by Lara Lacombe
He met the other man’s blue gaze steadily. “You’re right. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
After a beat, Thomas nodded. “He’s down the hall. I don’t have to remind you how important this is, so if you start to lose it, step out of the room. The last thing we need to do is hand his lawyer an excuse to get him off.”
“I won’t blow it,” James said firmly. He owed it to himself—and Kelly—to finish this, once and for all.
Chapter 12
Pain wrapped around her like a blanket, consuming her consciousness. She fought to dive back into the blissful darkness, but her awareness of her body grew with each breath; her side and shoulder throbbed to the beat of her heart.
She had to be dying.
She became aware of a steady, droning beep nearby, the sound at once annoying and familiar, a metric to measure the passage of time. Breathing carefully, she began to count along with the sound, the diversion a way to keep her mind off the pain.
Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but she managed to open them a crack. White. Everything was white. It took a second to register she was staring at ceiling tiles. She briefly considered trying to move her head to gather more information, but she decided against it. There would be time for that later.
Soft footsteps sounded nearby, coming closer. With a concerted effort, she opened her eyes again to focus on a figure in blue standing next to the bed. It was a woman, pressing buttons on a pole-mounted box by Kelly’s head. After a few seconds, she turned toward Kelly and ran her gaze along the bed. When she met Kelly’s eyes, she smiled.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Her voice was soft and kind, and she stepped closer to the bed, bringing her head down near Kelly’s.
“How are you feeling?”
Kelly tried to respond, but her voice came out as a croak. She tried to swallow but couldn’t muster up enough spit to lubricate her throat. Seeing her difficulty, the nurse brought a straw to her lips. She drew up cool mouthfuls of water, and the liquid soothed her sore throat.
“I hurt everywhere,” she whispered.
The nurse set the cup back on the table at the side of the bed and frowned slightly. “It’s not quite time for another dose of pain meds,” she said, glancing at her watch as she spoke. “But I’ll page the doctor and see if we can give you something else to help.”
Kelly closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Press the button on the headboard if you need me before I return.”
Kelly nodded weakly, and the movement sent spikes of pain through her head. She winced and started to raise a hand to her head before thinking better of it. Extraneous movement was not her friend right now.
As the pounding in her head receded, her thoughts turned to puzzling out her situation. What had happened? She was clearly in a hospital, but why? She dimly recalled a car and the horrified face of a young man hovering over her. Had she been in an accident? Maybe the nurse could tell her when she returned....
There was a rustling sound from the other side of the room, a shifting of fabric as someone moved. Steeling herself, she slowly turned her head to find a figure slumped in the chair by the bed. His head was down, his chin resting on his chest, but she’d know that dark hair and lean build anywhere.
“James!”
Her voice was low and scratchy, but his response was immediate. Jerking his head up, his hand darted into his jacket as his eyes searched the room. After a beat, he focused on her, the exhaustion lining his face fading as he met her gaze.
She drank in the sight of him, the relief at seeing him whole and unharmed washing over her and temporarily pushing away the pain. She remembered now—the museum, the bombs, Caleb dragging her away. Her overwhelming drive to get back to James, to make sure he had survived. And he had. By some miracle, he had made it through unharmed.
Mostly unharmed, she amended, her gaze snagging on the gauze taped to his forehead. The white bandage made a startling contrast to the warm gold of his skin, giving him a rakish air that in other circumstances would have been dangerously attractive. He caught her stare and raised a hand to his head, gingerly touching the bandage with his fingertips.
“It’s nothing,” he said softly as he moved closer to the bed and took her hand. She curled her fingers around his palm, reveling in the small contact of skin against skin. She wanted to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his neck, but given the way she felt right now, she’d settle for this.
His fingertip gently skimmed over her cheek, and she realized with a mild sense of astonishment that she was crying. “Shh...” he whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss on her forehead. “It’s all right. You’re safe. We have Caleb, and he’s never going to hurt you or anyone else again.” He smoothed his free palm over her hair; the gesture was protective and comforting at the same time. She closed her eyes and focused on his touch, taking deep breaths so that the familiar spice of his skin replaced the astringent hospital smell that lined her nostrils.
“What happened?”
James leaned back to face her, but before he could answer the question, a tall man in a white coat walked quickly into the room, his head bent over a chart. He stopped at the foot of the bed, absorbed in reading, his graying hair mussed as if he’d been running a hand through it. James shifted off the bed and back into the chair, still keeping hold of her hand. The doctor looked up at the motion, a small frown drawing his brows together at the interruption. Then he turned his focus to Kelly, tucking the chart under his arm as his gaze raked over her.
“I’m Dr. Keenan. I understand you’re in pain,” he said, the phrase more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me where you’re hurting?”
“My left side.” She moved her hand over the spot as she spoke. “And my shoulder. Mostly my side, though.”
He walked to the side of the bed, forcing James to let go of her hand. Stopping between them, he drew the sheet back and lifted up her gown. She felt her face heat at being so exposed, but he carefully tucked the gown and sheet around her so that her modesty was preserved.
She glanced down, horrified to see her skin marred by an angry red line bisected by black stitches. “What happened?”
“You were shot,” he said shortly, pressing the periphery of the incision with thick, surprisingly cool fingertips. The pressure was uncomfortable but not agonizing. The wound didn’t appear to do anything in response to this attention, and seemingly satisfied, the doctor dropped her gown and replaced the sheet over her torso. He then moved to her shoulder, prodding around the joint in search of what she could only assume was some medical clue. She winced when he hit a particularly sore spot, and he nodded at her reaction.
“The bullet nicked your spleen,” he continued conversationally as he finished the exam. “You’re very lucky—you almost bled to death. Fortunately, you got here in time and we were able to stop the bleeding. You lost part of your spleen, though.” He shook his head, as though he was disappointed she had been so careless with her organs.
Her head was reeling. Shot? She remembered crashing the car into the concrete barriers, but shot? And now she was missing part of her spleen? What the hell?
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, making speech difficult. Why couldn’t she remember getting shot? What else did she not remember? Nausea gripped her stomach, and she felt a clammy sweat break out across her forehead.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, the doctor retreated to the foot of the bed again. She dimly registered James reclaiming possession of her hand, but she was too upset to answer his gentle squeeze.
“It’s not time for your Dilaudid yet, but I’ll have the nurse give you some morphine,” he said. “That should take the edge off this pain you’re feeling now.” With that announcement, he turned and stepped toward the doorway.
“Wait,” she croaked before he could leave the room. He obligingly stopped, but he looked at her with an expression tha
t clearly communicated she was on borrowed time.
“I don’t remember getting shot,” she confessed, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Why don’t I remember?”
He shrugged as if this was nothing to worry about. “It’s not uncommon for people to experience short-term memory loss after undergoing general anesthesia,” he said, already edging toward the door again. “If you don’t remember things after a few days, follow up with your primary-care physician.” Then he was gone, leaving her staring at an empty doorway.
“His bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired,” James muttered.
She wasn’t able to stop the strangled laugh from escaping, and the sound was loud in the now-quiet room. James gifted her with a small smile, almost as if he was indulging her, and she laughed again. Hysteria bubbled up her throat like champagne bubbles, sending her into fits of giggles. Her side ached with the movement, but she couldn’t stop laughing, her body taking over like some kind of macabre autopilot.
James’s expression morphed into one of concern as her fit continued. After a second, he climbed up onto the bed beside her and gathered her into his arms, rocking her slowly as she laid her head on his shoulder. Gradually, the cackling spasms eased, giving way to tears again.
What was she going to do now? Caleb and George were gone, leaving her safe, albeit injured. Would she recover, or would her injuries leave her with permanent health issues? She knew the loss of a spleen left people vulnerable to infections, but would she be all right with only part of the organ? She wished the doctor had been more forthcoming with information, but he’d been in quite a hurry to leave. Hopefully, the next one who came along could give her some answers, like when she could expect to return to work.
That thought nearly made her groan. In all the excitement, she hadn’t really considered the effect George’s actions would have on her career. She had been so focused on finding and stopping him that she hadn’t had time to think about what her next steps would be. With George under arrest and probably headed for jail, she didn’t have a job anymore, and it was unlikely the university would help her find another position. Besides, who knew if anyone would hire her, tainted as she was by her mere association with George. Maybe she should move back to Houston so she could be close to her family again. She could use some unconditional support right now....
James gently stroked her hair as he held her. He was such an amazing man, and she loved him; her heart was breaking with it. What was he doing here? He’d made it very clear he wanted no part of a relationship with her. For him to come here now and be so supportive and wonderful really wasn’t fair. It made her want things she could never have, and she had enough to deal with as it was.
He deserved someone good and whole and uncomplicated. Someone who would trust him without reservation, someone who hadn’t been damaged by life. She was none of those things, and based on their conversation last night, he knew it. She couldn’t make him happy, and maybe he had done them both a service by pushing her away before she could hurt him again.
She leaned away from him. His hands drifted down her arms as she disentangled herself from his embrace. His warm brown gaze tracked over her face, but she refused to maintain eye contact. What she had to say was hard enough.
“I think you should go.”
She caught a flicker of confusion before his features smoothed out again. “Are you tired?”
She shook her head. When he continued to stare at her, she let out a small sigh. “You can’t just come here and hold me when I cry, James.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but his voice was even when he spoke. “Why not?”
“Because it isn’t fair to me.” Did he really not understand?
Now he was frowning at her, regarding her like a particularly puzzling specimen under the microscope. “Not fair...?” he repeated, the words trailing off at the end.
“I know you don’t want me,” she gritted out, hating that she had to explain everything in such detail. Why was he being so obtuse? “You made it clear last night you don’t want a relationship with me, so I think it’s best if you go.”
“Kelly—”
“Just go, James.” She turned away, not trusting herself to look at him. If she saw his face, the tears she was trying so hard to blink back would spill over, undermining her words. She needed him to leave, now, so she could fall apart in private.
He was silent for a long moment. She heard the rustle of movement as he stood, then the whisper of her name, part question, part plea. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, holding in the words she so desperately wanted to say.
He let out a heavy sigh, then walked away. It was only after she heard the door click shut that Kelly allowed the tears to fall.
“I love you,” she whispered to the empty room.
* * *
Given the severity of her injuries and the fact that this was her second gunshot wound in three days, the doctor wanted to keep her under observation for a little longer. Since she didn’t relish the thought of going home to an empty apartment that had recently doubled as a crime scene, Kelly didn’t protest his decision. On the contrary, she was slightly relieved to know she wouldn’t have to take care of herself for at least a few more days.
At first it had been wonderful. She’d slept, woken to eat, then slept some more. She hadn’t felt so well rested in years. But now, on the third day of hospital existence, she was trying not to go insane.
Daytime television wasn’t doing it for her, and the library cart kept skipping her room, so she was left at loose ends. She filled most of the afternoon by counting all the ceiling tiles and making up stories as to the origin of the mysterious discoloration on the floor tiles outside the bathroom door.
And when she wasn’t searching for distractions, she thought of James.
While she tried to focus on other things—like her job, or lack of one now—her mind always circled back to James. She kept dreaming of him, smelling that potent combination of spicy citrus and warm skin, hearing the soothing deep murmur of his voice. She’d woken yesterday with his name on her lips, so sure he was there that she had actually cried when she’d opened her eyes and found the room empty.
Sending him away had seemed like the right idea at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t shake the fear that she had just thrown away her one chance at love. Was she ever going to find another man who accepted her, flaws and all? Who wasn’t scared of her past, who wanted to build a life with her?
And what if she didn’t? Better to be alone than to be with someone who treated her with kid gloves all the time, as if she was some fragile piece of china that would break if jostled. She didn’t want someone who would try to protect her from life; she wanted someone who would be a true partner, someone she could rely on when needed and someone who would rely on her in turn.
Once upon a time, she’d thought James could be that man, but his first instinct had been to shut her down. He’d denied her feelings, writing them off as adrenaline, saying she really wasn’t ready for a relationship. Maybe he was right.
It had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but cutting James out of her life had been necessary. She needed to move on, not get emotionally entangled with a man who would never see her as more than a tragic figure, someone to be pitied and coddled.
So she gathered up the pieces of her shattered dream and tucked them away, determined to rebuild her life and find another image to keep her warm at night.
“Am I interrupting?”
She glanced up to find Thomas standing in the doorway. Her stomach fluttered a bit—was James with him?—but she pasted on a smile.
“Not at all. Come on in.”
He smiled at her; his bright blue eyes and coppery hair were a striking contrast to the muted gray of his suit. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a catalog, making her acutely aware of the hospital-green gown she wore and the fact she hadn’t properly washed her hair in several days.
“You loo
k great,” he offered as he walked over to the chair and sat.
She resisted the temptation to snort in disbelief. “Thanks.”
“No, really, you do. You forget—the last time I saw you, they’d just wheeled you out of surgery. You were very pale and unconscious, so I’m happy to see you awake now. You’re starting to get your color back, too,” he added, relaxing in the chair and lifting one ankle to rest on the opposite knee.
“Your flattery is wasted on me.” He grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but smile in return.
“How are you doing?” Concern had replaced the teasing note in his voice as his eyes searched her face.
“I’m still trying to piece together what happened.” Her memory had been returning in fragments, little snippets of sounds or images, and while she was gradually filling in the gaps in time, there were still large chunks missing.
“What do your doctors say?”
She shook her head. “Nothing helpful. Just that this happens to some people, and I may remember getting shot or I may not. They’re not too worried about it.”
He shrugged. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be, either. Honestly, it would be great if we had your side of the story to compare to what Caleb has told us, but you’ve done quite enough already.”
Her skin prickled at the mention of his name, making her shudder slightly. “I’m so glad you caught him.”
“All thanks to you. If this science thing doesn’t work out for you, you could always join the bureau.” His dimples appeared as he grinned at her. The smile turned slightly wicked as he added, “We have some new openings.”
“You do?”
“There’s been a—” he paused, as if searching for the right word “—reorganization in the wake of the operation. A few heads have rolled.”
“But you caught both Caleb and George. Isn’t that a success?”
“Sure, but Caleb set off two bombs in the museum.” He held his hands out, palms up, moving them up and down in a pantomime of a scale. “Even though no one was seriously injured, the brass tends to frown on that kind of thing.”
