SH Medical 07 - The Detective's Accidental Baby

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  He stepped back. Erica angled the key toward the ignition. To her annoyance, it took three tries to insert it. Keep your brain on track.

  She sat holding the steering wheel and willing herself to turn on the engine. Put the car in gear and drive to her apartment.

  Her limbs refused to obey.

  Lock tapped on the window. Erica wanted to ignore him, but common sense prevailed. Grimly, she pulled out the key, retrieved her purse and opened the door. “I guess I do need a ride.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and bring you back here.”

  “I can call a cab.” She was being ungracious, Erica knew, so she added, “Thank you for the offer. I’m not usually like this.”

  “I didn’t expect you were.”

  They crossed the lot to his coupe. He held her elbow, steadying her. “Ever been in a bad accident?” he asked. “What’s happening with you seems like a flashback.”

  “Yes.” Might as well tell him. “Ten years ago, my brother was killed.”

  “I’m sorry.” When she was safely inside, he closed the door and came around.

  The car’s scent suited him, Erica thought, inhaling a trace of leather and a hint of coffee from a take-out cup sitting in a holder. The lines were sporty, with the latest high-tech devices in the dash.

  Nothing like Jordan’s old car when he’d rattled to the curb in front of her nursing school ten years ago, grinning in a slightly loopy way as he peered out the window. “Hey, you think I’d let my kid sister ride the subway on her twenty-first birthday?” he’d called.

  Erica had had to move classified ads and a number of job applications off the passenger seat before she sat down. On the floor, a take-out sack had rustled and released the odor of stale French fries. There’d been another scent in the air, too, the scent of marijuana. But she hadn’t noticed that until after her brother gunned the engine and jerked into traffic, nearly clipping the shuttle bus she usually rode....

  “What’s going on?” Lock’s voice brought her back to the present. They were rolling past the library.

  “Remembering things I’d rather forget,” Erica said. “Do you need directions to my apartment or do you already know where it is?”

  Again, that telltale blink. “I could use directions.”

  She leaned back in the seat. “Go straight.”

  “Okay. Hungry?” he asked.

  “It is dinnertime.” Erica hoped he couldn’t hear the rumblings from her stomach. The fruit plate, even finished off with a slice of cake, hadn’t lasted long.

  Lock paused at a stop sign. “Left, right or straight up?”

  “This car flies?”

  “I keep hoping, with all these gadgets.”

  “Left.” Erica had another question. “Do you carry a gun?” She’d seen enough gunshot wounds to be leery of weapons.

  He eased left. “Not since I handed in my badge. Now that you know what a harmless creature I am, I assume you’ll let me cook dinner.”

  “Pushy.” Erica had to laugh. She was feeling more comfortable, and for once she had no desire to return to an empty apartment. “I don’t have much food on hand. Enough to rustle up something, I guess.”

  “Done.” Lock turned into her complex. Apparently he didn’t need any further directions.

  Erica decided not to worry about that.

  SURVIVING AN ACCIDENT that killed her brother couldn’t help but leave a lasting psychic wound. No wonder Erica had reacted so strongly to the near miss with the SUV.

  As he escorted her up the exterior staircase to her apartment, Lock didn’t miss the shakiness in her movements. He admired her determined effort to ignore it.

  On the upper walkway, waiting as Erica pulled out her key, he supposed he’d overstepped by insisting on making dinner for her. How would he explain this if Mike found out?

  Still, Lock couldn’t leave until he was certain she’d recovered enough to manage on her own. A hot meal ought to help. He owed her that much for invading her privacy in the first place. And he wanted the satisfaction of knowing she no longer ranked him as a creep.

  As for his earlier impression that they had connected on some spiritual level, in retrospect it seemed misguided. They might share a cynical attitude about relationships with the opposite sex, but as the door opened on a cozy apartment stuffed with cushy furniture, Tiffany-style lamps and framed photographs of butterflies, Lock had to admit the resemblance didn’t extend to decorating choices. The only thing he’d stuck on his bedroom wall was a dartboard, and if the house he and Mike rented hadn’t come furnished, he’d be sleeping on an inflatable mattress.

  “Nice stuff,” he said, following her inside. She’d made the most of the modest living room, tucking a round table into one corner and filling part of a wall with an antique-style mirror that made the place look bigger.

  “I’m the queen of thrift store shopping,” Erica informed him as she untied her shoes. Lock set his next to hers on a small mat and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.

  On the counter that divided the living room from the compact kitchen, he caught sight of a cake box. “By the way, happy birthday.”

  She regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know it’s my birthday?”

  Oops. “I just assumed that was a birthday cake.” But with the lid shut, there was no way he could have known.

  “Don’t lie to me. I hate that.” Erica folded her arms. The movement pushed her breasts into prominence, as if Lock hadn’t been keenly aware of them already. “You’ve been snooping.”

  No sense hiding a fact that was sure to surface sooner or later. “I work with someone you know. Patty Denny.”

  She took a moment to place the name. “Oh. Alec’s wife. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m in the habit of keeping things to myself.” When this explanation failed to soften her expression, he added, “You can ask Patty all about me, if you’re curious.” Still, Lock hoped she wouldn’t, because that was likely to lead to Mike finding out that he’d visited Erica’s apartment.

  He should leave. And would, as soon as they ate.

  In the kitchen, Erica opened a cabinet. “I’ve got pasta and tomato sauce. Or we could send out for pizza.”

  “It’s your birthday. You deserve a home-cooked meal.” Lock nearly added, “And you eat way too much fast food.” Instead, he peered into the refrigerator. “Cream cheese and white wine. I can do something with that.”

  At his request, Erica took out cooking oil and salt. As she handed them to him, her smooth fingers crossed his roughened ones, setting off a spark of electricity.

  She gave a little jump. “Ow.”

  “Didn’t really hurt.”

  “It startled me.” As he reached past her, she backed out of range. Still nervous or unusually self-protective. Or both.

  “Where are your cooking pots?” Lock asked.

  “In here somewhere. Help yourself.”

  As she moved aside, he began opening cabinets, and discovered a wealth of high quality pots and pans that gleamed like new. “You can’t tell me you bought these at a thrift store.”

  “Wedding presents,” she said. “My friends greatly overestimated my interest in cooking.”

  He ran water into a large pot for pasta. “Your ex-husband wasn’t domestic, I gather.”

  “That depends on your definition of domestic. He had a great appreciation for beds. Unfortunately, most of them belonged to other women,” Erica said.

  “You’ve skewered him with a clean thrust. Neatly done.” After setting the water to boil, Lock checked the fridge again. The freezer yielded a bag of broccoli and cauliflower, which he put into another pot. While he might exist mostly on chips and takeout himself, Lock enjoyed cooking on occasion. And he consid
ered this an occasion.

  “You could use the microwave,” Erica said from the corner where she’d retreated.

  “Microwaved vegetables turn out rubbery,” he retorted.

  “Aren’t they supposed to be rubbery?”

  “Not on my watch.” Lock located chicken broth, nutmeg, cayenne and flour for thickening. He could combine these with the cream cheese and wine to make a light version of Alfredo sauce.

  Erica slid by him, her soft curves brushing Lock’s side, and circled the far end of the counter. Even though she’d barely touched him, his body hardened instinctively. Thank goodness he was turned away.

  “You ever been married?” She slid onto one of the stools and sat watching him.

  “Never came close.” He knew himself too well to allow a relationship to pass the point of no return. “Had a few girlfriends, but they were smart enough to figure out I’m basically a loner.” And if they didn’t, I was out the door before they could spring the trap.

  “Then you’ll appreciate that I am, too,” Erica said.

  He dismissed as condescending the glib response that popped up, that she was too pretty to be a loner. Erica deserved better. “Guess that gives us something in common.”

  “Aside from jogging and knowing Patty Denny.”

  “And living in Safe Harbor, California.”

  “Wow, we must be twins separated at birth,” she said.

  “No doubt.” Despite the light exchange, it crossed Lock’s mind that if Erica hadn’t come from Boston, her remark might have hit close to the truth. One of the problems with being adopted and knowing nothing about your biological family was that you couldn’t be sure who you were related to.

  Someday he ought to finish the inquiries he’d started into the identity of his birth mother. She most likely lived somewhere around here. That prospect had bugged Lock ever since Mike proposed his moving back here and buying a half interest in the agency.

  Yet meeting her would mean confronting some very unpleasant issues. And possibly unleashing more anger than he was ready to deal with.

  Lock was mixing the flour with the liquids when he remembered another ingredient for his dish. “Got Parmesan?”

  “Up there.” Erica pointed to a cupboard on his right.

  “I was hoping for fresh,” he admitted as he fetched it.

  “Picky, picky.”

  “Most women admire my taste.”

  “Most women obviously let you get away with far too much.” With lips parted, Erica awaited his response. Her mouth would fit beautifully against his, Lock noted. If he leaned across the counter, she might tense for a moment, but then…

  Cut that out.

  “Plates?” he asked, and answered his own question by opening another cupboard. While the matched service for four might also have come from her wedding, a few chips testified that it had seen plenty of use. “Butterflies. Do I sense a theme?”

  “They’ve always appealed to me. I’m not sure why.” From a drawer on her side of the counter, Erica produced silverware and paper napkins. “I suppose I should have outgrown them, now that I’m thirty-one.”

  “Such an advanced age,” Lock murmured.

  “I keep hoping I’ve at least matured enough not to make any more stupid choices, like marrying my ex.”

  “I wish I could say I haven’t made any stupid mistakes since I turned thirty-one, or thirty-five, for that matter.” Setting down the plates, Lock stirred the spaghetti into boiling water.

  “Any tips on aging gracefully?” Erica teased.

  “Don’t pick up girls in parks. But then, who wants to age gracefully?”

  She laughed. “It’s a good thing I don’t want kids, or I suppose I’d be hearing the tick-tick-tick of my biological clock.”

  “Most women seem to.” He’d always shied away from women who expressed a desire to become mothers. Then last summer in Flagstaff he’d enjoyed coaching a softball team of underprivileged kids, many of whom lacked fathers. Lock supposed that someday he might enjoy the parenting experience. Not anytime soon, though.

  “Spare me.” Erica made a face. “I’ll leave the baby making to my patients, thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean while you’re single,” he said. “That would be tough.”

  She tossed back her hair. There was none of that self-conscious fluffing of her locks as he’d seen some women do, just a natural way of moving that kept him aware of her femininity. “Raising a child is totally demanding. Your life isn’t your own anymore. Plus they cost a fortune, and you have to worry about them every minute. I’m just too selfish. Does that turn you off?”

  “Does what?”

  “My not wanting kids.”

  Lock had always assumed that if he did marry and have children, their mother would provide the main day-to-day supervision. He’d never considered how that might feel from her perspective.

  “Nope.” He stirred the drained pasta into the white sauce, relishing the scents of nutmeg, Parmesan and cream cheese. “Nothing about you turns me off.”

  Erica looked pleased. While he knew better than to assume that meant an open invitation, Lock was enjoying the undercurrents. The tantalizing buzz. The stirrings that might lead to…

  He’d better hightail it out of here as soon as they finished eating, he thought as he carried their plates of pasta and vegetables to the small table.

  Erica poured white wine into stemmed glasses. “Thank you,” she said. “This is lovely.”

  “You’re welcome.” Lock eased into a dark wood chair and stretched his legs until his sock-clad feet touched hers. The cozy contact sent a wave of pleasure simmering up his body.

  Dangerous territory.

  “Put your arm out,” she commanded.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A toast isn’t a toast unless you link arms.”

  “You’re right.” They leaned toward each other and linked arms. This close, her soft breath tickled his neck.

  Erica raised her glass. “To picking up girls in parks.”

  “Especially on their birthday.” Lock’s cheek nearly touched hers as he bent to take a sip. Her nearness gave him such a heady sensation, the wine might as well have been whiskey.

  “Delicious.” Her eyes took on intriguing green depths beneath starry brown flecks.

  Abruptly, a loud rumble vibrated through the room. With his free hand, Lock gripped the table to steady it. He’d grown up in Southern California and took quakes, if that’s what this was, in stride.

  Erica jerked away, spilling wine on the table and tipping her chair. She barely avoided going over backward.

  “I…” Her pupils dilated, and when he reached over and caught her wrist, it felt cold beneath his touch. From outside, he heard another rumble, followed by several thumps. Someone must be wheeling a heavy piece of furniture down the staircase.

  “It isn’t a quake,” Lock said. “Just one of your neighbors.”

  Erica didn’t seem to hear. She’d gone ashen, and her breath was coming fast. The trauma from that accident ten years ago not only hadn’t faded, it had festered. In that moment he resolved not to leave until he made sure she was all right—no matter how long it took. Or how great the danger to his self-control.

  Chapter Four

  Erica couldn’t stop shaking, and all because of someone moving furniture. But even though she came up with a rationale that should have reassured her—your blood sugar’s dropped for lack of food—the terror seized her again.

  Pounding pulse. Numb fingers. A sense of impending doom. If this had happened to another woman, she’d have summoned the paramedics to treat a possible heart attack. But in her case, the symptoms added up to something quite different.

  Lock lifted he
r from the chair and carried her to the sofa. “You’re having a panic attack.”

  “I…know.” Erica’s teeth chattered as he sank down with her on his lap, enclosed in his arms. Leaning against him, she let the steady thrum of his heart calm her. “This is embarrassing.”

  “You said the accident happened ten years ago. Was that on your birthday?” His fingers stroked her hair.

  She nodded.

  “Ever talk to anyone about it?” he asked.

  “The police. When it happened.” The shakes intensified at the memory of sitting in the hospital corridor, talking to a uniformed officer. He’d been cool, professional and remote as he took her statement. The air had felt as cold as the February chill outside. Physically, Erica had suffered only bruises and cuts. Inside, she’d been plunged into icy darkness.

  Jordan was dead. He’d died shielding her.

  “What about afterward?” There was a slight rasp to Lock’s voice. “Did you get counseling?”

  “My family dealt with problems on our own.” But they hadn’t really dealt with anything. Had never dealt with Jordan’s drug use, and after his death had simply retreated into their shells.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Around Erica, the shadows lengthened. She swallowed hard.

  “Let it out.” Lock wasn’t asking; he was ordering. Somehow, that helped.

  She concentrated on the circle of light from a table lamp and the warmth of Lock’s body. “Jordan picked me up at nursing school to take me to dinner for my birthday. It wasn’t till he nearly hit a shuttle bus that I realized he was high.”

  “Your brother had a drug problem?”

  “He started experimenting in college.” An image of Jordan’s dancing eyes and quick laugh flashed into her mind. He’d had a gift for winning hearts, including his kid sister’s. “He smoked marijuana. A lot.”

  “No hard stuff?” Lock asked.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “How did your parents respond?” he probed.

  “They argued. With him and with each other.” Their mother had insisted that she’d tried pot in college, too, and she’d turned out okay. Their father, a trust attorney, had pointed out that marijuana was illegal, and had become more potent since those days.