Covert M.D.

by Jessica Andersen

  And if his mind wandered to the bedroom down the hall, imagined her naked and sprawled amidst the warm sheets, it was only proof of his tenet. Women didn’t belong in HFH investigations. They were a distraction. A liability.

  But the mantra rang false in his head. Nia wasn’t the problem here, he was. When he’d asked her to pick, she had chosen the job over him. And it stung.

  “Rathe?”

  His eyes snapped up. The pencil between his fingers cracked in two. She stood in the hallway, messy-haired and clad now in a waterfall of silk that glowed primary colors against the oatmeal apartment decor. That image instantly, irrevocably banished the memory of a teenage college student sitting on the beach steps behind him. It banished the mental snapshot he’d kept of that last morning in the airport hotel, when he’d woken up before her, fever broken, fully aware of where he was. Who she was. What he’d done.

  And how much he wanted to do it again.

  But those images were now replaced with the sight of womanly curves, dark, tumbling hair and sleepy eyes. In that instant she went from being Tony’s daughter to being a woman. Heaven help him.

  She nodded to the papers strewn across the coffee table. “Find anything?”

  “Nothing jumps out at me.” He grabbed a slice of cold, congealed pizza, more to keep himself from reaching for her than from hunger. “I figure Arnold Grimsby—Short Whiny Guy—was killed to keep him from talking…but about what? Are the missing pharmaceuticals really connected to the transplant deaths? If so, how? And why burn them?” He shook his head in disgust and tossed the pizza down without taking a bite. “We need more.”

  “Then we’ll get more.” She glanced at the clock above the blank TV set. “Logan’s picking me up in an hour. Maybe you should search his office while I keep tabs on him. Better yet, search his house.”

  “We’ll stay together.” There was no way he was leaving her alone with Hart.

  “But—”

  “This isn’t negotiable, Nia.” He rose to his feet and paced, needing to work off the excess energy that had buzzed through him from the moment she appeared in the hallway door and his mind had pictured her naked beneath the robe. “Cadaver Man has inside information and free access. That has to come from somewhere, right? And the jerk who attacked you hired himself a fancy lawyer. Big money. That says doctor to me.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re falling in love with your own theory, Rathe. And you’re reaching.”

  “Of course I’m reaching.” He rubbed both hands across his face. “What else can I do? We need more evidence.”

  “Exactly. Which is why you should snoop in Logan’s office while I keep him occupied. I don’t necessarily think he’s our man, but there was something…strange about him when the transplant patient died. I think he knows something.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with him.” Rathe crossed the room, stopping just a heartbeat away from her. “I won’t.”

  She lifted her chin, irritation chasing the sleep from her eyes. “You would if I were a man.”

  “Nia…” She was right and they both knew it. She pursed her lips, and the sight went straight to his groin. Drawn by the invisible bonds that bound them one to the other, he leaned down, damning the consequences. She swayed toward him, just a whisper away, slid both hands up his chest—

  And pushed him away.

  “Back off, Rathe. Partners or lovers, remember? It’s your rule, so I suggest you stick to it.” She spun and retreated in a flash of colored silk and bare legs. The bathroom door shut behind her. Moments later the shower splashed to life.

  Leaving Rathe alone. Aching.

  No, that wasn’t right. He was simply alone, as he’d been for so much of his life except for two bright spots—the time he’d shared with Maria, and those years he’d fancied himself a member of Tony’s family.

  “Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. Fatigue tugged at him. A brief catnap had done him little good. He was tired, not just from this assignment, but from the grind of the life. The endless stream of temporary friendships. The never-ceasing danger.

  Maybe Wainwright had a point. Maybe the great Rathe McKay was finally burning out. Maybe it was time for him to take a desk and leave the field to new, enthusiastic investigators. Like Nia.

  His jaw clenched and he glared at the closed bathroom door, forced himself not to imagine slick pink flesh and dark, wet hair. He forced his stiff legs to carry him back to the couch, forced himself to pick up his handwritten notes and read them for the tenth time. Forced himself to focus.

  And he saw the connection.

  Chapter Seven

  Nia shaved her legs, slathered herself with scented lotion, and felt foolish for taking the time. This wasn’t a date, it was business.

  But she couldn’t quell the low hum of excitement in her stomach as she slid on the one black dress she’d brought with her and tweaked her killer black garters into place. She piled her dark hair atop her head and fastened it there with two faux diamond combs, providing a hint of flash that was echoed at her throat and ears. She slipped into low black shoes with soft rubber soles—perfect for running, if necessary—and stepped back to approve her appearance in the wide wardrobe mirror.

  She didn’t clean up often. But she cleaned up well.

  It wasn’t until she turned for the door and the excitement balled in her throat that Nia jolted, finally realizing that she wasn’t excited to see Logan, wasn’t excited about taking this next step into covert work.

  No, she was excited for Rathe to see her. Excited for him to realize what he’d been missing these past seven years.

  “Knock it off and focus,” she told herself, “you’ve outgrown him. This is about the job, not about Rathe.”

  But that didn’t settle the anxious knot in her stomach, nor did it stop her from striking a pose just inside the living room.

  He didn’t even glance up from his papers. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

  Her excitement shifted directions. She crossed the room and leaned over him. “What? Tell me?”

  “I think it’s black market.” He turned toward her. “I’ll bet—” He froze, his eyes locked on the neckline of her dress, which hadn’t seemed daring only moments before.

  Heat suffused Nia’s body. Her nipples crinkled to points beneath the lacy black demibra. She slapped a hand to her throat, where the material gapped, and stumbled back a pace. Her face burned from the heat, and from the sudden flare in his eyes.

  “But—” She cleared her throat against a sudden tug of wanting. “But why would Cadaver Man incinerate the supplies if he could sell them?”

  “I’m not talking about the supplies.” Rathe shook his head. “I think a few boxes were burned to misdirect us.” His eyes bore into hers, and it felt as though they were having two separate conversations. Their voices were discussing the case, but their bodies had moved on to an entirely different topic.

  A more dangerous one.

  “Then what?” She took another step back. He stood and followed with a single stride forward, making her feel like prey.

  “The organs. Rare-type organs have a huge black market value, especially if you have a transplant doctor willing to do the work himself.”

  It made a horrible sort of sense, but didn’t account for everything. “How would it work? The Boston General patients are receiving their transplants. We’re not missing organs, we’re losing patients.” Like Julia. Somehow the woman’s name, her face, had stayed with Nia.

  “I know. The autopsy on the last dead patient showed a proper transplant—two failing kidneys and the new one grafted lower down. So we’re not missing organs….” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I pulled in a marker and got a copy of last month’s transplant list. I compared it to the one Talbot gave us from the current database and found two patients who’d fallen off the list.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. Two vaguely familiar names were highlighted. “These guys are big money.” He paused. “Big, dirty mo
ney.”

  The implication was horrifying. Nia set the papers down and backed away. “But you said it yourself—we’re not missing organs. Illegal transplants might account for the missing drugs, but how could someone sell organs out of Boston General without it being obvious?”

  “Maybe they’re not coming out of Boston General. Maybe they’re coming from somewhere else.”

  The whole notion was something out of an urban legend, with patients waking up in strange hotel room bathtubs missing a kidney.

  At the thought, Nia’s lower back twinged a protest. She held up her hands. “That’s pure conjecture. Where’s your proof?” She gestured to the names. “What if these two died? It happens.” Too often.

  “And what if they’re alive?”

  “I don’t know.” Nia pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t comprehend the selling of body parts, though she knew it happened from time to time. What sort of person could be involved in such a thing? What evil could cause a doctor to auction off an organ that rightfully belonged to the next tissue match on the list? “What if we—”

  A knock sounded at the door, interrupting.

  An unaccountable chill swept across her nearly bare shoulders, and she thought of Hart’s eyes as he’d worked to save the patient’s life. He’d been cool as he worked. Almost dispassionate. At the time she’d attributed it to the reserve a surgeon needed to stay a step away from his patient’s pain. From the failures.

  Now, she wondered.

  A second knock sounded, then Hart said, “Nia? It’s me. Logan. Are you ready for dinner?”

  “You don’t have to go,” Rathe said quietly. He closed the distance between them and ran a gentle finger down her cheek, leaving a new set of shivers behind. “You can say you’re sick, stressed, not in the mood. You’ve had a busy few days—he’ll understand.”

  And Rathe would understand, too. She saw it in his eyes. He wouldn’t think her weak or womanly, or if he did, he’d never say it. Something had changed in him, though she wasn’t sure if it was because of the acknowl edged chemistry that pulsed between them or if he was truly beginning to accept her as a partner.

  But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about his opinion. This was about her job. About saving lives.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll go.”

  Another knock. “Hello? Are you in there?”

  Eyes locked with Rathe’s, Nia raised her voice. “Sorry, Logan. I’m running behind. I’ll be there in a minute!”

  “Nia, please. Stay home. I have a bad feeling about this.” As though he had the right, Rathe cupped the curve of her hip with one wide, warm hand.

  The rasp of cloth and sensation scraped along her nerve endings, and she fought not to jerk away. A pulse shot to her core, making her almost painfully aware of the naked skin above her garters and the narrow strip of silk between.

  She stepped away. “Don’t patronize me. We both know this is our best chance of getting information. I’ll keep Logan busy while you search his office. Set your phone to vibrate—I’ll call when we’re ready to leave.” His eyes reflected a potent combination of indecision and dark heat, and she softened her voice. “It’s an awards ceremony. I’ll stay with the crowds, I swear. I’ll be fine.”

  It was an empty promise and they both knew it, but after a moment Rathe nodded. “I’ll follow you there and wait until you’re inside. Buzz me twenty minutes before you’ll be ready to leave. I don’t want you alone with him.”

  This time when he cupped her hips in both his hands, she didn’t pull away. Heat flared through the soft black material and Nia’s internal muscles pulled tight into a greedy, needy knot. A cough outside the heavy door reminded her they were not alone, and she lifted her hands to Rathe’s chest.

  “Rathe. I’ve got to go.”

  “I know.” But neither of them moved. Rustling and a shift of feet in the hallway carried to them clearly, making it feel as though their almost embrace was public. “Be careful.”

  She tossed her head. “Of course.”

  “No. I mean it. Be careful.” His eyes bore into hers. “If anything happened to you…”

  Her stupid, feckless heart shuddered when he faltered. “Yes?”

  “Aw, hell.” On an oath, he closed the distance, trapping her hands between them when she would have held him away. “Be careful.”

  And he kissed her. Hard.

  It was the third time he’d kissed her in so many days. It should have been familiar enough that she could break away and remind him that they were partners before she whirled and made a grand exit.

  And she’d do that, Nia decided. In a minute.

  Right then she was busy. Her fingers were busy tangling in his shirt, exposing a slice of warm, taut flesh. Her lips were busy parting beneath his, her tongue busy rubbing against his, exploring, tasting, learning. Logan coughed again in the hall and she wished him gone.

  She heard Rathe groan and wished him naked. Heat speared through her, lust arrowed to the strip of silk between her legs. It had been like this before, only now it was more so. Seven years more.

  He broke the kiss and buried his face against her neck, breathing as though he’d outrun a lion. “Nia.”

  He said nothing more, simply her name, but the sound of it shivered through her like a promise. She scraped her teeth along the point of his shoulder, where an old scar slashed across skin tanned from one too many assignments in torrid climates. His shirt hung half-off, affording her tantalizing access, frustrating barriers.

  His hands shaped her waist and skimmed over the slight dip where the surgeons had removed a rib, though he didn’t know that. His palms slid up to cup her breasts through the fabric and she moaned.

  “Nia?” Logan’s voice intruded from without. “Are you okay in there?”

  “Just give me one more minute, Logan!”

  Then she turned back to Rathe. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered against the side of his neck.

  “No. Stay.”

  “But you just agreed—”

  He silenced her with a kiss, tongue delving deep into her mouth, into her heart. Sensation layered upon sensation as he dragged a thumb across one nipple and almost brought her to her knees. “I changed my mind—stay.”

  She could send Logan away, plead a headache, fa tigue, anything to make him go. The bed was a few short paces down the hall. The couch only a couple of feet. The floor nearer still.

  As though sensing her acquiescence, Rathe cupped her buttocks and drew her forward and up, aligning the strip of wet silk between her legs with the hard length of his erection. The sensation was intense, incredible, and Nia hooked a leg around his waist, inviting, agreeing.

  He slid a hand from her hip to her knee, beneath the dress, and murmured his approval when his fingers found the garter belt and the bare flesh above. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “I don’t think I could handle it if anything happened to you.”

  And reality hit with a jab of pain and an ice-cold wash of shame. Maria. This was about Maria.

  Abruptly, the heat cooled.

  “Damn it!” She wrenched away from him, heart thundering, eyes stinging. She kept her voice low, acutely aware that her “date” still lingered in the hall. “Is that what this is about?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Shirt half-off, hair disheveled, pupils dilated to dark pools of sensuality, Rathe still managed to evoke an air of command with the question.

  But she was having none of it. “This.” She flipped a hand between the two of them and hoped he didn’t see her fingers tremble. “You. Me. Maria.”

  “Maria?” He looked honestly confused, but it was an act. Any man who could morph from janitor to warrior in an instant would have the befuddled routine down pat. Understanding dawned, and anger sparked in his eyes. “Do you honestly think—”

  “That you would seduce me to keep me out of danger? Absolutely.” He might not even intend it as such, but the sacrifice could help ease his guilt over her father. Over Maria. Nia
was having none of it, though her body still zinged from his touch and ached for fulfillment.

  Well, she’d been unfulfilled for more months than she wanted to count. She’d survive a few more. But her career—and her self respect—wouldn’t survive if she succumbed to Rathe’s blatant manipulation.

  He swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Damn it, Nia—”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “No more. I’m going to do my job now. You can follow if you like. Or you can go to hell for all I care.”

  Though the lie tugged at her, she thought it an excellent exit line. She grabbed her wrap and purse, sailed to the door and slammed it behind her. Then she forced herself to smile up at Logan Hart, who was handsome in a tux and tie, and grumpy looking from the wait. She offered her arm. “Shall we go?”

  He narrowed his eyes and glanced from her to the door and back. “You’re flushed. And I heard voices.”

  “I took a nap and overslept. Then I had to rush to get ready.” She turned away and set off down the hall, forcing him to accompany her and putting distance between her and Rathe. His taste lingered on her tongue, but she knew she’d been right. He wanted her, yes.

  But he wanted her as a female who fit into his narrowly defined roles, not as a lover or a partner.

  Certainly not as both.

  “And the voices?”

  She shrugged and draped the dark wrap around her shoulders, forcing herself not to shiver when he helped and his fingers lingered on her bare neck. “The television.”

  “I see.” His dark eyes expressionless, Logan took her elbow and ushered her into the elevator. When the doors slid shut, trapping her in the small space with the physically imposing doctor, Rathe’s words whispered in her mind.

  Black market organs.

  “Everything okay?” Logan’s voice echoed oddly, and Nia jolted.

  “Fine.” She focused on him, on her job, and forced a shaky laugh. “It’s been a crazy few days.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at his watch. “If you’re not in the mood for this awards deal, if you’d rather not have to think about the case for a few hours, we could go somewhere quiet. Private.”