pictures of your head and shoulder, then we're going to find you a bed so you can sleep here tonight."

He made some notes in Sara's chart, then motioned April Stanley to step outside with him. "X-ray—skull, left shoulder, and upper arm. Did you find Dad?"

"Yes. He's an electrical dispatcher, night shift. He'll be here in twenty minutes."

"Page me when he gets here, and let me know when those pictures are ready. Did anyone call the cops?"

"Done."

"Good. This baby-sitter sounds pretty iffy. Let's get a social worker out there Monday morning."

On his way to the doctors' lounge, he detoured to the waiting room where he found the red-haired woman standing with her back to a coffee machine.

She spun to face him as he stepped into the room.

Too restless to sit, he decided. Her eyes spoke of fire within, the sort of restless passion that would drive her to disappoint anyone who depended on her—including Sara, who believed this woman would find her kitten.

"Doctor, will she be all right?"

Something in her voice, her eyes, sent unaccustomed anger pulsing through his bloodstream. "What the hell were you thinking of?" he demanded. "Don't you know better than to move an accident victim? You could have killed that child."

"I didn't move her." Her eyes were wide, an impossible pure green. "I was going to call an ambulance, but she started crying about Squiggles and she wouldn't stay still. I thought it made more sense coming here than trying to find a phone, trying to—Is she all right?"

What the hell was it about her eyes? Green fire, he couldn't seem to look away.

She gripped his arm with surprisingly strong fingers. "Once I got her into the car, she seemed dazed. How badly is she hurt?"

He hadn't intended to tell her anything, but he found himself saying, "She may have a bit of concussion. She's bruised one arm and shoulder. At her age, there's the possibility of a greenstick fracture. I've sent her for X-rays, and we'll keep her overnight for observation."

"She's just a little girl. What was she doing outside at one in the morning?"

Good question, but her fingers burned like points of fire through his jacket, and he was damned if he'd speculate about Sara Miller with this woman.

"You better stick around," he said grimly. "The police will want to talk to you."

Her hand dropped from his arm as if he'd shocked her.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Jamila Ferguson."

Damn the woman, of course she wouldn't have an ordinary name like Linda or Jane. She'd probably been born Mary, but changed it to
Jamila
for a career as a dancer.

"Sit down," he growled. "The police are coming. They'll want your blood alcohol and a statement before you leave."

"I haven't been drinking."

He turned and walked out of the waiting room before he did something stupid, like grasp her flung-out hand and pull her hard against his body, bury his mouth in her red lips and...