The Stiff and the Dead (27 page)

Suddenly he shook his head. Twice.

Even with my blurry vision, I had a déjà vu kind of feeling. “Janitor Jagger. Again,” I mumbled, and then collapsed.

It was one thing to wake up in the arms of a gorgeous hunk of a guy, even disguised as a janitor, but another thing to wake up—and lose your pancake breakfast in his lap.

“Shit!” He grabbed a rag from his overalls.

I looked at him through blurry eyes. Okay, I'd only coughed up pancakes about the size of a half dollar, but it was, nevertheless, mortifying. “Thank goodness you chose that disguise today.”

“You all right, Sherlock?”

I moaned. “How do I look?”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“No. I'll be fine.” I leaned back and shut my eyes.

Before I knew it, I was lifted up into his arms. I opened my eyes to see we were walking toward the door. I should have protested, but I felt like crap, and head injuries were nothing to sneeze at. So, I let Jagger whisk me off to the ER amid my humiliation.

He pulled up to the entrance of Saint Greg's, parked the car and hurried to my side door. There had to be a sarcastic comment for me to make, but the way I felt, I didn't have it in me to come up with one. Jagger took my hand and helped me out.

“Can you make it?”

Walking on legs of Jell-O, I said, “Of course. I only have a mild concussion. I'll live.”

His eyes grew darker, which seemed an impossibility. Also as impossible was how much sexier it made him look. But beneath the sex was concern.

I was feeling better already.

Jagger walked me to the desk and insisted I be seen right away. A man bleeding from his nose sat on a chair in the waiting room. He looked more in need than I felt, but before I knew it, the nurse had me in Exam Room #2, after Jagger convinced the receptionist that he'd go over my insurance information with her so I could be taken care of.

How sweet.

The doctor came in and poked around, shone a light in my eyes, asked several questions and then left.

A few of the staff who remembered me from working there came in to say hi. One of the nurses was an old friend from my days working in OB.

“Hey, Sheila,” I said. Did old Dr. Stabach die?”

She gave me an odd look. “What day is it, Pauline?”

I gave her an even odder look. “Saturday.”

“Who is the president?”

I groaned and told her. I knew she was checking to see if my noggin was intact, but she hadn't answered my question. “Is he dead, Sheila?”

“Pauline, I sat a row behind you at his memorial service.”

Damn. I knew that, but had forgotten. Had to be related to my head problem. “Did he have a son with the same name who's also a doctor?”

She took my arm and felt for my pulse. “He never married, Pauline.”

So the prescription pad had to have come from his office. I couldn't wait to share this info with Jagger and—more important—with Fabio.

Even feeling as crappy as I did, I felt glad that my case was over. I could now get paid for nailing Sophie Banko, medical insurance fraud criminal.

Jagger came to the doorway. He looked like I felt.

“What? I'm
not
going to make it?” I chuckled, but he remained as stone faced as usual.

“You don't have any medical coverage, Pauline.”

Oh . . . my . . . God. He'd used my real name. That meant business. “No insurance?” I screamed.

Sheila spun around. “This is a hospital, Pauline.”

“Sorry.” I leaned back and took a deep breath. Then I held my hand up and wiggled my pointer finger for Jagger to come closer. “What the hell are you talking about? Is that some kind of joke?”

He looked a bit hurt. I guess accusing him of trying to fool an injured woman was a bit insensitive. But no insurance! That had me riled up.

“The receptionist ran your number through several times. She even tried to call Fabio, but no one is there on a Saturday. I'm guessing he didn't make your payments for medical insurance yet because he considers you on probation. Weren't you aware of that, so you could make temporary provisions?”

I could only stare at Jagger. Not bad to look at to try to take your mind off an earth-shattering problem. Then I shut my eyes and started to laugh.

Sheila said she'd be back later, that I'd probably be going for a CAT scan and not to get loud again.

I peeked out of one eye and cursed her inside my head.

Jagger pulled up a chair next to my stretcher. “How do you feel?”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “How do you think I feel after dropping that bomb on me? I don't even have enough on my credit card line to pay for this bill. Get me my shoes. I'm getting out of here.” I pointed to the table where Sheila had set them.

Jagger remained seated.

“Put down this side rail so I can go home. I'll take some Tylenol and be fine.”

“You above all people should know not to take any kind of pain medication which could mask serious symptoms of a head injury. What if you have a hematoma?”

“Just 'cause you disguise yourself as a doctor, doesn't mean you know what the hell you are talking about.” Although he was on target with everything he'd said. Damn it. I couldn't just leave without finding out I was all right, and I couldn't afford to be here.

“You don't need your shoes yet,” he said.

“I have to get out of here.” I swallowed my pride and added, “I can't
afford
this, Jagger.”

Sheila came in with a slip for Radiology. “You're going for a CAT scan.”

“No. I'm going home.”

Jagger stood and leaned near my ear. “The bill is taken care of. You can owe me.” With that he was out of the room.

I lay there speechless. Owe Jagger. Owe Jagger? Owe Jagger!

Fate appeared to be out to get me again anyway.

Since I passed my CAT Scan with flying colors and started to feel nothing worse than a headache, I was released to go home. Again Jagger wouldn't take me to my car and let me drive, which, although I wouldn't admit it to him, was a sensible idea. Instead he took me to my condo and said he'd arrange to get my car if I gave him my keys. I had no problem trusting him with my Volvo.

It was
owing
him that caused me grief.

I'd learned my lesson co-signing that car loan for my ex-friend and never wanted to owe money to anyone. Least of all Jagger. Besides, if I had to pay him with what I earned from this case, I wouldn't have enough left to get my own place. Damn.

When we arrived at my condo, he got out and opened the car door again.

“A girl could get used to such chivalrous behavior.” I stepped out and brushed his hand away.

He didn't answer. I looked at his stained outfit and felt horrible.

“If you want, I'll lend you something of Miles's and wash that for you.”

We walked to the door. He took the key and let me in first. Spanky ran to Jagger.

“Traitor,” I mumbled and flopped onto the couch.

“Miles doesn't look my size.”

“Goldie is.”

Jagger looked at me.

“What? He does have men's clothes, you know.”

“Where's your Tylenol?”

“In the bathroom cabinet upstairs. Go into Goldie's room and get some jeans and a tee shirt. He really wouldn't mind.” Besides, I wouldn't keep being reminded of how I had stained him.

Jagger headed upstairs, and I leaned back to rest. Spanky, maybe knowing I'd been hurt, jumped up and nuzzled next to my arm. “Oh. So you decided where your loyalty lies?”

It seemed Jagger was gone for a while. Maybe because I dozed off and on and held Spanky even tighter. I would probably have to ask my parents for money to pay Jagger back now.

I'd have been better off if the fall had killed me.

I heard footsteps and my eyes flew open. Jagger walked across the room—dressed in Goldie's clothes. His male clothes.

“Not one word.”

I nodded. “Ouch.” Someone with a concussion shouldn't nod. He'd found a pair of worn light blue denim jeans. The only “Goldie” thing about them was silver buttons on the pockets. Not just little tiny buttons, but rather large ones with a giant
G
monogrammed next to them. Jagger looked as if he wanted to yank them off. Hip-huggers with flared bottoms.

I nearly choked on a laugh.

On top he'd put on a plain white tee shirt. Goldie only wore them under his clothes, but I figured Jagger wouldn't be caught dead in one of Goldie's “gay pride” tees or one of the sparkly ones. In his hands Jagger held his rolled-up janitor suit.

He looked half James Dean sans pack of cigarettes stuck in his rolled-up sleeve and half—well, there was no hiding Jagger completely.

Yum.

“If you put your clothes in the hamper, I'll wash them and return them next time I see you.”

“I'm not leaving in these things. Where's the machine?”

I smiled, but his look kept me from making a snide comment. But damn, how I wanted to.

After Jagger had his wash going, he came out of the kitchen with a mug of tea for me and a Budweiser for himself. “Hungry?”

I thought of how his pancake breakfast had ended up and shook my head. With the steamy mug in my hands, I sat up enough to take a few sips. “This hits the spot, although your Budweiser looks appealing.”

“No alcohol for you.”

“I didn't hear the doctor say that.”

He looked at me. “I said that.” Jagger settled himself across the room in the gigantic zebra futon. “You rest. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually I don't want to sleep.”

“You can trust me, Sherlock.”

Flustered, I shifted, knocking Spanky onto the white carpet. “Oh! I'm sorry, sweetie.” But the dog ran to Jagger, who picked him up and held him.

“Was your investigation successful before your fall?”

For a second, I didn't know what he was talking about. Damn. I wished I wasn't having short-term memory losses. Then it dawned on me why I'd been at the clinic. I filled Jagger in on my findings. “So, it seems Leo and Sophie were in cahoots. All her fake insurance claims have cost Fabio thousands. I'm so relieved to have this done with. On Monday I'm taking the pictures to be developed, then closing the case.” I leaned back and sighed when I thought of my nice, fat paycheck.

Jagger held Spanky to his chest and rubbed behind his left ear. “You can't.”

“Can't what?”

“You can't close the case yet, Sherlock.”

I heard the words, but they wouldn't process. Damn my aching head. Then again, I couldn't blame this one on a head injury. “Like hell I can't.”

“Look, Sherlock. You go getting Sophie busted now, and my case is blown to hell.”

Talk about déjà vu.

“Now hold on. You did this with the Macaluso case. I am not staying at that clinic any longer. And I
need
my money now, Jagger.”

“You don't need your money now and yes, you need to stay.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“If you leave and blow my case, Viagra fraud is going to continue. You want kids buying it and dying when they mix it with Ecstasy?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. If Sophie was mixed up in more than I'd found out about, I would ruin everything and maybe even hurt some of Uncle Walt's friends—or him.

“I hate you,” I muttered and shut my eyes.

With my eyes shut, I mentally let out all my anger, frustration and annoyance with Jagger for making me delay the completion of my case.

But the seething really didn't feel that good. It wasn't my style, damn it. I wish I could enjoy seething better.

“How much longer do you figure it will take?” I didn't even bother to open my eyes.

“You'll be the first to know when you can quit the clinic and nail Sophie.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“A few weeks.”

“You'd say anything to get me off the subject and agree to stay on and help you.”

“Then why'd you ask?”

Exactly. I couldn't bring myself to say, “Oh, yeah. Sure I'll stay there,” so I kept my eyes shut and let my silence be his answer.

It was either that or let my mouth fly out with some terms that would make even bikers blush.

I actually did dose off. Maybe out of frustration and the need to escape my life right then. I woke to the aroma of food and the living room dark. The mantel clock said it was past seven.

It took a great effort to make myself get up, but I had to know if Jagger was still here or if my roomies were back. Spanky wasn't anywhere to be found so I assumed he was in the kitchen too. I stood, waited until I had my bearings and walked to the kitchen door. When I pushed, I thought I'd been transported to Italy. Not that I'd ever left the United States in my entire life, but I guessed this fabulous aroma would come from Roma.

Jagger sat at the table, writing on some kind of little notepad. The table was set with the white pottery dishes again. On the stove, pots steamed, sauce bubbled, and the oven light and wonderful scent said the garlic bread was nearly done.

“Smells wonderful.”

He never looked up. “I thought you'd be hungry.”

Most guys would apologize for taking the liberty of making themselves at home, but I figured Jagger never apologized for much.

When I sat opposite him, I marveled at his abilities, his looks and cooking skills too. What a catch. Then I wondered why no one ever caught him. Goldie had told me once about Jagger's divorce being painful, so maybe it had thrown him into a single life of work. Or maybe looks were deceiving—even though I'd seen some hints of humanity.

Without a word, he got up, served me a dish of spaghetti, salad he took from the fridge, and a slice of bread from the oven.

“Chef Jagger. Guess I'm dreaming now. Maybe my head injury was worse than I thought.”