by Linda Howard
Cops. Nurses who worked the emergency and trauma units were around a lot of cops, but except for some periods of training, she had always been a floor nurse, so the world of a cop was alien to her. Her mind drifting, she listened to them talk: hard, profane, callous, and yet curiously concerned. Cops and nurses had a lot in common, she thought, sleepily. They had to harden themselves against heartbreaking details but still care about the overall situation.
“Here you go.”
She hadn’t heard him return, but suddenly an icy soft drink can was pressed into her hand. She opened her eyes and blinked at it. Usually, she drank decaffeinated diet soda, but this was the real stuff, chock full of sugar and caffeine.
“Drink it,” he said. Evidently, it was an order, not a suggestion, because he lifted her hand and tipped the can to her mouth.
She was forced to swallow, childlike, and flashed him a look of resentment. He met it with a sort of bland insistence that once again made her think of a rock. Detective Chastain was about as yielding. With a flash of insight, she thought that he would be relentless when going after something he wanted. She would hate to be a criminal with Chastain on her trail.
The soda fizzed on her tongue, tart and sweet at the same time, and it was so cold she could feel it slide down her esophagus. He made her take another swallow before deciding she could manage on her own, but even then, he moved less than a foot away to prop against the edge of his desk. He stretched out long, muscular legs clad in lightweight olive slacks, his loafer-shod feet just inches from her own much smaller shoes. She pulled her feet back a little, oddly disturbed, her stomach clenching in a reaction that was almost like fear, which was ridiculous. She didn’t fear Chastain; despite his attitude, she was even grateful to him.
“Drink all of it. The humidity’s kind of like altitude,” he said easily. “Both of them can sneak up on you and knock you flat. For a minute there, your eyes weren’t focused. Feeling better now?”
She was. Karen realized she had almost fainted at his feet. She was a nurse; she should have recognized the signs. By not eating that day, she had all but set herself up for a faint, and the heat and humidity certainly hadn’t helped. Every thread on her felt clammy. How embarrassing it would have been if she had sprawled on her face.
Given his veiled dislike, she wondered why Detective Chastain hadn’t let her do just that. But he’d been both alert and unexpectedly kind, and she remembered that swift sense of security she had felt at his supporting touch.
“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him again. This close to him, she realized with surprise that his eyes were a pale, crystalline gray, with dark charcoal, rings around the outer rims of his irises. Given the darkness of his hair and brows, his olive complexion, she had thought his eyes would be dark, too. Or maybe she had been on the verge of fainting before she walked into his office, because how else could she not have noticed such a glittering color? Her stomach clenched again, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “I’m ready to go to the morgue now.”
Whatever his thoughts, she couldn’t read them on his face. “You don’t have to actually view the body,” he explained. “The medical examiner’s office uses videotape for identification purposes. It’s easier on families.”
Evidently, he thought the prospect of the morgue, of viewing her father’s body, had gotten to her as much as the heat and humidity. “I’m a nurse,” she heard herself saying. “The sight of a body isn’t likely to make me go to pieces, but still—” Still, she was glad it would be on videotape.
He put his hand on her arm again, cupping her elbow in an old-fashioned gesture. “Then we might as well get it over with, hadn’t we?”
LINDA HOWARD is the award-winning author whose New York Times bestsellers include Open Season, Mr. Perfect, All the Queen’s Men, Now You See Her, Kill and Tell, and Son of the Morning. She lives in Alabama with her husband and two golden retrievers.
