by MJ Rodgers
She quickly approached and entered the one-person-wide enclosure built on the periphery of the construction. She kept an ear open for any pursuit.
The incessant whirl of the jackhammer deafened her ears. Yet even over its pounding noise, she could hear Marc calling from behind her. Damn his persistence. What a thoroughly irritating man. She increased her pace.
“Remy! Wait up!”
He was getting closer. Still, she always saved a kick in case it was needed. And it was definitely proving to be needed. She called upon every ounce of reserve and plunged forward with a new burst of speed.
“Remy, no! Watch out!”
Before Remy could even interpret Marc’s words as carrying a warning, it was too late. Something gigantic and gray flew into her peripheral vision. It smacked into her shoulder and slammed her into the pedestrian tunnel’s wall. Then a deep, thundering blackness swallowed her whole.
Chapter Six
Marc raced to Remy’s fallen form and dropped down beside her. He lifted her head gently off the sidewalk and rested her cheek against his knee. He leaned over her, frantically feeling for a pulse in her neck.
It seemed like forever before he felt the warm brush of her breath against his cheek. Another eternity passed before his fingers detected the faint beat of her blood beneath them.
Marc rested back on his heels, exhaling a mountain-size breath of relief. His eyes traced the line of blood seeping through the torn shoulder and sleeve of her jacket. An ugly red welt was already forming where the swinging metal beam had struck her and smacked her into the pedestrian wall.
He couldn’t clearly judge how hard she’d hit her head, but the fact that she had dropped in her tracks and now lay unconscious did not bode well.
He had to get her to an emergency room and fast. But he didn’t like the thought of moving her. He looked up and down the closed-in pedestrian tunnel that meandered like a long centipede at the edge of the open construction site.
It was close to noon. Why was this tunnel so deserted?
Time, precious time, was slipping by. Gently, carefully, he gathered her into his arms and rose to his feet, hoping like hell he was doing the right thing.
She was a soft armful—loose, limp and lifeless. As he began to walk back in the direction of the courthouse, her head rolled against his left shoulder and her feet bobbed up and down.
He drew her to him more tightly, trying to cushion her as best he could from the jarring, trying to cushion himself from the fear. He was torn between getting her help quickly and worrying that if he moved too fast, he might injure her further.
“Hang on, Remy. I’ve got you. Everything is going to be fine.”
He’d never understood before why people talked to someone who was injured—unconsciousness even—telling them everything was going to be all right. The words meant nothing. How could they? The person speaking them couldn’t possibly know if everything would be all right.
But now he understood why people said those words. He was telling Remy everything would be all right because he desperately needed to believe it. And, amazingly, the sound of the words added a much-needed echo to his hopes.
He exited the pedestrian tunnel and started up the street, back to the courthouse.
“Come on, Remy,” he said with more conviction. “You can’t tell me a woman with a head as hard as yours is going to let some crumbling piece of metal beam get the best of you?”
Almost as though in response to this challenge, he heard a small groan rumble in her throat.
Marc stopped instantly, his pulse racing excitedly as he felt her body coming to life within his arms. “Remy?”
She opened her eyes and blinked at him, as though she couldn’t quite get him into focus.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She brought her hand to her injured shoulder and winced when her fingers touched it. “What’s my name? What’s wrong with you, Truesdale? Did you get hit on the head or something?”
He chuckled with relief to hear the irritation in her tone. “How are you feeling?”
”Not so good. What happened?”
“You were knocked down by a swinging construction beam. I think the only thing that saved you was the fact that you were moving so fast that only the end of the thing whacked your shoulder. Still, the force was enough to shove you into the pedestrian wall and knock you out.”
She tried to raise her head and rested it back again. “So that’s why my head’s spinning. Where are we?”
“I’m carrying you back to the courthouse. Once we’re there, I can call the paramedics.”
She seemed to realize for the first time that he was holding her in his arms. Her body stiffened. Her eyes cleared. She lifted her head to take in the details of the street and the sprinkle of raindrops that had just begun to wet her face. She started to wiggle in his arms.
“Please let me down.”
The color was gradually returning to her face. She seemed completely conscious and cognizant. Still, he worried. What if she had internal injuries? Shouldn’t he keep her as still as possible?
He tightened his hold. “No. I’m taking no chances.”
Her eyes shifted to the curious glances from the passers-by. She looked around nervously at others who had stopped and now stood and stared at Marc holding her in his arms. She lowered her voice.
“Truesdale, let me down.”
“It’s not safe, Remy. I—”
“I’ll tell you what’s not safe. If you don’t let me down this instant, I’m yelling rape.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Her shoulder was bleeding; her clothes were dusty; she had a dirty smudge on her cheek. All in all, she was bloodied, bruised and battered. But there was a decidedly resolute look in her eyes. Yes, she might just do it at that.
Valor warred momentarily with discretion. Discretion won.
Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. She wobbled. He kept hold of her shoulders tightly, certain if he let go she’d fall.
After a moment he exhaled in frustration. “This is ridiculous, Remy. You can barely stand, much less walk.”
“I’m just a little dizzy. It’ll pass in a minute.”
“No, you have to let me carry you. There’s no need to be brave.”
“Brave?” She chuckled, surprising him entirely. “This has nothing to do with being brave. This has everything to do with being an abject coward. Do you think I want some newspaper or TV person to see you carrying me into the courthouse? Can you just imagine what they’d make of that?”
He shook his head at her words, although he was happy to hear the rallying tone in her voice. “So that’s the problem. I might have known. How about if I put a paper bag over your head so no one recognizes you?”
“Last time I had my picture snapped with you, I was wearing my dress over my head. That didn’t stop anyone from identifying me. No, thank you, Truesdale. I’m going to do this on my own two feet. Somehow.”
“Remy, you shouldn’t—”
“I’m going to.”
Marc expelled an exasperated breath. “You’re a tough nut, lady,” he said with grudging respect.
“That’s why I don’t crack easily,” she countered in a voice still shaky, but resolute.
* * *
“I DON’T WANT TO GO out to lunch, Truesdale. I want to go pick up my car.”
Marc spun the steering wheel of his deep gold Mercedes into a right turn, away from the emergency room at the hospital. In his rearview mirror, he noticed an older, battered gray Ford Mustang pulling out of the parking lot. There was something familiar about the ginger-haired driver that immediately caught his attention.
He refocused his eyes momentarily on his passenger. “Remy, the doctor said you had a mild concussion and specifically told you not to drive, remember?”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to get my car out of the parking garage.”
“I already arranged to have
your car picked up and taken to the condo.”
“How could you possibly have done that?”
Marc made another sharp right turn onto the next street. As he expected, the Mustang squealed around the same corner a moment later.
He flashed Remy a quick glance as he answered her question. “I went through your shoulder bag when you were being examined in the emergency room and found the garage ticket and your keys. I gave them to A.J. when she brought my car by the hospital. She’s getting the stuff from your house put in the condo as we speak.”
“Of all the—”
“Foresight. Yes, I know,” Marc interjected smoothly, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror as he continued.
“A.J. will find a way to get your things out of your house without the reporters catching on. She’ll also see to it that the condo is well stocked with groceries. It’s on the tenth floor of a massive building that not only houses condominiums, but an arcade and floors filled with all kinds of shops and restaurants, groceries, a post office, dry cleaner, doctor, dentist, beauty salon. You won’t have to go out for anything.”
“I don’t want—”
Marc didn’t give Remy a chance to protest. “You can telephone the police later about the construction accident. A.J. will be investigating, of course. You have a very strong personal injury claim against that construction company.”
“I don’t want—”
“You suffered a concussion,” Marc interrupted again. “That beam could have broken your arm. You could have been killed. By the way, I called Phil to let her know that you wouldn’t be coming back to the lab today. She agreed to bring Nicholas by the condo on her way home tonight. You have all the time in the world now for a leisurely lunch. That place on Lake Union I was telling you about earlier also has the best dessert.”
The frustration in Remy’s eyes and voice completely overrode her normally mellow tone. “What makes you think you can bulldoze your way into my affairs like this, Truesdale? Just who do you think you are?”
Marc made another turn and pulled his Mercedes over to the curb at the end of the cul-de-sac. He cut the engine. The Mustang pulled over and parked, three cars back. Marc kept one eye on it as he turned to his contrary passenger with the bandaged shoulder and bruised cheek.
He wanted very much to put his arm around her taut shoulders, but he didn’t. He wanted very much to loosen those tight lips with a kiss, but he didn’t. What he did do was to look straight into her angry eyes, letting his voice convey all his concern.
“Remy, you were hurt and you needed a friend. I’ve just been trying to be that friend.”
She searched his face for a moment before her shoulders sagged and she exhaled tiredly.
“I...I’m sorry, Marc. You really have been very supportive and considerate. Unbelievably so.”
“And the operative word here is unbelievably, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so uncomfortable. You still don’t believe it.”
“I’m used to taking care of myself. It’s frustrating to find things suddenly taken out of my hands and my control. Frustrating and...uncomfortable.”
Marc’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror at a sudden movement. He watched the ginger-haired man with the ponytail leave the Mustang and duck behind the second parked car in back of the Mercedes. Marc had no intention of letting the guy sneak up on them.
“Stay here,” he commanded as he threw open the driver’s door. He leaped out of the Mercedes and raced back to where the man was sandwiched between the parked cars. Marc moved so fast that he was on the ginger-haired guy before he could even get out of his squat.
Marc grabbed the man’s custom leather jacket and pulled him to his feet. He was about six-one, an inch shorter than Marc, thirty pounds heftier, somewhere in his late thirties, and clad in designer jeans and expensive shoes.
Marc’s first impression was that for scum, the guy was amazingly well dressed. Surprise and anger spilled out of the guy’s light eyes as Marc twisted one of his arms behind his back and kept the other firmly clamped on his shoulder.
The man fought Marc’s hold. “Let me go!”
Marc tightened his grip. “Not until you tell me who you are and why you’ve been spying on Dr. Westbrook.”
His face instantly closed, like an angry fist. “I don’t have to tell you a thing.” A sneer zipped his lips.
Marc heard Remy’s voice behind him and realized that she had gotten out of the car, completely ignoring his command, and come to see what was happening.
“He’s been following me?” she asked.
Marc knew better than to take his eyes off the man he held. “He’s your Peeping Tom from the lab. I recognized him right away. And since he obviously doesn’t want to tell us what we want to know, we’re turning him over to the police and pressing charges. Get on the car phone, Remy. Dial 911.”
“Right.”
Marc heard the soles of her shoes slapping the sidewalk as she started back toward the Mercedes to comply.
The ginger-haired man’s head darted nervously in her direction. The sneer slid from his lips. His light eyes began blinking frantically. “No! Wait!”
“Hold it, Remy,” Marc said. “It looks like we may be getting some cooperation, after all. Now, who are you and what’s this all about?”
He flashed angry eyes at Marc. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Yeah. Sure,” Marc said.
“No, it’s true!” the man protested. “My identification is in my left breast pocket. Go on. Take a look.”
Marc bent the man over the rear end of the nearest parked car. Keeping the man’s arm pinned behind his back, Marc carefully released his grip on the man’s shoulder to slip his hand inside the pocket. He retrieved a wallet and flipped it open to what he recognized as a valid Washington State Private Investigator identification card.
“Neville Smith,” he read aloud. “Who hired you to spy on Dr. Westbrook?”
“I don’t gotta tell you. My clients got a right to their privacy.”
“I doubt the police would agree, Neville. There are laws against stalking. You’ve been causing Dr. Westbrook considerable distress by showing up at her lab, her home.”
“No! That’s not true!”
“Oh? And what part of that isn’t true?”
His head dropped sulkily. “Okay. I was at the lab.”
“You were also prowling around her home. No use denying it. A neighbor identified that battered Mustang of yours.”
Neville was blinking in unwelcome surprise at the news. “I was just trying to get a look in the window. Hell, she scared me as much as I scared her.”
“There’s a law against peeping into women’s windows, Neville, whether you’re a P.I. on a case or just a lowlife getting your kicks. You’re probably looking at jail time here. You certainly can count on your license being revoked.”
He licked dry lips. “I wasn’t trying to scare her. I was just trying to do a job.”
“For whom?”
He licked his lips again. “Look, if I tell you, you let me go and we forget it, okay?”
Marc let Neville Smith live through a very long uncomfortable moment before nodding. “Okay. You tell us and you can go, providing you stop following Dr. Westbrook. Who hired you?”
“Demerchant.”
“Louie?” Marc asked incredulously.
“Naw, not the old guy. Although he’s just as interested in my reports about Dr. Westbrook and the kid as the other two.”
“Colin and Heddy Demerchant hired you?”
“Yeah.”
Marc’s eyes narrowed. “Why are they having you follow Dr. Westbrook?”
“Look, I don’t ask those kinda questions. I just do what I get paid to do. Look, man, we had a deal. I told you what you wanted to know. Now, let me go.”
Marc released his tight hold on the P.I.’s arm. Neville rolled his shoulder and massaged his arm, sending Marc a thoroughly disagreeable scowl. Marc kept a wary eye on the man as he stomped back t
o his Mustang, jumped inside, gunned the engine and took off on squealing tires.
Remy moved to Marc’s side as the Mustang scurried around the corner. “The police never told me a neighbor had seen a car.”
Marc smiled at her.
A light of understanding entered her eyes. “You made it up so he’d confess?”
“Worked pretty well, too.”
“Was it wise to let him go?”
“The prosecutor’s office would never have been able to make either prowler charge stick. I only saw the back of a ginger ponytail and leather jacket running away from the lab and there’s really no neighbor who saw his Mustang at your home. Any admission he made to us while I held him in an arm lock would have been considered to have been made under duress.”
She nodded. “At least now I don’t have to worry about some nameless, faceless sicko out there after Nicholas. I’m rather relieved to find out it was just some incompetent private investigator.”
Marc slipped his hand beneath her elbow as they walked back toward the car. “Maybe he’s incompetent, or maybe he’s just putting on a good act. I wonder why Colin and Heddy hired him to investigate you.”
“Probably because it’s the most popular sport of the season,” her mellow voice said with lovely, pointed sarcasm as she slid into the passenger seat.
He chuckled as he circled the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. But he didn’t immediately start the engine. Instead, he turned to her. Her eyes met his squarely, sugar-and-cinnamon eyes, sprinkled with golden flecks of delicious annoyance.
He raised his hand to gently rub the hollow beneath her bruised cheek. She watched him as a new wariness entered her eyes.
“Just before we were interrupted, you were about to tell me why it’s so hard for you to accept my help.”
“No. I was telling you how unbearably frustrating it is to have control of my life taken out of my hands.”
“Remy, I’m not trying to take over control of your life.”
“Well, for someone who isn’t trying, you’ve been succeeding remarkably. Everywhere I go now, people point and stare. My personal choice in conception—even my sexual habits—are the subjects of talk shows and pop radio psychologists. Can you imagine how that makes me feel?”
