Covert M.D.

by Jessica Andersen

  Wasn’t sure she should try.

  “I’ll e-mail this around. We’ll paper New England with this guy’s ugly mug.” The sketch artist cracked his knuckles as though anticipating the task.

  “Fine.” Nia stood. “Tell Detective Peters we’ll check in with him in a few hours. We’ll be at the apartment until then.” She forestalled Rathe’s automatic protest with a warning hand. “I need to change your bandage. I put hard work into those stitches and I’m not going to let them infect. Period.”

  He followed her out onto the street and down half a block to where she’d parked the Jetta. He paused on the passenger side. “Why does it seem that when we’re together, you’re always taking care of me?”

  He might have been aiming for flip, but the question came out faintly surprised.

  It was true. At eighteen she’d helped him past Maria’s death. At twenty-one she’d nursed him through the fever and probably saved his life. And now? At twenty-eight she just plain cared.

  So she ignored the sarcastic, defensive responses that immediately came to mind and went with the truth. “Somebody has to care about you.”

  The silent drive to the apartment seemed impossibly long, yet over too quickly, because once the door shut behind them, they were alone together.

  And something had shifted in the air between them.

  “Into the bathroom. Shirt off.” She meant the orders to sound professional, but her voice betrayed her, dropping an octave and emerging in a husky breath.

  Eyes hooded, he obeyed her command, shrugging out of the garment and sitting on the closed toilet lid.

  “Take this.” She pressed a stronger painkiller into his palm and tried to ignore the building electricity as she shoehorned herself into the tiny space.

  The night before, the setup had seemed practical. Now, after their conversation early that morning, it seemed too enclosed, too intimate. When she kneeled and began to unwrap his wrist, she couldn’t avoid skimming his bare torso with her forearm. Aiming for some distance, she sat on the rim of the tub and drew his arm into her lap, but that was no better. His curled fingertips rested a scant inch from the underside of her breasts.

  If she leaned forward just so…

  “Nia.” His voice was a low growl.

  She kept her eyes fixed on his wrist, knowing if she looked up and saw desire reflected in his eyes, she was lost. He was wrong for her, all wrong. He didn’t respect her as a professional, didn’t see her as an equal. And though he’d apologized for his past actions, the facts remained—she couldn’t count on him to be there when she needed him. Couldn’t trust that he’d ever choose her over the job. Over his own desires.

  Yet, foolish woman, weak woman, she still wanted him. More so now, because she’d seen the man beneath the legend’s charm.

  And she cared for that man.

  “Nia.” This time he hooked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to look up. But desire wasn’t all she saw in his sleepy blue-gray eyes, there was also something else, something less easily defined.

  “What?” Her hands worked to rewrap his wrist, but they felt as though they were acting alone. Her whole being was focused on his face, his eyes, and the fear of what he might say.

  If he was looking to seduce her, she was already lost.

  “You did good today.” He shrugged one shoulder and glanced at the mirror above them. “Maybe you were right. Maybe I’ve let Maria’s death influence too many of my opinions. Maybe I’m wrong—maybe women do belong in HFH. God knows you’ve been a better, more focused investigator than I have so far….” He swayed ever so slightly.

  Of course. A quick flood of surprised pleasure kinked to amusement and Nia grinned. “You’re stoned.”

  There was no other explanation for his quick turnaround.

  “I’m what? Who?” His beautiful eyes tried to focus, tried to glare. “What did you give me?”

  “Something a little stronger than aspirin. Come on, let’s get you to bed while you can still stand.” She draped his arm over her shoulders and levered him to his feet. His scent surrounded her, buffeted her, and she pressed her cheek to his bare skin for leverage. Or so she told herself.

  “I can stand just fine, or at least part of me can,” he said with an uncharacteristic leer and grabbed her hand.

  If he’d dragged her fingers down to the distinct bulge in his jeans, she would have dropped him and left him in the hall to sleep it off. But he didn’t—he simply held her hand and stared at it for a long, befuddled moment.

  “Pretty Nadia,” he finally said. “I wrote you letters, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. I never mailed them, but I wrote them. And I dreamed of you—day, night, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t get you out of my mind. Didn’t want to.”

  He stroked the sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist, and she shuddered. “Come on.” Her voice was breathy, not her own. “Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep it off.”

  That had been her intention with the painkillers. She’d wanted to ease his pain and give his body time to heal. Instead it had stripped him of his natural reserve and turned him into someone she’d never met before.

  A man who tempted her with his openness.

  “Bed, yes.” He spun her with a deftness that denied the sedative and pressed her against the wall with the full length of his body. “But not to sleep.”

  She lifted her hands instinctively and touched bare skin. Her mind screamed a warning, a reminder, but the noise was all but lost in the roar of blood through her veins, the clamor of her heart.

  “Rathe—”

  “Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to hers in a fleeting, oh-so-tender caress. “Nia. My Nia.”

  It was the reverence of those last two words, the sheer masculine possessiveness that drove her beyond reason. She’d always wanted to be his Nia, even when she’d hated him.

  With a small noise of acceptance, of excitement, she slid her arms around his neck, drew his head down and kissed the corner of his mouth, where there was a small spot of unbruised flesh.

  “Yes, that’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.” He kissed her back, gently, searchingly, as though they had all the time they could want. As though he didn’t share the urgency that suddenly speared through her.

  He skimmed a hand down her side, trailing his fingers along the edge of her breast and lingering on the hollow where Talbot had removed her rib to get at her donor kidney. Shock wave followed shock wave, dan cing through her body, leaving her pulsing with need. She arched into him helplessly, mindlessly, and rubbed herself against the hard ridge of his desire.

  Fear fell away, and with it the aches and pains earned over the past few days. Nia was twenty-one again, and trembling with the power of the feelings he unleashed when he touched his lips to her throat.

  This was the Rathe she remembered, the man she’d fallen for. Soft, gentle, almost maddeningly slow in his caresses, he was nothing like his daily self.

  Rathe McKay the adventurer had become Rathe McKay the man. The lover.

  She tugged his head to hers and delighted in the languid play of tongues. The torrent of heat, of lust, mellowed to a giddy glow as they kissed again and again, changing angles, stroking, touching, feeling.

  They staggered to the bedroom, reeling between kisses and laughing at each other, at themselves. And then they were on the bed, clothing scattered, Rathe propped above her on an elbow. His eyes glinted silver with lust, his pupils weren’t quite even, and his nostrils flared with deep, reaching breaths.

  She touched a finger to the point of his cheek, where the skin remained puffy and sore, a jarring reminder of their situation. “Are you sure? We’ll still have to work together, you know. It could be awkward.”

  “Only if we let it be.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. “And we won’t.”

  He kissed her lips, deeper than before, and tucked her body beneath his. When he skimmed both hands down her sides and cupped her buttocks, Nia was
lost.

  She gave up control, gave up worry. The warm wave surged up between them, binding them together in a hazy, almost unbelievable dream-reality.

  The hallway light was still on, the curtains open, but Nia’s entire attention was centered on Rathe. She reveled in the slide of skin against skin, the subtle rasp of rough male hair and the spiraling sensations as he kissed her again and again, loving her with only his bruised mouth and slow, devastating caresses.

  She wasn’t sure when want turned to need, when pleasant anticipation turned to must have, but when it did, she arched against him, inviting entry, demanding it. And when he slid inside her, stretching her, filling her, touching her deep inside, Nia felt tears sting her eyes.

  She’d had other lovers after Rathe. But not one of them had completed her like this. Not one.

  Then the time for thought was gone, the time for reason—if there had ever been reason—was past. He thrust into her, and she bowed up to meet him, slowly, still slowly as though there was no world beyond the dimly lit room, no pressures or problems.

  Only this.

  They moved together, the need coiling tighter into an almost painful ball in Nia’s center. She twined her arms around Rathe and locked her ankles behind him, beckoning him deeper and deeper still, until it seemed that he touched her core.

  Suddenly he paused.

  Nia opened her eyes and found him staring down at her. “What?”

  “I’ve dreamed this. I’ve dreamed you. Are you really here?” She fell into his eyes, and the question seemed to come from far away.

  “I’m here.” She touched his cheek, and he turned his head into her hand, breaking the connection.

  “Good.” He dropped his forehead to hers, and his eyes were pinpricks of desire, of need. “I need you. I’ve always needed you.”

  The shock of the words, and one final thrust sent her over the edge into a spinning, confusing maelstrom of tension and light. Her inner muscles clenched around him, wringing a strangled groan as he thrust once, twice, then stilled, not even breathing as his seed spilled into her, joining them into one entity.

  Two halves of a whole.

  Wow.

  The curtain of unreality fluttered open for a moment, then closed in again when he rolled to the side and gathered her close, his front to her back, so they were curled together like completion.

  “I’ve always needed you,” he whispered again in her ear. Moments later his arm grew heavy on her side, his breathing slowed.

  Amazingly, so did hers.

  HOURS LATER Nia awoke, shivering, to find that he’d rolled away from her and taken all the blankets with him. The first shock was the cold. The second was an even more frigid dose of memory.

  Oh, God. She’d done it again.

  Guilt was a quick slap in the face. At twenty-one, she’d convinced herself his fever had broken, he was fine, he knew what he was doing. At twenty-eight, she knew better, but that hadn’t stopped her.

  She’d drugged Rathe and taken him to bed.

  With a low moan she rolled away from him and sat up, at the edge of the mattress. Wetness pooled between her legs and a tug of remembered pleasure brought sharp tears to her eyes as she remembered her token protest. We’ll still have to work together. It could be awkward.

  That didn’t even begin to describe it. What would he say when he woke up and realized what they’d done?

  Nia glanced down at his face. The sun-cut lines were softer in sleep. He looked younger and relaxed. Satisfied. But would that last into consciousness? Somehow she doubted it. He might desire her, but he didn’t want to be involved with her on this level—he’d made that clear.

  She forced herself across the room when part of her wanted to crawl beneath the covers and hide.

  Snatching up her jeans and a blue-green sweatshirt, she dressed casually, knowing it was after hours at Boston General, and knowing, too, that it no longer mattered that she look like a visiting doctor.

  Her cover was blown in every possible way.

  I need you. Rathe’s whisper and the slow roll of her heart when she’d heard the words followed her into the hallway outside the apartment, where she found an officer lounging near the door.

  “No, don’t get up.” She waved the startled cop back to his seat. “I’ll check in with Detective Peters when I reach the hospital. You stay here and keep an eye on Dr. McKay.”

  “Is something wrong with him?”

  Nia shook her head. “He’s fine. He’s just…not himself right now.” The Rathe McKay she knew would never kiss her so gently or admit he needed anyone but himself.

  The officer looked unconvinced. “If you say so. I’ll let Detective Peters know you’re on your way. And, ma’am? Please be careful.”

  She nodded and turned away, ashamed that tears had flooded her eyes at the thought of Rathe wanting her. Loving her. She’d needed the emotions so badly years ago, and had finally convinced herself it wasn’t meant to be.

  And now? Even if they’d been approaching an understanding, even if he’d been beginning to accept her as a partner, and perhaps a friend, she’d destroyed those fragile bonds completely. There was no way he’d trust her now. No way he’d let her be his equal in their work.

  The elevator doors opened and Nia stepped out into the dimly lit garage. Instantly the skin at her nape prickled and her left eyelid fluttered, squeezing out a tear. The doors slid shut behind her, leaving her alone in the garage.

  There was a stealthy slide of sound from a dark corner.

  “Hello?” Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea. The officer upstairs could have walked her down. Better, he could have escorted her to the hospital. But no, that would have left Rathe unconscious. Unprotected.

  The thought of him, of what she’d done, shattered her calm facade.

  “Damn it. You want a piece of me?” She fisted her hands at her sides and strode boldly into the darkness. If she’d had a weapon, she would have drawn it then. But she was unarmed. In her haste to escape the deceptive peace of the bedroom, she’d even left her tool kit behind.

  Armed only with attitude and a hint of loss, she raised her voice. “You want me? Come and get me!”

  She wanted Cadaver Man out in the open, wanted this case over, wanted to be far away from Rathe McKay and the foolish things he made her think and want.

  In the corner the noise sounded again, a scurry—or maybe a footstep.

  “Show yourself, you coward!” She’d accused Rathe of using Maria to avoid change, but wasn’t she just as cowardly? Only a coward would do what she had done, then run away. She stepped toward the noise. “Come on! You want to fight, you bastard? Let’s fight!”

  A mid-brown rat squealed and streaked away from her. Nia took two running steps after it, wanting to fight something, to hurt something. Then she stopped, knowing it wasn’t the rat she was angry with or even Cadaver Man.

  It was herself. She’d done it again, made love to a man who didn’t love her and never would.

  Blindly she yanked open the Jetta’s door and sank into the driver’s seat. She put her head on the steering wheel.

  And sobbed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rathe awoke feeling better than he had in days. His bumps and bruises were merely background aches, his face felt like a face, and his wrists and ankles had progressed to itching. He’d always been a fast healer, but this was something more.

  This was something warm and wonderful and—

  In a flash it came back to him, the feeling of haziness, the looseness of his tongue. The things he’d told Nia. The things they’d done together in the night…

  Oh, hell.

  “Nia!” His shout was born of near panic. He sat bolt upright in bed, heedless of his nakedness but cringing at the thought of her walking through the door. He’d told her he needed her, that he’d dreamed of her for years, that he’d do anything for her.

  This is why men and women shouldn’t work together, his subconscious supplied, it alway
s gets personal.

  “Oh, stuff it,” he muttered, then raised his voice, guilty panic shifting to something different when she didn’t answer right away. “Nia? Nia, are you out there?”

  Of course she was still in the apartment. She wouldn’t have gone out alone. She was smarter than that. He levered himself out of bed, bent and dragged on his wrinkled bush pants and loose shirt. The clock read four on the dot, the dark time just before morning.

  “Nadia?” Stomach churning with a blend of nerves and worry, he gentled his voice and pushed open the bedroom door.

  The apartment was empty. She hadn’t even left a note.

  “Damn it!” He yanked open the apartment door, startling the young cop outside to instant wakefulness. “Where did she go?”

  “Boston General. I radioed Detective Peters that she was on her way.”

  “Did she make it?” When the cop didn’t answer right away, Rathe charged out into the hall. “Did she reach the hospital safely?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine.” The officer’s mouth kicked up at the corner. “Chill. She’s been there an hour, and Peters has had a man on her the whole time.”

  But Rathe barely heard the end of the explanation. He slammed the apartment door behind him, panic morphing to sheer bloody-minded anger in an instant. How dare she take off without talking to him?

  “Stubborn.” He pulled on his socks and soft-soled boots. “Irresponsible.” He grabbed the windbreaker Peters had lent him and snapped it inside out, hiding the four-inch-high letters spelling Police. “Pain in my—”

  He paused in the act of scooping his keys from the floor, where they’d fallen in his mad scramble to shed his clothes on the way to the bedroom with Nia, suddenly realizing that he would have to deal with what he’d said the night before. And he’d said a ton—about Maria, about himself, about his feelings for Nia.

  And what the hell was he going to do about that?

  He didn’t want to take all of it back, he realized with a start. Part of him was willing to admit she might have a point about Maria. Going into the jungle with her rebel lover had been Maria’s idea, not his. Though he still wished he could have undone the things that had happened, the horror had been blunted by the years, and by better understanding.