The Damsel in This Dress (18 page)

“Gosh, Betsy, tell me what you really think,” Soldier chided.

She sent him a withering look, then turned away, allowing him a thoroughly enticing view of her scrumptious butt. Cute enough to eat, he thought.

“Tell me, Betsy,” he said casually. “What kind of a kid were you?”

“Human.” She stared out the front window, her lips pressed together tightly.

“Well, duh,” he drawled, “but what were you like?”

“Shorter.” She sighed and faced him. “Say, did you hear about the race between the two silk worms?”

“No,” he answered warily. “What happened?”

“It resulted in a tie.”

“Oh yuk-yuk. Did you hear the one about the woman who resorted to humor whenever she didn’t want to talk about herself?”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “See the Detective turn into
Herr Doktor.
Well, analyze this,
Freud.
” She lifted her nose and turned away from him.

“Come here.” He stood in front of the mantel and stretched his arms out to her.

She looked back over her shoulder, shrugged and moved toward him, but sat in the large wing chair, averting her gaze by staring into the empty fireplace.

For a moment Soldier looked past her to the windows. The panes were old and thick, presenting a distorted view of the world. The irony of that was not lost on him. How had Betsy coped, living here with a haughty beauty queen for a mother and Mr. Science Guy for a father?

“You may not want to be a prisoner in your own home,” he said, “but the reality is, you are, for the time being, at least. We could put you in a safe house, but I thought you’d prefer to be here rather than surrounded by strangers.”

She nodded, relaxing a little. “Yes. I’d rather be here. Thank you.”

Soldier grinned. “How about a word game?”

“What kind of word game?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“The kind where I say a word and you say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“Like psychiatrists do when they think you’re nuts.”

“C’mon,” he urged. “It’ll be fun.”

She nibbled on her lower lip. “So, like, if you were to say the word
‘mother’
and I responded
‘self-involved, ego-maniacal, cold-hearted drama queen,’
then you’d suspect I had issues.”

“You have issues?” He blinked at her like an innocent baby chick.

She gazed up at him and her lips curled in a flirty little smile that about drove him crazy. “Okay,” she purred, “but then we get to switch.”

“That won’t work.” He shook his head for emphasis.

Her brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because all my answers would be the same.”

She looked at him askance. “That’s impossible. Like, for instance, what if I said ‘
food
.’ ”

“Then I’d say ‘
sex
.’ ”

She made a face. “How totally predictable. What if I said ‘
kitchen table
.’ ”

“Oh, then I’d have to say ‘
sex
.’ ”

She blew out a breath. “Um, ‘
tour bus
’? ”

“ ‘
Sex
’ again.”

“ ‘Insomnia.’ ”

“ ‘
Sex
.’ Are you sensing the trend here?”

“ 
‘Waterfall’
?” Exasperation was clear to hear in her voice.

“ ‘
Sex
.’ ”

“You . . . are . . . disgusting.”

“Tell me about it,” he drawled. “Sorry to disappoint, ma’am, but I’m a typical male of the species interested in only one thing. I carry with me the proud tradition of having been born with a single track mind. Now, your turn.”

He paused a moment while she resettled herself in the chair and looked down her nose at him. She was not going to let him off easy.

Soldier cleared his throat. “Okay, ‘
sex
.’ ”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Don’t you have any imagination at all?”

He nodded. “You’d be surprised. You heard me, ‘
sex
.’ ”

“Then my response would be ‘
no
.’ ”

“That’s not an acceptable response. You have to say a thing.”

“All right,” she sighed. “ ‘
A thing
.’ ”

“Betsy—”

“What lays on its back a hundred feet in the air?”

He groaned. “What?”

“A dead centipede.”

“Betsy, we really need to talk about what happened last night. I realize now that I shouldn’t have come to your room. I had the best of intentions. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. But when I got closer to you, saw you all curled up in bed, all warm and sexy, I . . . I . . . I got hard.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked down. “You think I’m sexy?” She focused her attention on her fingers, twisting around themselves in her lap.

“Betsy, I’ve never met—”

Whatever Soldier was about to confess was lost under the scream of an approaching siren.

They searched each other’s eyes for a split second, then ran to the window in time to see an ambulance tear by, turning the corner at top speed. A second later the siren went mute.

Soldier’s fingers bit into Betsy’s shoulders. “Where’s Taylor?” His voice had gone harsh as he forced out the words. “How long has he been gone?”

She shook her head. “Um, fifteen minutes? Twenty? Maybe he came in the back door and we didn’t hear—”

“Taylor!” Soldier shouted his brother’s name. “Taylor! Answer me!” Silence. “Shit!”

Soldier grabbed Betsy’s hand and took off at a dead run, his long legs carrying him out the front door and halfway down the street. Terrified of letting her out of his sight, he kept her pulled tightly against him as they ran toward the red and blue flashing lights.

As they rounded the corner, he saw a small crowd of neighbors huddled together, shaking their heads. A few of the older ladies had their fingertips to their mouths in an expression of shock and dismay.

The paramedics were there, bent over somebody lying in the middle of the street.

Panic gripped him and he heard Betsy gasp in shock.

Slowly, he approached the medics and tried to get a better look at the victim. But an officer on the scene lifted his hands, palms out, ordering them back.

“McKennitt, SPD,” Soldier growled as he reached into his back pocket and flipped open his ID. “I just want to know who it is. My brother went out for a walk and hasn’t come back.”

The officer glanced at Soldier’s credentials and nodded. “Detective McKennitt. Describe your brother.”

In a calm voice, Soldier said, “Caucasian, thirty-one years of age, six-foot-two, dark brown hair, blue eyes—”

A worried look passed over the cop’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, much more personal. “I’m very sorry, Detective. You’d better come with me. We’re going to need you to identify your brother’s body.”

H
e awoke to pain. His skull throbbed and his body was one giant bruise. He tried to open his eyes but his lids wouldn’t cooperate. He felt like he’d stumbled off a whirly ride at the fair, leaving him disoriented and queasy.

What the hell had happened?

The last thing he remembered was crossing the street to get back to . . . to . . . somebody’s house. He could see her face in his mind but couldn’t recall her name. His wife? No, he was divorced. That, he
knew
.

A bright flash of memory shot into his head and he groaned. There had been movement under a tree just down the street. A car. He had ignored it. Stupid move for a cop.

A cop. Okay, that fit. He was a cop. A bad one, apparently.

The morning was dark, overcast, cold. He remembered hearing the low thrumming of an engine, seeing lights flash on, shining in his eyes, blinding him. Then pain. Then . . . nothing.

Through his confusion he heard someone calling to him. Who was
Taylor
? Was that his name? He just couldn’t seem to remember.

He focused on that distant voice, but the words were elusive. The bees buzzing in his ears drowned out all other sounds. But that insistent voice grew louder, stronger. It was deep, urgent, demanding . . . panicked.

Even so, the voice was familiar, and that brought him relief and comfort. He wanted to hear it again, needed to. He rolled his head an inch and regretted it. Pain gripped his skull like a vice, but he had to let the voice know he was okay, that he was still in there, still fighting.

He moved his mouth and tried to speak, but only a gagging sound emerged. He feared he might vomit.

Then he felt something grip his hand, strong, warm fingers and a broad palm.
Jack
. . . his brother. He had a brother whose name was Jack.

He relaxed a little. Maybe he would remember everything after all. Thank God.

It took every ounce of strength he had, but he squeezed his fingers around his brother’s hand, and was rewarded with a word, joyfully spoken, and then a rush of words he could barely comprehend. Thankful words, he could tell that much. He wanted to smile, but the small movement would be too painful.

As the darkness closed around him again, he heard the sound of crying. Not a woman’s soft keening, but crying the way men did it. Deep and gasping. Trying not to cry, but unable to stop the tears when they came.

Ah, Jack
, he thought.
I’m all right. I’m in here, and I’m all right. . . .

When Taylor came to again, his room was silent. A dull light penetrated his closed lids and he realized he wanted to open his eyes. He did, then pinched them shut again. Somebody was shining a bright light into his pupils.

Though his throat was parched, he growled, “Get that goddamned light out of my eyes.”

With a little click, the beam went dark.

“Welcome back, Taylor.” The voice was decidedly feminine, but he didn’t recognize it. “Why don’t you open your eyes again? I promise not to bite.”

Opening his eyes a little at a time, he realized he was in a hospital bed and a blurry female form was leaning over him. He blinked a few more times, letting his eyes get used to the low light in the room while he tried to focus on the woman. No dice.

It was like trying to look at somebody through an aquarium at night. Though her features were distorted, he could see that she was smiling at him. He was sure he’d never seen her before in his life.

“You a nurse?” he murmured.

“Ah, not nearly as good,” she said. “I’m a doctor.
Your
doctor. Can you tell me your name?”

“Tell me yours first.”

She laughed a little. He liked it. “Ooo-hoo. Aren’t you the stubborn one? Okay, I’m Claire Hunter.”

“Okay, Claire Hunter,” he growled. “Where’s my brother? He can tell you what my name is.”

“I’ll get him in a minute,” she said. “He and Betsy were pretty beat, so I sent them to get some coffee and food. Your brother was afraid you’d awaken while he was gone, so I promised to stay with you until he returned.”

“Hmm. He’s the oldest, you know. Pushy. Likes to be in charge.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. Her voice was soft, soothing, comforting. “I’m an oldest myself. We’re beastly.” Though he’d closed his eyes again, Taylor was sure she was smiling.

“Now,” she said. “Your name?”

She’d called him Taylor. He’d start with that. “T-Taylor . . . um, Mc . . . Kennitt. Taylor McKennitt.” His head throbbed with the effort to remember. “Why was that so hard?”

“You have a concussion, Taylor. I’m going to ask you some questions. How you answer them will help tell me how severe a concussion you have. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are we?”

“Hospital.”

She laughed. “No, what town are we in?”

“Uh, let me think about that one.”

“Okay, let’s try something else. How about counting backward from a hundred?”

Taylor tried to visualize the numbers. “One hundred. Ninety-something, ninety . . . ninety . . .”

“That’s good,” Dr. Hunter lied.

She had a great bedside manner, he thought, but was lousy at math. Why the hell couldn’t he remember how to count?

“Do you know your brother’s name?”

Taylor blinked his eyes open and looked at the doctor. “It’s Jack, and I know it’s short for something, but I can’t remember what. I mean, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just—”

Dr. Hunter smiled again and made some notes on the clipboard she was holding. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what happens with a concussion.” Her voice was soft and her eyes softer. She had really pretty brown eyes. “Your brain gets bruised and things get a little confusing,” she continued. “You’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

Panic made Taylor’s heart lurch. His distress must have shown on his face because Dr. Hunter leaned a little closer and took his hand in a detached and doctorly way. Her skin was warm, and he let himself enjoy the contact.

“Not to worry,” she reassured him. “You’re probably a bit dizzy, yes? Have a helluva headache, and maybe a bit sick to your stomach?”

He nodded. Nothing wrong with his nasal passages, though. Dr. Claire smelled damn good. Fresh and sweet, feminine.

“The symptoms will pass,” she assured him. “We’ll keep you here until they do. We did an MRI while you were unconscious. Everything looks good.”

“So I’m going to live after all.”

“It’s looking that way. You’ll be back to normal in no time. The worst of the damage is the concussion, which, while not good, could have been a whole lot worse. You must have a skull of iron.”

“It’s been said.”

“You also have fairly severe abrasions on your legs and arms from skidding on the pavement. No broken bones, but you’ll have lots of big bruises, contusions you received when your body hit the street. We’ll keep those iced to try to reduce swelling. No internal injuries, which is amazing. You are one lucky man.”

Muddled images flashed through his head. Light, noise, pain. “They catch the guy who did this?”

She shook her head. “Not as far as I know. The police are investigating.”

“I am the police.”

She shook her head again. “Not today you’re not.” She seemed to observe him for a while. “What are you thinking, Detective McKennitt?”

“I’m thinking you’re the cutest doctor I’ve ever had.”

“How well can you see me?”

He narrowed his questionable gaze on her. “You look like a blurry watercolor. Blobs of paint but no discernable shape.”

“Hmm. And after all that exercise, too.” She laughed, and he liked the sound of it.

He wasn’t that dizzy and his vision was clearing quickly. Claire Hunter was beautiful. She had soft brown hair pulled into a loose bun held by one of those clippy thingies women wore. Small pearl teardrops dangled from her earlobes. She had delicately arched brows and her eyes were a fawn brown, bright with humor and intelligence. He dropped his focus to her lips. Full and rosy, as though she’d just been kissed.

“Do all your patients fall in love with you, Doc?” he ventured.

Her tone shifted from friendly to all business, just that quick. “I think we should concentrate on getting you well, and never mind about my other patients. I’m going to be checking on you every couple of hours until the end of my shift. Then the night staff will take over. If you remain stable tonight and don’t develop any new symptoms, you can go home tomorrow afternoon. But that’s not a promise, just a big maybe.”

“How long before I can get back to work?”

“Depends. If you were a football player, I’d say three months. But if you’re real good and promise not to get another concussion, you can go back in a couple of weeks.”

“What? No way! A couple of—”

“Hey, Tayo.” The deep voice came from the open doorway behind the doctor.

Taylor felt a grin split his face, and even though it hurt like hell, he couldn’t help it. “Hey yourself,” he said. “Dr. Claire, this is my brother, Detective Jackson Soldier McKennitt.” He spoke the name without thinking. Thank God, he was starting to
remember
.

The doctor grinned at him. “I already knew his name. But I’m glad to see that you know it, too.”

Soldier was so relieved to see Taylor’s eyes open, he wanted to collapse in a heap on the floor. His brother was going to live. His injuries would heal. Taylor was going to be fine.

There had been a moment of panic at the scene when the paramedics had pronounced Taylor dead. They couldn’t get a pulse and thought they’d lost him. But Tayo had fooled them all and come roaring back with a strong heartbeat and a stronger will to survive.

Since the accident, Soldier hadn’t let Betsy out of his sight. He’d held her hand all the way to the hospital and only let her go so he could sit by Taylor’s bedside. She stood on the other side of the hospital room, staring into space, her face a tortured mask of despair and fear and remorse.

This was not her doing, but she blamed herself nonetheless. Man, did he ever know
that
feeling.

Now, staring into his brother’s eyes, Soldier growled, “I’m going to get the son of a bitch who did this. If I have to take Port Henry apar—”

“Listen, Jackson,” Taylor choked. His voice sounded raw. Soldier reached for the water pitcher and poured some in a glass. As Taylor took it, he said, “If you think this was your fault, get over it.”

“I should have—”

“You should have nothing,” he rasped. “I’m all grown up. I’m a cop. I even have a gun. A really big one. I heard the engine and ignored the possibilities. I got hurt. You may think you own all the guilt in the world and that you’re personally responsible for every bad thing that happens to people, but you’re not. Stop being so egotistical.”

Soldier felt as though he’d been kicked in the head. “Egotis— What the— How can you—”

He gave up. Blowing out a heavy sigh, he turned to Betsy. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I interrogate Patient Zero over here.”

Betsy gave Taylor a smile then nodded to Soldier. Quietly, she made her way to a chair near the window.

Dr. Hunter remained standing in the doorway, watching, but she had made no comment on the brothers’ discourse. Addressing her now, Soldier said, “Is it okay to ask him some questions?”

Claire Hunter was a very pretty woman and had a sympathetic smile. It was apparent his brother thought so, too, because Taylor hadn’t taken his eyes off her, except to yell at him.

“All I ask is that you don’t tire him out,” she said. “And don’t stay too long. I’ve got to check on some other patients, then I’ll be back.” She looked over at Taylor, who was watching her intently. “Behave yourself.” She gave him a smile, then left the room. Betsy excused herself and followed.

Soldier pulled a chair next to Taylor’s bed. “Pretty lady.”

Taylor’s gaze stayed for a moment on the threshold through which Dr. Hunter had just disappeared. Shifting his attention to Soldier, he said, “I suppose you want to know what happened.”

“You read my mind.”

“Yeah, well, don’t try reading mine. Things are a little fuzzy just now.”

Soldier reached toward Taylor and the two men clasped hands. Taylor’s palm was warm, physical evidence that blood flowed through his veins and the life force was strong in him. Looking into his brother’s eyes, Soldier said, “I was pretty worried about you, pal. Thanks for hanging in there.”

Taylor gave him a tired grin. “Happy to oblige, Jackson.”

For a moment, Soldier remembered back when they were kids, racing each other to see who could reach the schoolyard first. Panting and laughing and boasting that each was faster than the other. As though it were just yesterday, he heard Taylor’s anguished gasps when he’d fallen from the big tree in the backyard and broken his wrist, and how he had reassured his younger brother that everything would be okay as he’d screamed at the top of his little boy lungs for their mom’s help. He remembered the scent of hot cocoa that the two of them had shared around their first campfire, and how cocoa hadn’t tasted nearly so good since.