Let her believe someone cared.
But not today. There was no peace for Ripley, not even in the small chapel. Her mind churned with thoughts and worries. Milo. Her other patients. Herself. Her department.
Cage.
In those last few moments before he’d kissed her, she’d seen the intent in his black eyes. She’d known it was a mistake, known she should have backed away. But instead, she’d leaned forward and accepted his kiss. Returned it. And in the instant that her arms had slid around his neck, she’d known there would be trouble between them. The attraction was too strong, the taste of him too compelling. And there were too many reasons why they would never work together. He was too driven, too moody. Too strong a personality.
He was exactly the sort of man she’d sworn to avoid.
“What am I doing?” she whispered into the echoing darkness, feeling the shadows creep closer.
A sly shift of sound was returned to her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It could have been an echo.
Or it could have been a stealthy, quiet footstep.
“Hello?” she called, standing up and feeling her heart rattle in her chest. “Is someone there?”
Nobody answered. Ripley peered into the heavily shadowed alcoves, straining her eyes when she thought she caught a slide of motion in the darkness beside the stained glass. “Hello?” Her injured voice cracked on the word.
Then the candle winked out. The chapel was plunged into sudden, complete darkness.
And Ripley could hear someone else breathing.
IT WAS CLOSE TO SIX-FIFTEEN Saturday morning when Cage charged up the hospital steps. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep on the closet floor. He only hoped Ripley had been sensible enough to stay in the patients’ wing where there were plenty of people around. But when he reached Oncology, he found Milo alone and awake.
“Livvy remembered where she’d seen you before,” the boy said in his breathy voice. “You used to pitch for Texas.”
The reminder was a poignant counterpart to the memories Cage had discovered in the hallway closet. He nodded, and felt his heart ache beneath the layers of scar tissue. “Yeah. I used to pitch for Texas.” But the fears of the present were stronger than the regrets of the past, and he quickly asked, “Do you know where Dr. Rip went?”
“I heard her tell Belle she was going to the chapel, I think. I was most of the way asleep.” Milo replied, his voice rasping with the effort it cost him to talk.
The chapel? That seemed like an un-Ripleyish place to go. But then again, how well did he really know her?
He knew how she tasted, he thought, and cursed the rev of his body at the reminder. The chemistry between them was an unforeseen complication. An impossible one that filled his brain with useless wishes, much as the memories did.
Then he thought of the chapel, small and isolated off a main corridor downstairs, and a quick chill dispelled both arousal and confusion. Why the hell had she gone down there? She had promised to stay safe, damn it!
Milo interrupted his thoughts. “Will you come to the game with us this week? I’m sure Ripley won’t mind. The Tammy Fund has a box right over the Boston dugout…” He trailed off to breathe and Cage shook his head.
“Sorry.” He handed Milo his old pitcher’s mitt, rescued from the bottom of his team duffel. “But I brought you this. I don’t need it anymore.”
He was out the door before the boy found breath to thank him, which was just fine with Cage. He didn’t want thanks. He just wanted to leave the memories behind. Again. He wasn’t sure what had compelled him to go home and get the glove, but he hadn’t questioned the impulse.
It had felt important. Almost as important as finding Ripley now and making sure she was safe.
He jogged down the stairs, trying to convince himself everything was fine even though the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. Then he turned the corner to the chapel.
And heard her scream.
“Ripley!” He charged the rest of the way to the door and kicked it open.
The chapel was completely dark. The smell of flowers was cloying. Overpowering. He heard a scuffling noise and slapped for the light switch just inside the door. “Ripley?”
“Cage!” She bolted up the aisle and clung to him. He could feel her heart pounding as he held her tight, shielding her with his body while he searched the small room for her attacker.
The chapel was deserted.
“Ripley, what’s wrong? What happened?” He tried to push her away so he could check for injuries, but she burrowed into him so tightly it was impossible. “Are you hurt?”
Her voice was muffled against his chest. “No, I’m okay. I’m not hurt.” The arms around his waist loosened and Cage’s panic level subsided. In its place, a new heat bloomed, centered on the place where her high, firm breasts pressed against his chest and her hips aligned with his.
How long had it been since he’d simply held a woman? As quickly as the thought came, the answer charged on its heels. It had been five years since Heather had died in his arms. He would not allow such a thing to happen again.
If it did, it would happen over his dead body.
The heat fled and Cage set Ripley away. “What happened? Why was it so dark in here?”
He saw her struggle to master her breathing. Saw the dull red flush that climbed her cheeks. She gestured. “The candle was lit, but then it went out. I thought I heard someone in here with me and I panicked.”
Cage prowled the chapel, but found nothing. No evidence. There was a small door behind a stained-glass panel, but it was firmly locked. “There’s nobody here now.” But even as he said it, he remembered the broom closet key in his pocket. Locks were made to be opened. “What exactly happened? And why the hell didn’t you stay in the patients’ wing?” he demanded with sudden ferocity, anger following the rush of relief.
“Don’t shout at me!” she snapped, “Nothing happened, okay? There was nobody here, you can see for yourself. I panicked. I was weak and hysterical and I talked myself into believing there was someone here when there wasn’t. And you’re right. I should have stayed with Milo. I was wrong and you were right. Are you satisfied?”
He was nowhere close to satisfied, but he saw by the hint of wildness in her eyes and the subtle tremor of her hands that she needed more from him than a lecture. And perhaps he needed it, too. So he folded her into his arms and rested his cheek in her hair and simply said, “I’m sorry. It scared the hell out of me when I heard you scream.”
And just like that, the fight went out of her. She sagged against him and wrapped her arms around his waist as though he was the last thing keeping her upright. The heat built between them, but it was different this time, a binding warmth rather than a crackling blaze. He heard her murmur, “I scared the hell out of me, too.” She sounded ashamed.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” He released her and held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I think we need a plan.”
OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ, Ripley turned to speak to Cage and got a nasty shock when she recognized the man approaching from the other direction.
Howard Davis. Her father. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, unconsciously stepping between him and Cage, hoping to prevent a confrontation.
But with Howard, there was almost always a confrontation.
“Caroline.” He stopped a few feet away and made no move to hug her, or even shake her hand. He raked his gaze down her slept-in jeans and spare shirt. “You’re a mess!”
For a brief moment, she would’ve given anything to be able to throw herself into her father’s arms and bawl like a baby. There were too many things on her shoulders right now, too many fears and pressures.
But that would be showing emotion. And like weakness, Davises didn’t show emotion in public.
“Caroline?” The word cracked like a whip, but Ripley refused to flinch at her father’s tone. Cage stood at her shoulder. She felt the war
mth of his arm barely grazing hers and thought maybe she could lean on him a bit, just for now.
“And you are?” Cage’s question was soft, but the steel beneath the words was unmistakable.
“On my way to Leo Gabney’s office to straighten out the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” Howard ignored Cage and spoke to his daughter, bringing the full weight of paternal disapproval to bear.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Father,” she snapped, aware that her resentment from last night’s phone call was still simmering along with the other complications she’d fallen into. Cage. Leo. Ida Mae. Danger. “I told you last night to stay out of this and I meant it.”
It was sad that she didn’t trust her father enough to tell him that her life was in danger. How hurtful that she didn’t trust him to take her side. But then, Boston General had always been more important to Howard Davis than his family.
He took a deep breath. “Caroline, I don’t think—”
“Excuse me, but Dr. Davis prefers to be called Ripley.”
There was dead silence for a heartbeat after Cage’s pronouncement, and she felt a spurt of gratitude even as she braced herself for the explosion. It had been a long time since anyone had sided with her against her father.
“And you would be Mr. Cage, correct?” Howard emphasized the “mister” as though non-doctors were beneath his notice.
“That’s right. I’m the new RSO. And you are?” The men traded glare for glare.
“Dr. Howard Davis, Head Administrator emeritus and current head of the Board of Directors,” Ripley’s father answered with a superior smirk. “I know very well who you are, Mr. Cage. I know all about you.” The smirk widened, making it clear that the things Howard knew were not particularly nice.
Cage surged forward a half step and Ripley put her hand on his sleeve as though her touch could hold him back.
Surprisingly, it did. He stopped and looked down at the place where her hand lingered. So did Howard. His lip curled. “So that’s where this attitude of yours is coming from, Caroline. You’ve fallen for the new bad boy.” He snorted. “You do things like this to embarrass me, don’t you?”
Ripley snapped, “No, Father. That’s just a bonus. And our relationship—or lack thereof—is none of your business.”
Howard’s smile was icy. Displeased. “Grow up, Caroline, and understand how your actions reflect upon your mother and I.” He took a step back, though Ripley knew he was far from retreating.
She sighed. “You and Mother haven’t shared the same house in years, Father, and I’m not sure why you keep up the pretense of speaking for her. Besides, Mother could care less who I’m seeing as long as I’m happy.”
“And how long will that be, Caroline? Until he leaves you alone to die while he attends a fancy dinner party? That’s what happened to his first wife, you know.”
Sick distress rattled through Ripley. It wasn’t surprise, particularly, as she’d known the shadows of guilt and grief in Cage’s eyes had to come from a woman. It was pain that she’d learned of it from her own father.
“You bastard. Don’t you dare speak of her!” Cage’s voice cracked with the force of his growl.
“Father!” she snapped, hating the little hospital spies, who never reported anything good. Hating her father. Hurting for Cage. “I think you’d better leave.”
“Caroline—”
“And for God’s sake call me Ripley!”
Clearly wishing he was having this conversation on the phone so he could hang up, Howard Davis tugged stiffly at his cuffs and retreated. “I see that we’ll have to continue this when you’re feeling more reasonable, Caroline. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and left without a backward glance.
Ripley watched him go with the same old wish in her heart. I wish that things were different. I wish that he were different. But wishing had never made it so before and it wasn’t likely to start now.
She took a deep, hurting breath, and glanced at Cage. His eyes were dark and angry, his jaw set. “Cage, I’m sorry. I—”
He cut her off with a gesture. “I’d rather not talk about it. Let’s get our coffee and head back to R-ONC. I think we should start by scanning that whole area for nukes.” He strode into the café, leaving her standing in the hall.
Alone.
Chapter Seven
That’s what happened to his first wife. Howard Davis’s words rattled around in Cage’s brain as he slid the Geiger counter across the last box of saline bags. But he barely saw the neat row of injectable supplies they were scanning for contamination. He saw only the disdain in the face of Ripley’s father.
The horror in hers.
It hadn’t surprised him that the administrators knew of his part in Heather’s death. What surprised him was the shame he’d felt at not having been the one to tell Ripley. She’d had to hear it from her father, a man who wouldn’t even call her by her right name.
The hurt in her face had warned him more eloquently than words that he needed to protect her from more than the menace at Boston General. He would also have to protect her from the thing that was growing between them.
And protect himself, as well.
“Well, there’s nothing here.” Ripley gave a last swing of the Geiger counter and shook her head. “Though negative data is still data, I suppose.” She braced both hands on her lower back and stretched out the kinks. The material of her shirt pulled tight across her high, firm breasts.
Her words echoed in the storage room, the first either of them had spoken since she had offered a tentative apology for her father’s behavior and Cage had snarled her to silence.
“Yeah,” he agreed in a voice that felt rusty. Unused. “None of this stuff is hot.”
Unfortunately, the boxes of injectables were about the only things in the room that weren’t hot. The thermostat in the little storeroom must be set at a hundred. Cage tugged at his collar and gritted his teeth. That was the reason his body temperature was roaring out of control. It had nothing to do with the way Ripley’s jeans fit across her tight rear, or the single dark curl that had escaped the sleek ponytail she’d fashioned before they began searching for radioactively contaminated stocks.
Off-limits, he told himself. You’re going to protect her until the two of you can find evidence that will force Gabney to call in the authorities. Then you’ll get the hell out of her life before you’re responsible for hurting two women rather than just one.
“Let’s check the broom closet next.” Only the faintest whisper of hesitation in her voice betrayed Ripley’s reluctance to go there.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he said, “and remember, I’ve got the key. Besides, we don’t have many other options until I can reach George Dixon and see what he remembers about finding those nukes.” He draped an arm across her shoulder and steered her out of the storeroom.
Then he dropped his arm, remembering her father. Remembering that she deserved better than a man who had already failed one woman he’d sworn to protect.
Heather. The pain ripped as it had five years ago, though dulled some by time. He could clearly picture the granite marker with her name carved above a simple Christian sentiment. But her exact image had grown blurry, static, as though it was a photograph that had faded with time. The thought that he was finally losing her brought an ache to Cage’s chest.
And made him long to reach for Ripley. Made him yearn to save her as he hadn’t saved his wife.
He was tired, Cage decided when a dull throb began behind his eyes. The stress of the past few days was catching up with him. That was why he was overwhelmed by the desire to turn off the lights in the supply room, sit against the back wall, and draw her down beside him. It was the only reason he wanted to hold her hand and tell her about his wife.
“Cage?” She touched his arm and he flinched as the contact sparked something primitive and needy deep inside.
“I’m fine,” he said curtly, though she hadn’t asked. “It’s nothing. Let’s get out of here.�
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He slapped the lights off on his way out the door and ignored the beckoning warm darkness, but the itchy, twitchy sensation didn’t fade as they walked side by side to the broom closet near R-ONC. Cage stared at the letters on the department door, trying to summon the memory of Heather’s wasted, burned body. But in his mind’s eye her golden hair blurred to dark, and her pale skin glowed with a tan of sun and health until he wasn’t picturing Heather at all.
“Damn it!” He opened the broom closet so hard the door rattled against a rack of mops and brushes and sprang back at him. Ripley jumped, clearly nervous, but saved her worry for him.
“Cage?” She touched his arm, and he spun toward her, baring his teeth and fighting the urge to take what hadn’t been offered. She asked, “Are you okay?” When he didn’t answer right away, she looked down. “I really am sorry, you know, for what my father said. He had no right. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I wanted to say that I’m sorry about your wife. You must have loved her very much.”
If only he had. If only he’d been a better husband. He might still have a family. He might still be that boy in the baseball cap.
The pressure behind his eyes intensified, and he clenched his jaw against the need to howl. Where were all these memories coming from? Why now? He’d laid his wife to rest a long time ago. He’d moved on with his life.
Hadn’t he?
“Cage?” Maybe it was the instincts of a healer, maybe the instincts of a woman, but Ripley’s eyes searched his, dark and concerned. “Cage, talk to me.” The hand on his arm slid up and touched his cheek.
The pain behind his eyes sharpened, and his vision blurred with unfamiliar wetness. He heard the clatter of heels approaching from an intersecting hallway and forestalled the obligatory “Hi, how are you?” exchange by yanking Ripley into the broom closet and shutting the door over her faint protest.
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