by Ann Gimpel
Juliana smothered a snort. “I love you guys.”
“We love you too. Now get moving.” Her mother and father trotted toward the waiting cab with its driver standing straight as a stick and holding the rear door open for them.
The driver opened the back door of the limo. Julie dove into its plush interior and considered stretching full length on the seat. Because she couldn’t come up with a good reason not to, she lay down, tucking her hands beneath her head.
“I’ll try not to, but I might fall asleep,” she called to the driver.
“No worries, Dr. Wray. I’ll wake you once I get you home.”
Not for the first time, she kicked herself for not joining the military. The formality and courtesies appealed to her, but her mom and dad had earned every single one by service to their country.
Thinking about Brice or Sarah or her parents felt quite beyond her. They circled her mind like an out-of-control pinball game with sometimes one and sometimes the other popping up. As an experiment, she shut her eyes in hopes it would block everything out. The plunge into unconsciousness was almost instant.
Chapter Four
Brice stood to shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Wray and usher them out. Julie had fled as if the dogs of Hell were after her. He retreated to the sanctity of the conference room once the door closed behind the Wrays. He never should have asked Julie for her cell number—even if he’d asked on behalf of the ICU. It was stupid. Her parents knew how to get hold of her, and she was a resourceful adult. More than capable of calling the unit on her own without his prodding.
He’d followed newspaper articles about her over the years and knew she’d become a world-renowned expert on ancient people and cultures. He was pleased for her and doubly pleased he hadn’t seen a wedding ring. Not everyone wore them, but the absence meant she might not be married.
Beyond if she was married or not, how could her parents have treated her twin status so casually? Maybe if the girls hadn’t still been dressing alike with identical haircuts through college, he’d never have made the mistake that ruined his life.
“Oh for God’s sake,” he muttered out loud to steady himself.
His life was scarcely ruined. Lonely, maybe. But he’d understood the consequences of picking a subspecialty on top of another subspecialty in medicine. He wasn’t as old as some of his colleagues who’d received years’ worth of high level training.
Except most of them had wives. Children. So long as he was on a tangent, he let his mind ramble. He’d been through thorough genetic testing back when he and Juliana were serious about a mutual future. He wasn’t a carrier for the genetic anomaly responsible for cystic fibrosis, which meant he and Julie could, conceivably, be parents...
Brice slapped an open palm down hard on the polished wooden table. Pain traveled up his arm, but he welcomed it. Fantasizing about children with Juliana Wray was ridiculous. She’d barely been able to make eye contact with him from her vantage point across the room, and she’d left as soon as she could.
He paced to a window. Normally, he enjoyed the view. It looked east, and on clear days he sometimes caught a glimpse of the Cascade Mountain Range. Not today. The gray sludge was even thicker than it had been, limiting his vision to perhaps a hundred fifty feet.
He shut his eyes and rubbed them. He wasn’t thinking straight, but how could he? He needed downtime. Sleep. When he rolled his shoulders back, the bones cracked, reminding him he hadn’t gotten much exercise this week, either.
An idea formed. Before could talk himself out of it, he loped out of the conference room and took a back stairway. Pushing through the locker room door, he returned to the locker he’d left earlier and shucked his hospital garb in favor of sweats, running shoes, and a waterproof windbreaker. He’d jog home. It was just under five miles, and he’d be there is under an hour.
Pleased with himself, he checked out with the hospital operator and made sure his pager was firmly clipped to his jacket. He’d schooled himself never to miss an opportunity for productivity during medical school and residency. Time was precious during his training years, and he’d grown savvy at taking advantage of every second. He’d get a decent cardio workout, sleep for a few hours, and maybe jog back to the hospital. Failing that, he had a motorcycle sitting in his garage. Running also got him out from under the conundrum of whether he should drive or not in his current sleep-deprived condition.
He slipped out a side door and pulled his jacket hood over his head, settling into an easy pace. He loved running. He’d done track and field through high school and his undergrad years, missing the Olympic team by scant seconds. If he’d had wealthy parents, ones who could have hired class-act coaching, he’d have made it for sure.
But then, he’d have had to put med school on a back burner.
Brice inhaled deeply, letting the cold, dank maritime air sear his lungs. One of the best things about aerobic exertion was how well it reduced stress. Thoughts rumbled across his mind and out the other side, followed by more thoughts. None of them bothered him when his body hummed with an endorphin high.
Juliana. Damn she was prettier now than she’d been as a twenty-year-old. The roundness had left her face, revealing the classic sweep of wide cheekbones and a firm jaw. Not too firm. Still feminine. And her eyes. A deep, cerulean blue, they still drew him like a lodestone. He’d caught the swell of breasts and hips. A memory of suckling her high, tight breasts, of the nipples lengthening into peaks in his mouth, made breath hitch in his throat. His cock hardened, pushing against the front of his pants.
He shook his head and jogged in place, waiting for a light to change. It was their eyes that had tripped him up. Sarah and Julie had the exact same eyes, down to a sprinkling of golden flecks around their pupils. It was why he’d been certain Sarah was Julie. She’d been different in bed, but he’d been too drunk to absorb what those differences meant.
Reluctantly, he replayed that evening, searching for clues after Sarah’s confession about wanting him for herself. He’d arrived at the girls’ apartment around ten. The quarter had just ended, and he’d been out celebrating with a bunch of guys from the track team. Sarah/Julie had looked surprised to see him, but she’d motioned him inside and offered him still more booze.
The lights had been low, and she’d settled on the floor, patting the spot next to her. He’d asked where Sarah was since the shadow twin rarely left home during the evening. Sarah/Julie had murmured something noncommittal, but reassured him she wasn’t worried about her twin.
She’d wrapped an arm around him and leaned close...
And he’d been lost, just like he always was when Julie kissed him. Sex was new in those days. They’d only just graduated from necking to the real deal. Maybe if he’d been more familiar with Julie’s body—and less drunk—Sarah wouldn’t have pulled off her charade.
They’d fallen asleep on the floor, wrapped in blankets. Sometime before dawn, lights flashed on, followed by an outraged shout, and then Juliana—the real Juliana—was dragging his half-clothed body out of her sister’s arms and screaming at both of them.
Sarah had shrugged and headed for the apartment’s single bedroom, closing the door with a sharp bang and leaving him to face a livid Juliana. The harder he’d tried, the worse things got until he’d finally dressed as fast as he could and fled.
That had been that. She’d apparently made peace with Sarah, but had less than zero interest in even listening to his apologies. At first, he’d been frantic, then angry, and finally bitter. As he ran through Bellevue, headed toward Kirkland, he realized he still blamed her for not believing in him enough to listen to his side of what happened.
Maybe Sarah lied. She’d said it was her cross to bear. If she’d told her sister he’d been a willing participant with full knowledge of who she was, he didn’t blame Julie for cutting him out of her life.
The hot squeal of brakes on wet asphalt dragged him out of his trip backward in time. He ground to a halt and stared in horror as an enormous p
ickup plowed into a subcompact, driving it into two more vehicles. The sounds of glass shattering and metal crunching and bending against itself battered his ears.
He fished his cell out of his pocket and dialed the hospital, giving his location and requesting at least one ambulance, maybe two. The operator assured him she’d call 911 to alert the cops. He put the phone away, anxious to wade in and start doing what he did best. Triage and saving lives. He loved emergency rooms and the excitement of something new at every turn, but he’d opted for a corner of medicine where he could get to know his patients on more than a cursory level.
Vehicles were still spinning and pounding into each other like bumper cars. Brice started forward, but jammed his hands into his pockets, waiting. He couldn’t do a damned thing if he got himself killed because the accident unfolding in front of him wasn’t done yet.
Outraged shrieks and groans joined the telltale thunks of cars hitting one another. He scanned the scene with practiced eyes. The subcompact the pickup had plowed into was in the worst shape, its side door and hood crumpled into the passenger compartment. No one else seemed to have sustained serious injuries since they were piling out of their vehicles in droves.
If the squashed small car had airbags, he hoped they’d deployed. The area was safe enough. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Brice ran a gauntlet, weaving through stopped traffic, until he reached the crumpled subcompact. No airbags. The driver slumped against the shattered window, blood running down her face. He tugged on the driver’s door, not expecting it to open.
Sirens blared, brakes screeched, and two cops pushed through the growing crowd, barking orders.
Brice barely looked up. “Help me get her out of there,” he called.
“Who are you?” one of the officers demanded.
“Yeah,” the other one grunted. “Which one of these vehicles is yours?”
Brice straightened, not used to explaining himself. “None of them. I was on foot. I’m a doctor. I already called Overlake. Ambulances are on their way.” He took a measured breath. “I need access to that woman.” He pointed at the car. The smell of gasoline was growing. Between dripping fuel and hot engines, he hoped nothing blew up.
The first cop tried the passenger door, but it was just as stuck as the other one. “I don’t like this,” he muttered.
Brice didn’t, either. A thin wail came from deep inside the subcompact. At first, he wasn’t certain he’d heard anything, but the cries escalated. “There’s a baby in the backseat,” he told the cops.
“Yeah. I heard it too.” The second cop’s rough demeanor softened.
“Stand aside.” Cop number one was back with a pry bar. He jimmied it beneath the trunk and the car’s body and bent his weight into it.
The baby was crying in earnest now. Loud, hiccupy sobs that boded well. If it was badly hurt, it wouldn’t be crying like that.
“Give me a hand,” the cop with the pry bar told the other officer.
Between the two of them grunting and swearing, the trunk finally popped loose. Brice tried to see inside, but the officers’ burly bodies blocked his line of sight. Something gray and fuzzy whizzed out of the trunk, landing on the wet pavement. It took a moment before Brice figured out it had to be the panel separating the trunk from the backseat.
“Here we go. He was in a car seat.” Cop number two backed out of the trunk, cradling a screaming toddler in his arms.
Brice took the child. Far from a pediatrician, he ran hands and eyes over the screaming baby boy. Maybe two years old, he didn’t appear hurt. The whine of klaxon sirens announced Overlake’s ambulances were closing on them.
“Doc.” Cop number one was back.
“Give me the boy.” Cop number two held out his arms, and Brice handed him over.
“I’m afraid to move the driver,” cop number one said, but I got the passenger door open for you.
Brice ran around the car and slid onto a front seat littered with glass fragments. The woman sagged against her seat belt. He hunted for a pulse, relieved when he found a faint flutter around her carotid. Moving accident victims without a backboard was risky. He could make a spinal cord injury so much worse, she’d end up in a wheelchair.
“Dr. McKinnon. We’re here.” One of Overlake’s EMTs hovered in the car’s doorway.
“Backboard and cervical collar,” he barked and glanced over his shoulder to see Juan Carlos.
“We figured as much,” Juan said in his softly accented voice and gave Brice a stethoscope.
“Thanks.” He was partway through an assessment when two more EMTs showed up.
Working as a team, they transitioned the still unconscious woman to a backboard for transport. By then, he’d determined she had at least two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a broken fibula. Maybe a concussion.
“Nice work.” The first cop was back.
“Good thing you were here,” the second cop said.
Brice shrugged. “She’ll make it. None of her injuries were life-threatening.” He straightened in time to see the ambulance’s rear lights disappearing. While he’d been working on the driver, the cops had cleared one lane in each direction, and traffic was moving again.
“Where were you headed before all this happened?” Cop number one asked.
“Home. I had a tough case. Haven’t slept much since Monday night.”
Cop number two whistled long and low. “Sheesh. And here I thought we had it rough with our shift work. Want a lift?”
Brice thought about it. “Yeah. Home’s still about two miles. I’m in Kirkland.”
“I’ll take him,” cop number one said.
“Good plan. By the time you’re back, the wreckers will have arrived,” the second cop agreed.
Brice trudged to the waiting cop car. He was wet to his skin and starting to shiver. At least the car was warm inside. The cop got behind the wheel, and Brice gave him his address.
“The baby?” he asked, chagrined he’d all but forgotten about the squalling toddler.
“It left with the first ambulance,” the cop said. “That happened after you were inside the car with Mrs. Davidson.”
“Good you found out who she is,” Brice mumbled. The adrenaline spurt was fading, and he stumbled over the words.
“This it?” The cop pointed to the driveway leading to Brice’s house.
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll get out here. There are electric gates. No need for you to bother with the code.”
“You sure? You look trashed.”
Brice managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s only another hundred feet to my front door.” Without waiting for the cop to lodge more arguments, he let himself out of the car and walked up his long driveway. When he got to the wrought iron gates, he punched in the code and walked through once they opened.
Lights blazed all over the house, and he pushed irritation aside. His housekeeper was a gem, but she squandered electricity like it was free.
The front door flew open; Lupe Garcia barreled out. Her kindly face was seamed with concern, and long, gray hair billowed around her. She’d stuck with the flowing skirts and colorful tunics typical of Central America, and her brown eyes brimmed with compassion.
“There you are, Doctor. Come inside. Hospital called. Said you helped with a car crash. I ran you a hot bath...”
Brice tuned out her soft flow of words. He’d met Lupe when he was on a six-week rotation in Honduras years ago. They’d struck up a friendship, bolstered by email and snail mail. Two years ago, he’d helped her and her daughter come to the U.S. The daughter and her husband and family lived north of Seattle, but Lupe had insisted he needed a housekeeper—and a cook.
He hadn’t argued too hard because he recognized truth in her observation.
He stumbled up the brick stairs leading into his house. Buying the place had been a splurge, but the market had tanked, and prices were attractive.
“What you want first?” Lupe asked. “Food or bath?”
She nodded approvingly. “Then maybe you sleep. After that, we talk food.”
He made his way through the foyer and up winding stairs straight out of Gone With the Wind. Lupe remained below, offering him privacy.
As he stripped out of his wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom’s green-veined marble floor, he took stock of everything.
He was grateful he’d been able to help the accident victims. Equally grateful they hadn’t been so badly injured, he’d worry about whether they survived. A sideline benefit was he hadn’t thought about Juliana.
Until now.
Nothing to think about. Not really. She wrote me off a long time ago.
He’d utilize his professional demeanor—hide behind it and keep it in place until she headed back to Egypt. Or wherever that damn dig was. After that, he’d go back to normal, whatever normal was. Deep inside, something rebelled. He didn’t want “normal,” he wanted Juliana. Ached for her. Yearned for her. If she got on a plane before he had a chance to lay his heart at her feet—or she heard him out and left anyway—it would be the second saddest day of his life.
The first had been when she’d found him in Sarah’s arms.
He sank into the steaming water, letting it soak into the knots his muscles had turned into. Exhaustion washed over him in waves, and he barely remembered stepping out of the tub, drying off, and staggering into bed.
Chapter Five
Juliana cursed as she bent over the engine compartment of her Toyota 4Runner. Why the hell wouldn’t it start? She’d gotten decent rest, maybe fifteen hours’ sleep since the Marine driver had dropped her off. It was time to get back to Overlake. Would she have to swallow her pride and call a cab?
She wiggled cables, aiming for methodical as she scanned the Toyota’s under-the-hood components. When she got to the battery, understanding—and memory—slapped her across the face. She’d unhooked the negative battery terminal before leaving for Egypt, so the few things that ran all the time wouldn’t drain the vehicle down to bedrock.
