Nightwatch

by Jo Leigh

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  He closed one eye, studying her with the other. “I have no business asking you to do this, but screw it, I’m asking anyway. I’d like you to read Heather’s diary—all of it. Then talk to Richie, give him whatever information you think would help him put together a picture of the guy. Fax him relevant pages. See if he knows anything about where young, pregnant women strung out on drugs would go.”

  He closed his eyes again. “I’d do it myself, but I want every spare second to be with Heath tomorrow. Once you get something concrete, then we’ll reconnoiter. Figure out what to do next.”

  “Would you prefer me to concentrate on Heath?”

  “It probably would be better, but I need to do that.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” he said very softly. Then he rested the snifter on his chest, his eyes still closed.

  Rachel looked at him. He seemed relaxed, comfortable now, even though she knew he was filled with guilt and worry. Her gaze moved from his boot-clad feet up his long legs and well-worn jeans. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his pale yellow oxford shirt, and his arms were dusted with dark hair, although the sinews and muscles were clearly defined. His hands, remarkable, strong hands, had been a source of fascination for a long time. So large, and yet able to do the most delicate work. He was an artist with a suture, gifted beyond belief with a scalpel. Even at rest, his fingers seemed capable and sure, as if a person’s life would be safe within their grasp.

  Then she reached his profile, and suddenly a drink seemed a very wise thing. The cognac melted with a velvet fire down her throat, warming her all the way to her toes. She doubted she’d seen a more handsome face than Guy Giroux’s. His dark, bushy eyebrows made him look very serious, at least when he wanted to. But when he smiled, all seriousness disappeared, and it was almost impossible not to grin along with him. That’s because his eyes, so smoky and dark, had an inner light that made his face shine with his good humor. It didn’t hurt that his smile was equally mesmerizing.

  Altogether, he was one of those men who had women panting after him, but the odd thing was, he wasn’t a total ass about it. Rachel had never once seen him act in anything but a professional manner. Although there had been times she’d been embarrassed at the behavior of the women around him.

  It wasn’t really fair that he was so bright and had those good looks. Not that he was perfect. She’d heard too many tales of heartbreak from too many women to believe that. Which was why it was so much easier just to think of him as her boss. His personal life wasn’t something she cared to know about. Not just because it was so…enthusiastically lived, but because she hadn’t escaped the pull of the man. Just like the nurses, the secretaries, the other female doctors, Rachel was drawn to the blatant sexuality of the man.

  What had she gotten herself into? She’d just agreed to work with him on a strictly personal basis. Diving into his life…right into the deep end. Great. Just peachy.

  She put her glass on the coffee table, next to her untouched coffee, expecting him to react. He didn’t. When she stood and walked over to the couch, she saw why. He was asleep, his brandy snifter perfectly balanced on his chest.

  She thought about waking him, but the poor man had been through so much today. Instead, she inched the glass from between his fingers, then took the cashmere throw from the other end of the couch and draped it over his lower body.

  He hadn’t moved an inch. His lips were slightly parted, and the worry that had marred his face since yesterday had disappeared, leaving him sweetly peaceful.

  She leaned down, not touching him at all, except where her lips brushed his forehead. His skin was cool, smooth. And yet it warmed her in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  As soon as she’d retrieved her purse and jacket, Rachel slipped out of his house, away from his spell.

  Her decision was made. She’d agreed to help Guy. She’d make the phone calls and do whatever else he asked to find Heath’s father. But she’d stop all this other nonsense, stat.

  GUY WOKE WITH A START as his feet slipped off the coffee table. He looked across at the club chair, but Rachel wasn’t in it. Then he checked his watch. It was after three. Great. He’d fallen asleep right in front of her.

  His neck and back were stiff, so he stood up and stretched. Bed beckoned and he headed toward the back of the house, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked.

  He still wasn’t sure if the dinner had been a mistake. Rachel had been great, but she hadn’t been able to disguise her discomfort completely. It still mystified him that he’d pulled her into his drama, that her presence seemed so necessary.

  Was it because she’d been the doctor to deliver Heath? Rachel had been with Heather in her last moments. Would Guy have felt the same if it had been one of the male attendings?

  No, he was sure he wouldn’t.

  He walked past his bed into the dressing room, where he tossed his shirt into the hamper, then took off the rest of his clothes. Yearning for sleep, he remembered the time and decided to shower now, instead of when he woke up, which would be in a few hours.

  Grabbing the sweats and T-shirt he liked to sleep in, he went into the master bath and turned on the water. He loved his shower. It was huge, with dual showerheads and killer water pressure. As soon as the water was the perfect temperature, he stepped in, letting the heat and steam permeate his senses.

  As he relaxed, his thoughts turned back to Rachel. He was embarrassed at how much he’d told her. Shit. None of it was very flattering, either. Whatever hopes he’d once had for being more than colleagues were pretty much down the drain now. If he were honest, he’d known his chances with her were slim to none. Rachel had made that perfectly clear. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t think about her. Imagine her.

  He ran the soap down his chest as the cinema in his mind created vivid pictures of her, none of them in a professional context. Of course, he had to imagine the parts of her he hadn’t seen, but that wasn’t difficult.

  Ah, but to see the real thing, to touch that luminous skin. She was forbidden fruit, which made her even more enticing. A small part of him felt guilt at his lascivious thoughts, but as his imagination went wild, those pangs washed away.

  He wallowed in the physical sensations, letting the rest of the world go. Sailing on the waves of lust and desire, he felt free.

  At the moment of climax, he gasped her name, keeping his eyes closed until a languorous exhaustion settled over him. He finished washing, all the while cursing the fact that his dreams of Rachel would never become reality. Still, he had to be grateful for what he could get. Grateful she hadn’t told him to keep his life to himself.

  IT WAS SIX-THIRTY, a time when Rachel was more accustomed to going to sleep than preparing for work. The beginning of the day shift was always the hardest, when her circadian rhythms were most fierce in their objections to the rude change of pace. It didn’t help at all that she’d had a lousy night.

  After she’d crawled between her sheets, her mind had raced with thoughts of Guy. Not about his search for Stan or his concern for Heath, but simply the man himself.

  Everything about him appealed to her. His honesty, the way he cared about Heath—hell, his willingness to face his mistakes.

  What would she find if she focused the magnifying glass on herself? A career she loved, that’s for sure. An all-consuming career. Everything else drifted outside that locus. Her friendship with Allie was an exception, but how much attention had she paid that relationship?

  Allie had been her roommate as an undergraduate. They’d meshed beautifully, despite the fact that Allie barely cracked a book and Rachel was forever studying. It took some work to get over her jealousy, but in the end it was Allie’s uncomplicated friendship that had won out. That was back when Rachel had a sense of humor, when they’d go to Monty Python movie marathons and hang out at the Comedy Store until they were practically incoherent with laughter.

  Allie had
been a breath of fresh air. Totally tone deaf, she’d grown up in a family of musicians. Her mother was first-chair violin at the Pasadena Civic Orchestra, and her father first bassoon. Even her little brother, Randy, was an outstanding guitar player who was a huge success as a recording session player. Poor Allie hadn’t fit in at all, but it hadn’t diminished her spirit. She was plucky and funny and she charmed everyone in speaking distance.

  Even though she wasn’t the prettiest girl in the dorm, she was never without a date. Guys and girls wanted to hang out with Allie, and it was Rachel who ended up chasing them out of the room the two of them shared. She’d explained that she had to study, but there was also a part of her that felt hopelessly out of her league when it came to boys and sex and hormones.

  Allie used to tell Rachel she needed to loosen up, to let her feelings take the lead for once in her life. But that wasn’t Rachel’s way.

  It hadn’t been the way in the Browne family. Her father had been a military man, and that had colored everything in her life. Discipline and order were all that mattered. Second chances were not allowed. There was no room at all for emotion. In the early years though, especially when she’d hit puberty, Rachel had been emotionally hypersensitive. Everything had mattered. Her poor parents had been terrified, and Rachel was left feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, and just plain wrong.

  She’d cried all the time. Over a hurt kitten, a slight at school, a B on her report card. Molly’s illness and death had taken her to the brink of a nervous breakdown, and at fifteen, Rachel had been prescribed sedatives.

  If only she’d found her way to some kind of balance, but that hadn’t happened. If she let down the protective walls, everything bombarded her from giddiness to crippling depression. She simply couldn’t handle her own emotions, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it except guard against situations that left her emotionally vulnerable.

  It wasn’t the best arrangement, but it was all she had. So why was she even contemplating caring for Guy Giroux? Was she nuts? Aside from all the obvious stuff, the man was going through something intensely personal and painful, reevaluating his life and his priorities. Could anything be more risky for her than sharing in that?

  Nuts. That’s all. She was nuts and crazy and should have her head examined. Because even knowing all that, she’d lain in bed late into the night, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. To have his amazing hands touch her body. To make love to him.

  She got into the shower, determined to do two things today: keep her distance from Guy and call her best friend, Allie, and ask for help.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I CAN’T BE SURE, Dr. Browne, but this guy Stan sounds like someone I’ve run into before.”

  Rachel leaned forward in her chair, her gaze moving to the small notebook that was Heather’s diary. She’d arrived at work early and read the whole thing, then she’d called Lieutenant Montgomery.

  His Mississippi accent reminded her of a favorite professor she’d had in school, and she took to his easy manner immediately. When she’d mentioned Guy’s name, he’d been very solicitous, and once she’d explained the circumstances surrounding Heather’s death, he was downright kind.

  She opened the notebook to the first page, where Guy had put the paper she’d found in Heather’s coat pocket. “I have a phone number, although I have no idea if it’s connected to Stan. It could be completely irrelevant. Guy called it a number of times, but there’s no machine, and no answer.”

  “We’ll check it out,” the lieutenant said after she read him the number.

  “It also occurred to us that Stan might have done this before. Getting girls pregnant and strung out, then disappearing. If that were the case, is there somewhere in the area these girls would go?”

  She heard a slight tapping coming from the other end of the line. “I can think of a few places offhand. Let me call you back when I have more. Would that be all right?”

  “Absolutely.” She gave him all three of her numbers—home, cell and hospital.

  “I’ll call soon, Doctor.”

  “Call me Rachel, please. And thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s Richie, ma’am. Just plain old Richie. Now, you tell that bastard Giroux to take care of himself. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you.” She hung up, but kept her hand on the phone. Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d dialed Allie’s cell.

  “’Lo.”

  “Allie?”

  “Oh my God. It’s the long-lost Rachel Browne. I thought you’d run away with the circus, girl. Where the hell have you been?”

  Rachel leaned back, comforted at once by Allie’s voice. “Working. And besides, it hasn’t been that long.”

  “Two months? That’s too long. What’s up?”

  “First, tell me how you are.”

  “I’m harried, but fine. Gerald is going crazy with the opening of the new gallery, and therefore, he has to drive me crazy.”

  “It’ll be another smash, just like Longbow. The man has the best art connections in San Francisco—what can go wrong?”

  “According to my darling hubby, everything.”

  “I know you’ll soothe him through it all with your usual aplomb.”

  Allie chuckled. “Okay, now I know something’s going on if you’re buttering me up like this.”

  “I’ve got a situation.”

  “One that involves you getting laid a great deal, I hope?”

  “No, not yet. I mean, no. Not getting laid. Not at all.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Allie…”

  “Sorry. Continue.”

  “The situation does involve a man. Actually, a doctor.”

  “Okay, thanks for the distinction. That helps.”

  “He’s my boss.”

  “Uh, let me fetch my coffee. This is getting better by the second.”

  Rachel waited until she heard Allie’s “Okay, go.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Lucky me, I’ve got a half hour until I have to meet a whole gang of attorneys who want to shut down a school for deaf kids. Nice, huh? But we can talk about that another time. Speak.”

  “His name is Guy Giroux, and he’s the chief of the E.R. And he’s had a bad personal loss. His stepdaughter died.” Rachel laid out the facts, trying not to leave out anything pertinent. When she’d finished, there was a long pause.

  “Uh, Rachel? That’s all very interesting, but what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, I like him.”

  “Ah.”

  “I can’t like him. You know that. He’s—”

  “He’s chipping away at those brick walls of yours, isn’t he?”

  Rachel sighed. “Yeah.”

  “And this is bad because…?”

  “Allie, don’t be obtuse.”

  “Right. Feelings. The forbidden zone.”

  “I didn’t have to call you, you know.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll back off, but not totally. I’ve never really bought into your whole defense-mechanism theory, Rachel, and that’s something you know. If you didn’t want to hear my take, you wouldn’t have called me.”

  Rachel winced. She’d known before she dialed the first number how this conversation was going to go, at least on some level. “What I need is a little help here. I don’t think I’m going to be turning into someone else in the near future, so keep that in mind, okay?”

  “You’re helping him find this Stan person, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “So use that. Take baby steps. When you talk to him, let the conversation happen. Feel what you feel. You don’t have to act on anything, just be aware of it. When you’re alone again, take those feelings out and look at them. See what seems right, what scares you. And then try to imagine what would happen if you took a tiny step out of your comfort zone.”

  Rachel brought her pencil up and stuck it between her teeth. “What kind of tiny step?”

  “Well,
what if you asked him to talk about this at your place? Over coffee.”

  “Oh, no. That’ll be way over the line. He’s my—”

  “Boss, I know. But you had dinner at his house last night. That ship has sailed, my dear.”

  “Sailed. He has a boat, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Loves it.”

  “Cool.”

  “Beside the point. I don’t feel comfortable inviting him over.”

  “Okay, but you can still talk over coffee. And before you start giving him the lowdown—I mean, first thing—ask him how he’s feeling.”

  Rachel bit the pencil.

  “Don’t freak on me, Rachel,” Allie warned, as if she could see her friend. “All you have to do is listen to him. And respond with what your heart tells you.”

  “I can’t get involved with him.”

  “I understand. But do it anyway. Hey, listen. What’s going on with you next weekend?”

  “Work.”

  “Can you spare a few hours for a long, no-holds-barred talk with your best buddy?”

  “That would be great. I’ll make sure I’m home and not on call.”

  “Cool. I’ll buzz you later in the week when I know more about my schedule. Okay?”

  “Great.”

  “And, honey?”

  “What?”

  “You’re already involved with him. It’s just a matter of degrees. So lighten up. This could be a good thing. With a capital G.”

  “More likely a nightmare with a capital N.”

  “Only if you want it that way. I’ve got to go. Remember, feelings are not the enemy. Bye.”

  Rachel put the phone in the cradle, thinking about what Allie had said. She’d told Rachel to listen to what was going on inside her, what made her afraid.

  But Rachel already knew what made her afraid. On the other hand, maybe she should just shut up and do what she was told. Allie was one of the happiest people she knew. She was also damn good at her job, and she didn’t live her life as if she’d break if something went wrong. So what the hell. Rachel would give it a try.