She knew.
She had no business going with him. But she needed her car. She wanted her clothes back. She longed for answers to her questions. And she'd never walked away from a challenge thrown down by Jack Forrester.
Holding her chin at a haughty angle, she cut her gaze sharply away from his golden, scarred, beautiful face and climbed into the truck.
* * *
4
« ^ »
As a prim, silent Callie Marshall sat stiffly beside him in the tow truck, Jack forced his muscles to unclench and his hands to relax on the wheel.
He hadn't liked seeing her with Tierney.
He didn't like her taking Tierney's side against him.
He didn't like how much he disliked those things.
His reaction to Callie wasn't what it should be. Last night he'd lain awake analyzing that reaction—the blood-stirring desire that overcame him whenever she was near. Why did she affect him so strongly?
She'd grown into a beautiful woman, yes, but beautiful women weren't exactly a scarcity. They fluttered through his life like brightly colored butterflies. He'd never tried to hold on to one for too long. Never wanted to clip any wings.
He didn't have what it took to keep a woman happy beyond the bedroom. He needed his space, and time alone, and freedom to unwind whenever his work wrapped around his insides too tightly. Selfish though that might be, he had little left to give a woman, outside the bedroom.
He'd be crazy to go after Callie with sexual intent.
He wanted her as a friend. She'd shared the happiest part of his life. He'd known her better than he had his own sister, who was seven years younger than he. He'd spent more time with Callie than he had with his father, who'd been the local doctor, or his mother, a busy schoolteacher.
Until raging hormones had sent him in other directions, Callie had been there for him. She'd had a unique way of sharing. Other friends had shared the good times and the bad, adding their own brands of humor or pathos, but only Callie had tapped into his feelings, his reactions, his psyche. And he'd tapped into hers. Together they'd created an extra dimension to every situation. Extra laughs, challenges, discoveries, regrets.
Yesterday, for the first time in years, he'd felt that way again.
He wanted her back in his life. He wanted that extra spice in ordinary moments. He would do whatever it took to win her over. But he would not corrupt their friendship—or his chance to renew it, as slight as that chance seemed to be right now—by pursuing a sexual relationship.
He'd spent half the night reaching that decision.
He'd spent the other half imagining her hot and naked in his arms, in his bed. He'd imagined staring into her eyes while he made love to her.
Gripping the steering wheel harder, he blew out a long breath. He was doing it again. Wanting her. Wanting to stop the truck, pull her to him and kiss her into utter submission.
"Is this for me?"
The question drew his gaze to her. She held up the plastic bag he'd left on the seat, her dusky brows arched beneath dark, feathery bangs. She looked slim, neat and authoritative in her beige tailored suit. Unapproachable. Untouchable. All business. A challenge he'd have to ignore.
"Yeah," he replied. "It's for you."
She withdrew the contents from the bag. First came her leather pumps, rubbed free of mud but warped, with one heel missing. Next she retrieved her snagged silk blouse. "You've cleaned my shoes and blouse," she noted with surprise.
"The blouse came out okay."
"There's no stain." Surprise had replaced the wariness in her gray-green eyes.
"How's your injury this morning?"
"Fine. Much better."
"Think I should take another look at it?"
"No!" After gazing at him with something like alarm, she blushed then murmured, "But thank you for your concern. And for cleaning my blouse and shoes." She peered again into the empty bag, as if expecting another item to materialize. "What about … um—" she cleared her throat "—my bra?"
"That took extra soaking. It's still in my dryer."
Two little anxiety lines creased between her brows. "You didn't have to clean it. You could have stuck everything in a plastic bag and handed it over."
"You don't like the sight of blood, and I had laundry to do last night, anyway." He shrugged. "No big deal."
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. A provocative thing for her to do—drawing his attention to her full, shapely mouth when he was trying not to think about kissing her.
He knew what she had on her mind, though. She didn't like the idea that he had her bra. She was probably envisioning ways he could embarrass her. "Want to stop by my house and get it?"
That, of course, wouldn't rate very high on her wish list. He could almost hear the debate raging inside her: should she get the car before the rain began, or get her bra before he did something outrageous with it?
She crossed her arms and pursed her sulky, kissable mouth in a way that almost made him groan. "You're manipulative, Dr. Forrester."
"How so?"
"You know how. I shouldn't be with you, yet here I am, with you. And now I'm tempted to go to your house to get my bra back. I feel like a fly being lured into a spiderweb. Step into my parlor, said the big, old, scheming spider."
He couldn't help a slight smile at her dramatic interpretation. "And just what do you think I'd do to you once you were in my, uh, parlor?" His imagination supplied a wealth of stimulating possibilities.
"I don't know." She searched his face as if the answer lay encrypted there.
His desire for her stirred, along with hope. She had to feel something for him, or that hint of vulnerability wouldn't be glimmering in her eyes.
"Influence my investigation, maybe?" she guessed. Not one of the possibilities he'd been contemplating. "Discredit me? Compromise my sister's case?"
"I don't have to do any of those things, Callie. In fact, I intend to help you with this investigation. I didn't administer the wrong medication to Agnes, and I'd like to know why the hell she was hallucinating."
"Do you have any theories?"
"None worth mentioning."
"I'd like to ask you a few questions, but you might not want to answer without your attorney's approval."
"Are you warning me to be on my guard?" He threw her a pensive glance. "Why?"
"I'm only trying to be fair."
"The question is, has your definition of 'fair' changed?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I have no doubt that you're a great investigator, Cal. Once you've latched onto a mystery, you dig until you have the answer. Like when someone kept robbing Bubba Scaggs's crab traps, or when a prankster put a snake in my mother's desk at school. You didn't rest until you came up with the truth." He tilted his head and gazed at her. "Do you still go after the truth, or do you just look for ways to build your case?"
The question hit Callie with uncanny force, and it took her a moment to respond. "I go for the truth." But she knew she wasn't being entirely honest. Though she looked for the truth as a matter of personal pride, she also gave the lawyers what they demanded: anything and everything they could possibly use against their target, whether it had a direct bearing on the case or not. She would cast a wide net, dragging for dirt. The lawyers would then cull through it to find their winning edge.
"If you look for the truth in this case, Callie, I have faith you'll find it."
She drew in a breath and glanced out her side window.
"Ask me," he urged. "Anything."
Although she wanted answers, she felt strangely hesitant. Slowly she took the cassette recorder from her purse. After recording his permission, she asked for his version of the incident. It matched Agnes's, although he'd described it with a good deal of medical jargon.
"Are you sure she was having an allergic reaction?"
"Of course."
"Because she said she was?"
"No, because I looked. Her mouth, tongue a
nd throat were swelling. I've had to do tracheotomies on patients in similar situations, once their air passages were blocked. An injection usually relieves the symptoms, though. Which, in this case, it did. How could I have used the wrong medication when the symptoms subsided?"
Callie lapsed into reflective silence. The only way, of course, was if Grant was right and Agnes's "allergic reaction" had been imagined.
Jack narrowed his eyes on Callie's face. "Is there some question as to whether she was having an allergic reaction?"
"I'm simply playing the devil's advocate." She didn't intend to inform him of anything about Grant Tierney's stand. Meg would decide what Jack should know and when. "I want a clear understanding of the situation."
"Then clearly understand this. She could have suffocated without medical intervention."
"Were you her personal physician?"
"No. Tierney would never allow that."
"Does Agnes always follow Grant's wishes?"
"Always. She's afraid of his temper … with good cause."
Callie remembered the way Agnes had remained silent when Grant insisted her allergic reaction had been imagined. Had she been afraid to argue?
He'll have you believing he's a persecuted saint and I'm the devil himself, Grant had warned her. Was Jack trying to do precisely that—prejudice her against Grant?
For the sake of their recorded conversation, she changed the subject to pertinent facts. "Do you carry a variety of medications in your emergency kit, Dr. Forrester?"
"Some."
"Could any of them cause hallucinations?"
"Highly unlikely."
"I've learned that certain drugs for pain, sleep or seizures can cause hallucinations and come in injectible forms. Are you sure you don't carry those around with you?"
"I'm not a walking pharmacy, Cal."
"Doesn't it seem odd to you that the hospital didn't do a drug screen to find out why Agnes was hallucinating?"
"Because of her age, there are other factors that would be considered first. Like her head injury. They'd certainly run a brain scan and MRI. Then a blood chemistry to evaluate her hydration status and electrolytes. A blood count to check white blood cells. An X ray to rule out fluid on the lung. Too many natural causes are more likely to account for hallucinations in the elderly than substance abuse."
"But you'd given her an injection just before the hallucinations started. Wouldn't they logically connect that injection with the hallucinations?"
"The antihistamine I used would not cause hallucinations. Competent medical personnel know that."
Which brought them right back to where they'd started.
Callie looked away from him and realized that the rain had begun, and he'd turned on his wipers. Gulf Beach Road
was only a short distance ahead, she knew. She turned off the recorder and tucked it into her purse.
"If you want to talk to the hospital staff, you're welcome to ride along with me," he offered. "I plan to be at the hospital for my afternoon rounds by one."
"Thank you, but I'd rather drive on my own, when I'm ready."
"Fine." He shrugged. "Just thought you'd get more cooperation from the staff if I introduced you." He allowed that truth to sink in. "If you'd like to talk to witnesses from the picnic, the Point is holding another one tomorrow. Everyone should be there."
"I know. I've been invited."
"Are you planning to go?"
"Maybe." She didn't intend to share her plans with him. Who knew what crazy plot he might hatch, given enough time?
"Most of our old gang will probably be there, too," he informed her. "Robbie, Jimbo, Francine."
"She goes by Francine now?"
"She tries. I still slip up and call her Frankie sometimes."
Nostalgia flashed through Callie. She hadn't seen or heard from her childhood friends in years. She'd tried keeping in touch, but after the first few letters and calls, life had become too hectic.
Jack slanted her a curious gaze. "Who invited you to the picnic?"
She smiled, remembering Agnes's enthusiastic invitation. Grant definitely hadn't seconded the idea that she come as his date, thank goodness. She wouldn't want him thinking she was romantically interested in him. "Agnes Tierney is trying her hand at matchmaking," she related with mild amusement. "She feels I'd be perfect for Grant, and asked if I'd like to—"
"What?" The word exploded from Jack's mouth more like a curse than a question, and the truck swerved slightly as he frowned at her. "You're going with Tierney?"
She blinked. "Well, I—"
"Damn it, Callie, you'd better not be. You'd better not even be considering it."
She stared at him, stunned by his reaction. "Pardon me?"
"Tierney is bad news. Finish whatever business you have, then stay the hell away from him."
Her bafflement grew, along with her ire. She hadn't tolerated commands like that from the Colonel; she certainly wouldn't from Jack. "Are you trying to tell me with whom I may or may not socialize?"
"It's for your own good. I've seen what he can do to a woman, and I—"
"Don't patronize me, Dr. Forrester. I can take care of myself, and I'm not your concern. And stop trying to paint Grant Tierney as a villain. He warned me that you'd try."
Jack's mouth compressed into a thin white line of fury. "If you go with him, Callie, I swear, I'll take you away from him. I'll physically pick you up and carry you off."
Her jaw dropped. "You can't threaten me with force! I'd have you arrested so quickly it would make your head spin."
He cursed beneath his breath, bore down on the brake and swung the truck around on the shoulder of the road and into a sharp U-turn, throwing her against the door.
"What are you doing?" She clung to a side handgrip as he accelerated.
He didn't answer, his gaze trained on the road, his jaw tightly clenched and a vein throbbing at his temple.
"Jack, the rain is getting worse. If you've changed your mind about helping me get my car, then at least—"
"Don't worry about the rain. It would have to pour for a week to stop a tow truck from getting to your car." He didn't look the least repentant for having led her to believe otherwise. "For now, there's something you're going to see, damn it."
The force of his fury shocked her. She'd never seen him this angry. He steered the truck off the main road and down a graveled pathway through the woods. The greenery soon opened up and she recognized the landscaped yard and the wood-sided ranch house built high on sturdy pilings.
His house. The one he'd grown up in.
An exuberant black-and-tan German shepherd bounded up to the truck with a welcoming canine smile, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He reminded Callie of Thor, the dog Jack had raised from a puppy when they'd been kids.
This couldn't be Thor, though. He'd be too old by now. Something like homesickness assailed Callie. Thor had been the pet she'd never owned. She'd missed him without realizing it.
Jack pulled the truck into the garage beneath the house, out of the rain that beat down in torrents. With a brief tousle of the dog's head and a curt command to "Stay, Zeus," Jack strode around to Callie's door and yanked it open. "Come with me."
She knew better than to argue. At the very least, it would delay them from retrieving her car. And she was undeniably curious about the cause of his anger and what he had to show her. Ignoring vague qualms about spending too much time alone with him, she followed Jack up the covered stairway, through the front entrance and into the spacious great room.
She paused inside, struck by the sudden warmth of familiarity. Very little seemed to have changed. A massive stone fireplace dominated the front wall, surrounded by the same cozy armchairs and sofas. A low, wide counter separated the back corner into a sleek kitchen that still contained two oversize refrigerators. One had always been stocked with food, the other with beverages. Across from the kitchen, a wooden table with six immense captain chairs sat beside an old-fashioned jukebox.
&nb
sp; They'd played a lot of card games at that table. Listened to a lot of music. Drunk a lot of sodas.
Behind the table, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the beach and the silvery green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. This particular view seemed more familiar to her than the city park below her Tallahassee apartment.
She half expected Jack's mother, father, sister or cousins to round the corner from the bedrooms or the back porch with a friendly hello. No one did. They were alone.
Jack swept her forward with a firm hand at the small of her back, ushering her to the right of the main living area and into the master bedroom suite.
Even this room generated a nostalgic warmth. When the big television in the great room had been otherwise engaged, she and Jack and other friends had sprawled out on the king-size bed, the cushiony chairs and the carpeted floor to watch the television built high into the bedroom wall at just the right angle for mass viewing. Side tables had always borne trays of snacks or bowls of popcorn and drinks.
Callie's chest grew tight at the memories. Nowhere had she felt more at home. Not even at her father's house. Especially not at her father's house.
"Sit," Jack told her, pointing at the bed. He softened the curt command with, "Please."
She considered objecting, decided against it and sat on the very edge of the bed. "Do your parents still live here?"
"No." Though his handsome, scarred face still looked taut with angry determination, he added, "I bought the house from them. They wanted something smaller." He opened a closet, pulled out a crate and set it on a nearby armchair.
Highly curious, Callie watched him rifle through papers and envelopes. What could he possibly want to show her? Something to do with Grant Tierney, obviously. She couldn't even hazard a guess as to what it might be.
He drew out envelopes of loose photographs, strode to the bed and sat down beside her. Briskly he flipped through the photos and tossed a few onto her lap.
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