He just hadn’t known she’d do it like that.
She just walked out with a single suitcase. Where did she go? She’d asked for government protection, but she didn’t have it. He’d hoped to get her into WITSEC, but she’d never been able to find any information about Kareem that could help them frame a case against him. The thing about WITSEC was: if you wanted to be a protected witness, you had to witness something useful to the government and then be willing to testify about it. Kira had never witnessed a damn thing, other than Kareem’s morning cereal selection process.
But she left Kareem anyway. Just walked out. Why did she do that? She had to know it wasn’t safe. She had to know that Kareem would soon have one of his goons on her tail, trying to drag her back to the mansion, kicking and screaming. If Kareem didn’t kill her outright for having the temerity to walk out on him, that was.
So big freaking deal, right? If Mrs. Gregory wanted to get herself killed, then that was her business, wasn’t it? No skin off his nose. The domestic situation between a drug kingpin and his trophy wife had nothing to do with the government, the DEA, or Dexter Brady, and he needed to remember that.
Except that something inside him demanded that he check in with her. Make sure she was safe, at least for now.
God damn it.
Why would he stick his neck out for her, though? He had more than enough people to keep track of, what with the assorted agents, snitches, and strays for which he was responsible. His plate was full. Period.
On the other hand, this nagging ... concern (and it was only a mild concern, nothing as serious as, say, a worry) about Mrs. Gregory’s whereabouts was like the annoying prick of a needle between his shoulder blades.
Unfortunately, he knew himself well enough to know that he’d never sleep until he verified that she was, in fact, still alive. So far. Beyond that, he didn’t give a flying fuck because, as he’d told her on numerous occasions, Mrs. Gregory wasn’t his problem, never had been his problem, and never would be his problem.
Absolutely not.
Grumbling at his own idiocy, he pulled out his cell and thumbed in the number of her secret cell phone, which he had on speed dial from her efforts to keep him posted about Kareem’s illegal activities. It was late, yeah, but if she was keeping him from sleeping, then her ass didn’t need to be asleep either.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more. Every second that went by without an answer sharpened his desire to punch that wall and/or smash the nearest lamp.
“Pick up the phone,” he muttered. “Now, dammit. Pick up the—”
The ringing abruptly stopped. Several beats passed, and then there was rustling, shallow breathing, and then, finally, her voice.
“Hello?”
Thank God. “It’s Brady,” he barked, because he had other stuff to do and sleep to get, and he didn’t have time for this nonsense. “Where you at?”
More breathing. More silence. And then a faint and groggy, “Brady?”
“Yeah. Brady. And I asked you a—”
“I don’t ... feel so good.”
She didn’t sound so good, and that nagging little voice that usually steered him in the right direction told him that it had nothing to do with being woken from a sound sleep. For the first time ever, an ugly thought occurred to him, one that had ice coursing through his veins: what if the drug dealer’s wife was a druggie? There’d never been any sign of an addiction, no glazed eyes or fidgeting, no clammy sweat, but who the hell knew?
“Are you on something? Don’t lie to me.”
The question seemed to give her some trouble, and her pause before answering was so long, he wondered if she’d passed out. “What?” Jesus. Was it his imagination, or was her voice fading on him? “No. I’m just ...”
Just what? What?
“I’ll be okay.”
Fine. Good. Great. She was alive, she’d be fine, and his responsibilities as a humanitarian were fully discharged. Mission accomplished. Nothing to do now except wish her a good life and hang up.
Only he couldn’t do it.
“You don’t sound okay.” Rising fear made his voice gruff. “Why don’t you tell me where you are, and I’ll come—are you still there? Hello? Hello?”
“Brady-yyy.” His name was a sigh now, the merest breath, and he felt her slipping away, going somewhere that she didn’t need to go. “You always tell me I’m not your problem. I don’t need ... to be rescued.”
At some point during their conversation, the adrenaline spike had made him start pacing—what the hell had happened to her?—and now a wave of frustration roared up his throat. How would he find her if she didn’t tell him where she was? What if she passed out? What if—
Trying to be rational, he gripped the phone hard enough to make it splinter in his shaking hand. He focused on not scaring her the way she was scaring him. “You don’t want to be rescued? Fine. I’ll bring you a pizza. Just tell me where the fuck you are, Kira. Please.”
“I’m at the Star ... the Starlight ... the Star—”
The Starlight Motel? Now there was a fine establishment, fondly known among college students and hookers for its cheap rates.
“Great.” He was already in motion, walking for the door. “I’ll be there in—Kira? Kira?”
She didn’t answer.
“Fuck,” he said, and banged out of the suite at a dead run, ignoring his colleagues gaping after him.
“Open the door.” Resisting the violent urge to snatch the keys from the man’s hand, shove him aside, and unlock the door himself made Dexter vibrate with frustration. “Now.”
The motel manager, or whatever he was, looked around and tried to get indignant on him. As though he’d never dream of such rude behavior in a fine establishment like this one.
“Now wait a minute,” he began. “We need to knock first. I can’t just barge—”
Screw it. So much for not being a barbarian. Grabbing the keys, he edged past Mr. Ethical and went to work on the lock.
“You weren’t so worried about manners when I slipped you that fifty, were you?” he barked.
The guy grumbled some half-assed protest, which Dexter ignored.
He turned the knob and encountered a chain lock, which rattled on the other side. More of an irritation than an actual barrier, the thing gave way without protest when he shouldered through the door.
Christ. If it was this easy for him to get to Kira, and he was one of the good guys, he could only imagine how quickly Kareem or one of his goons could find her. But he’d have to contemplate that nightmare scenario some other time, because he had enough terrors and boogeymen to deal with just now, thanks.
There she was. Sprawled, face down, across the white sheets of the bed, as though she’d collapsed before she could actually get into the bed. The cell phone, he saw at a quick glance, was still gripped in one hand.
Sitting next to her head, whining softly, was an anxiouslooking beagle with a red collar. At the arrival of these new humans, he stood, gave one sharp, urgent bark, and wagged his tail, which was as close to Timmy’s fallen into the well! as Dexter had ever seen in real life.
“Wait a minute.” The motel idiot seemed to be working on a fresh batch of outrage. “She told me she didn’t have a dog.”
Brilliant. Ignore the sick woman and focus on the dog.
With murder in his heart and fear thick in his throat, Dexter paused long enough to glance back and nail the bastard with a look that had him shrinking inside his splotchy skin.
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
The guy didn’t wait to be told twice. Wheeling around, he scrambled into the dark hallway as fast as his squat little legs would carry him, slamming the door as he went.
And Dexter focused on Kira. Skimming the fine skin of her throat, he felt for a pulse. She had one, thank God, but it felt weak. She was also a little cool to the touch, but what the hell did he know? All the medical knowledge he had came from watching snippets of Grey’s Anatomy here and there.
With a labored breath, she roused herself enough to peer up at him and frown. “Brady?”
Relief surged through him, strong enough to make him wet his pants. Sitting on the bed, he eased one of his arms under her neck to support her lolling head. “Hey,” he murmured. “What’s happened to you? Do you have the flu, or—”
“My head,” she said.
“Your head?” The law enforcement officer in him immediately shifted to guns, knives, and life-threatening wounds, but he hadn’t seen any—
“I’m going to run you to the emergency room. Okay?”
“Max,” she said.
Huh? “Max?”
Beside them, the dog yapped once. Translation: I’m Max, dummy.
A lightbulb went off over his head. “Right. I’ll bring the dog.”
“Don’t let Kareem find me.” Each word seemed to take a little bit more out of her, and Dexter wanted to beg her to save her energy, but she was determined. With great effort, she opened her eyes all the way and nailed him with a look that dared him to challenge her. “Okay?”
Something powerful gripped him in that moment, something big and bewildering that went way beyond any Good Samaritan moves like helping a sick acquaintance and then sending her on her way while he went on his. Primal and dark, it pumped through his blood with a steady and undeniable beat.
Help Kira. Protect Kira. No matter what.
Nothing was going to happen to this woman. Not one damn thing.
“Don’t you worry,” he told her, and the fervency in his own voice scared him to death, but he didn’t have to think about that now.
This reassurance, apparently, was all she needed to hear. Some of the tension eased out of her body. Either that, or she passed out, a possibility he didn’t want to consider. Lifting her into his arms—though he’d always thought of her as fine-boned and willowy, she was unexpectedly solid and strong—he swung her around and headed for the door. The jangling of tags behind him told him that Max was on his heels. Smart dog. He liked that little guy.
As she raised her arms to hold on to his neck, he gave in to an urge, which was an annoying new habit he seemed to be developing where she was concerned.
Lowering his head, and his defenses, just this once, he brushed her forehead with a soft kiss.
Chapter 5
“This way,” said Dr. Chang, leading Dexter out of the godforsaken waiting area, past the nurses’ station and down the long hallway of patient rooms. “She asked for some food, so we’re letting her have a tray.”
These fun facts about Kira’s appetite were all well and good, but he still didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her. The whole time he was sitting there, cooling his heels in the shadow of a blaring TV, while Kira was being prepped for “the tests,” going into “the tests,” coming out of “the tests” and going into a room after the fucking “tests,” everyone, from the various nurses and techs to Dr. Chang here, refused to tell him what “the tests” were. What the hell happened to her? Brain tumor? Stroke? Why were they acting like he needed an FBI check and CIA security clearance before they told him what was going on?
“But what’s wrong with her?” It was too late and he was too tired and worried to try to keep the rough edge of frustrated irritation out of his voice. “No one has bothered to tell me—”
Dr. Chang stopped walking and faced him, her lips twisting with her own annoyance. “We covered this ground already, Mr. Brady. We have privacy regulations, and unless the patient gives permission—”
“I don’t think you understand. She doesn’t have any family here. I’m the only one she’s got—”
“I don’t care if you’re the president. If Kira wants to tell you about her personal medical condition, then she will. In the meantime, if you can’t stop badgering people, then I’m going to have security escort you out.” She gave him a sour smile. “Your choice.”
Stifling a few prime words for the good doctor here, Dexter ran through his options. He could whip out his badge and try to pull rank on her, but another glance at her blazing brown eyes told him that would end badly. Snatching Kira’s medical file and sprinting down the hallway with it would end worse. Plus, then he wouldn’t get to see Kira, and his driving need to make sure she was okay still had him by the throat.
That left playing nice and hoping someone slipped up.
The decision made, he mirrored Dr. Chang’s sour smile right back at her and held his arm wide to indicate that she should resume walking. “Let’s go.”
They’d arrived. Dr. Chang knocked quietly on the nearest ajar door and poked her head inside. “You have a visitor, Kira. If he tries to bully you or take your Jell-O, let me know and I’ll have him kicked out, okay?”
With a last warning glance that promised dire retribution if he misbehaved, Dr. Chang left. And Dexter edged into the darkened room.
Kira, wearing the obligatory tie-in-the-back hospital gown, was in a bed over by the window, a small bowl in one hand and a raised spoon filled with green Jell-O in the other. The light of the nightstand lamp showed a lot more color in her face, as though she’d officially reentered the land of the living. An IV line of some clear something-or-other, probably fluids, snaked into the back of her left hand. As though frozen, she watched him with wide eyes.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
At the side of the bed now, he rested his hands on the rails and looked down at her. She, meanwhile, took another bite of Jell-O with absolute focus, and then, as though she’d lost her taste for it, put the bowl and spoon on the tray table and shoved it away.
“How’re you doing?”
Nodding, she worked on a smile that never quite got off the ground. “Good. Better.” After a quick swipe at a crease in the sheet, she risked a glance up at him. The contact was brief, though, like a pinball connecting with a lever and skittering away, and it didn’t tell him anything he needed to know. “Where’s Max?”
“He’s in my car in the parking garage, asleep on my jacket, getting hair all over it. I just checked him a little while ago. Don’t worry.”
Another nod and another attempt at a smile. “Thanks. And thanks for, ah, finding me.”
Staring down at the gleaming black hair on her curly head, he wanted to smooth it. To comfort her and reassure himself. He managed not to do it, which was a personal triumph. But then he confessed something he’d never meant to say.
“You scared me.”
This time, he got the full Monty: a glittering glare and a smile filled with such bitterness that seeing it was like chewing on burned coffee beans. “Don’t tell me that the great and powerful Special Agent Brady ever feels fear. Especially over a woman he doesn’t even like.”
Some of her bitterness must have transferred to him, because it swelled inside him, erupting in a little snort that left a bad taste on his tongue. His lips twisted.
Yeah. He deserved that. He wasn’t one to spare time for touchy-kissy feelings, and, as far as he was concerned, rules were rules, never to be broken. But lots of people didn’t see life that way. He got that. He also got why she thought he didn’t like her. She was wrong, but he got it.
“Mrs. Gregory,” he began, because the best way to keep himself at a distance from this woman was to remind himself who she was married to, but before he could finish his elusive thought, whatever it was going to be, there was a knock at the door and a new woman came in.
Looking very brisk and cheerful in her dark pantsuit and badge, she was halfway through her introductory speech before she realized Dexter was there. “Mrs. Gregory? How are you? I’
m Shauna Carter and I—oh! I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Ms. Carter?” Kira seemed wary, probably because she’d had more than enough poking and prodding for one day. “Are you another nurse, or—?”
“Ah, no, dear.” The woman darted a look at Dexter. Apparently she didn’t want to talk in front of him, and the right thing to do would be for him to excuse himself and let the women have a private conversation. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a gentlemanly mood. He stayed where he was. “Let me give you my card. And I’ll stop back in the morning, before you leave. Maybe we can talk then, if you’re up to it.”
More secrecy. More talking in code. What the hell was going on?
Years of special agent training hadn’t been wasted on Dexter. No siree. Employing keen detective skills that would make Sherlock Holmes weep with envy, he leaned forward as discreetly as possible and squinted at the woman’s badge.
Shauna Carter, LISW, it said. Licensed social worker.
And below that:
Crisis Counselor.
“Thank you.” Kira took the card, shot another furtive glace at Dexter, and ended the conversation as quickly as she could short of planting her foot on the woman’s ass and booting her out the door. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
Ms. Carter took the hint. “Have a good night,” she said over her shoulder as she left.
Dexter watched her go, mentally rearranging puzzle pieces in his mind. Crisis Counselor ... dizziness ... tests ... extreme secrecy.
He stared at Kira; she resolutely stared in the other direction, refusing to meet his gaze as though she was ashamed of something and wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come out; between them, the utter silence mushroomed and reverberated, hurting his ears.
Blinking, he struggled against it, hoping for another solution, desperate for a different answer.
Deadly Desires Page 3
