Intensive Care

by Jessica Andersen

  He caught her arm before she walked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me say things wrong, or not at all, but there it is. I know you care about your patients. For God’s sake, I’ve seen you with Milo.” He let her go and scrubbed a weary hand across his face, wishing he could explain what he was feeling. But the barriers were still too thick, the walls still too high. He ended with a lame, “I know you’re a good doctor.”

  But apparently it was a start. She stayed put and cocked her head. “Does this mean you want a truce?”

  Yes, he wanted a truce with her. He wanted a relationship. A lifetime. No, what was he thinking? Cage shook his head to clear it of the slow, sweet music and the sight of her legs. He’d been a terrible husband once before. He knew better than to try again. He couldn’t do that to another woman. Especially not one he cared for. So he nodded. “Sure, a truce. Can we start with you giving me a lift home? I walked here from my building.”

  Her lips curved slightly, though the clouds remained in her eyes. “Okay.”

  He followed her through the dancers and out into the street, gazing at her legs and feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle to attention, like there was someone watching.

  Someone waiting.

  It had stopped raining, but the gutters were heavy with oily water and city debris. He followed Ripley across the wide main street to her car. He was ten steps behind her when he heard an engine race and saw the single headlight approaching.

  Way too fast.

  His system kicked into overdrive and he yelled, “Ripley, look out!”

  He saw a dark motorcycle angle around the corner almost on top of her. The black-clad rider crouched down and the lethal machine sped up.

  “Ripley!” Cage charged across the street and grabbed her by the waist. Something popped in his bad shoulder as he dragged her toward safety. The motorcyclist shifted gears with a howl of engine noise just as Cage launched Ripley between a pair of parked cars.

  The motorcycle roared past, and was gone in a blast of noise. The echoes hung for a moment, then they disappeared as well. Everything was quiet in the little street. Unchanged.

  Shocked, rattled and filled with rage that once again Ripley had been endangered and he’d almost been too late, Cage lay still for a moment as the gutter water soaked through his pants and his shoulder started to howl.

  “Cage!” Ripley squirmed and righted herself, dragging a hand through her now-soggy hair. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

  He struggled to his feet and braced his hand on a nearby car. Too bad for the owner, he thought as he smeared gutter filth across the hood. “I’m fine,” he lied as the pain sang down his arm and rage pinched his gut. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” Her too-tight shirt was askew and both her knees were scraped raw, but she seemed otherwise whole.

  Cage felt a gush of relief and a profound desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her. To prove to both of them they were still alive. But he’d given that right away. He’d pushed it away with both hands that morning, because it was easier to suspect than to trust.

  “Someone just tried to kill us,” she stated calmly, though her pulse pounded at her throat and her face was gray.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, feeling adrenaline and anger warring for dominance within him. He cursed. “Come on, we’d better get out of here before they come back.”

  “Or we could call the police,” she offered, though her voice held little conviction.

  “We could,” he agreed, “But since Gabney and your father will deny there’s anything wrong at the hospital, it’ll be a random thing in their books. Just a bit of bad Boston driving, you know?” The knowledge soured in his stomach. Yet again, the administration, the system was failing him. Failing his woman.

  “You’re right.” She blew out a breath. “Let’s go, then.”

  They drove to his building in a silence that was tainted with unsaid things and an edgy blend of leftover hurt and sexual frustration. When the car was stopped, he said, “Why don’t you come up and spend the night? I have a guest room, and I’d feel better knowing we were both safe on the top floor, behind a sturdy security system.”

  She gazed out the windshield. It was raining again, and the water made crazy tracks down the sloping glass. He wished he could read her mind. Wished he knew where they stood. Wished he knew what he wanted. What she was feeling.

  Finally, she answered, “No, thanks. Father’s mansion is just as tightly guarded. I’ll be safe there.”

  “Ripley, that wasn’t—”

  “Cage. Don’t.” Her quiet words effectively silenced him, which was a relief, as he wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say. “I can’t do this, okay? It was a mistake for us even to try. You’re still working through your wife’s death, and I’m…I’m not looking for complications, okay?”

  “Heather has been gone a long time, Ripley. I do what I do because of how she died, but not because I still love her.” It was true, he realized. Her memory was faded by time, and the guilt had even leveled a bit, allowing him to see their relationship as it had been, rather than through the purifying lenses of the survivor.

  He hadn’t been perfect. But then again, neither had Heather. Or perhaps it was the match that had been flawed from the start, and that regret, more than anything else, drove him harder. In the end, he just hadn’t loved her enough.

  “I don’t put much stock in love,” Ripley said, staring through the windshield. “And I’m too tired to have this conversation tonight. I’ll be safe at my father’s, and tomorrow we’ll meet with Gabney again. After this motorcycle incident, and the evidence we’ve gathered, he’ll have to call the authorities.” She shivered slightly, although the car was warm.

  “And where does that leave us?” Cage asked, not knowing what he wanted the answer to be, but knowing he didn’t want to go upstairs alone.

  “When this is over,” she answered without answering, “what will you do? Stay here and run the BoGen Radiation Safety department, or take a job at some other hospital where you can save the world from crooked doctors?”

  Cage didn’t say a word, knowing it was answer enough, and she nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. Which leaves us,” she jerked a thumb between the two of them, “a fond memory with no future. So let’s not make it harder than it already is, okay?”

  “You’re right. I don’t like it, but I know you’re right.” Disappointment shimmered through him, only slightly tempered by the fact that he knew he couldn’t give her what she needed. He pulled out a business card and scribbled a string of numbers on the back before handing it to her. “Take this. My cell number is on the front, and the security code for my place is on the back. I’ll leave your name with the doorman. If you need me for anything, call. And if you need someplace to be safe, promise me you’ll come here, okay?”

  Their eyes met and held. Her chin dipped in the barest of nods. “Okay. But ‘safe’ is starting to feel like a pretty relative term. And thanks for pushing me into the gutter. I’ll return the favor some day.” She pressed a scraped palm to his cheek before he slid out of the car.

  He leaned back in, feeling a new burst of rain hit the back of his neck. “Please, please keep yourself safe, okay? We’ll figure the rest out together.” He shut the door and watched her pull out of the parking lot, wishing things between them could be different. Wishing he was different.

  Then he watched a few minutes longer, making sure that no dark motorcycle pulled out behind her. The street stayed empty. But the hairs on the back of his neck stood at rigid attention. There was someone out there. Waiting.

  WHEN RIPLEY LET HERSELF into her father’s house, the first thing she heard was his bellow of, “Caroline Ripley Davis, where in God’s name have you been?” Her father stood in the foyer, and he looked almost…worried.

  The nagging fear that had dogged her drive home fled instantly, replaced with a suspiciously warm glow. Howard had been worried about her? He believed she was in
danger? He cared?

  Barely trusting her voice, Ripley ventured, “I…I was out. I’m sorry if—”

  She was cut off by a quick gesture. Howard ran his eyes up and down her body. “You missed dinner. And what are you wearing? Did anyone see you like that?”

  The quick slap of hurt stiffened her spine and drove away the warmth. He hadn’t been worried for her. He’d been worried for himself, as always. “Yes, I went out in public dressed like this,” she replied. “And no, my knees don’t hurt too badly, thanks for asking.” Pride kept her from limping across the tiled foyer, and stubbornness kept the tears at bay. She should have stayed with Cage after all. Perhaps Howard would have worried if she hadn’t come home at all. Then again, perhaps not. She set her foot on the bottom step and called over her shoulder, “I’m going to take a shower and then I’m going to bed.”

  “Caroline, get back down here! We need to discuss your new position at the clinic, and how you can avoid suits from the Harris and Cooper cases. Malpractice settlements don’t look good for the Davis name, you know.”

  Maybe it was stress and exhaustion. Maybe it was the final insult in a long string of such things. Or maybe it was the added strength she’d gained from holding firm against Cage, who tried to be just as overbearing as her father. Whatever the cause, Ripley felt a sudden crack in the tight control she kept on her emotions around her father.

  And the anger, which she’d always dismissed as childish, felt good.

  She spun around on the stairs, but stayed two steps up so she’d have the advantage of height, and the wonderful echo of the marble foyer walls. “No, Father. We won’t discuss anything. We never do. You lecture and I listen. That’s not a discussion.”

  Howard sniffed. “Well, Caroline. I can see that you’re in no mood to be reasonable. We’ll talk about this another time.”

  “Don’t you dare walk away, Father!” Ripley yelled, and had the satisfaction of seeing him turn back around, eyes wide. “If you walk away now, I’m leaving here and never coming back. You may not believe I’m in danger, but I’m telling you it’s the truth. You either start listening to what I have to say, or I’m out of here. Do you understand me?”

  He frowned. “Caroline, really—”

  “My name is Ripley!”

  In the sudden silence that followed her bellow, Ripley heard a noise from the side-door breezeway. She and her father both turned toward the sound. And froze.

  “Oh, goodness.” The tall brunette fluffed a hand through her artfully cut hair and hooked a heavy-looking golf bag over one of the marble lions. “I’m not a moment too soon, am I?”

  Ripley felt a headache descend with sudden vengeance, and her knees started to throb like crazy. She closed her eyes and wished with sudden ferocity that she had taken Cage’s offer. Even staring at the ceiling of his guest room while reliving every one of his touches and balancing them against every one of the reasons why they couldn’t be together would have been preferable to this.

  But when she opened her eyes, she was still standing on the marble staircase of her father’s mansion, and Eleanor Caroline Davis was still in the foyer.

  Her father was frozen in place with his mouth hanging open and one hand in the air, so Ripley sighed and said it for him.

  “Hello, Mother. Welcome home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  An hour and several aspirins later, Ripley still hadn’t made it to bed, though her father had disappeared soon after their family reunion in the foyer. She felt hollow from the emotional highs and lows of the past few days. Empty. Alone.

  “So tell me about this man you mentioned on the phone.” Clad in silk lounging pajamas embroidered with the name of a faraway country club, Ripley’s mother was a study in elegance, except for the hint of a farmer’s tan on her arms and nose.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Ripley tried to find a more comfortable position on the couch, but her scraped knees had stiffened after she showered. “I’m not even sure why I called you.” Except that she wanted to understand why happily ever after didn’t exist, and had thought her mother might know.

  Eleanor’s eyes clouded. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “I didn’t mean it badly.” Ripley touched her mother’s hand. “I meant that it really wasn’t important enough for you to fly home in the middle of a tournament.” Which was a surprise neither Ripley nor her father had been expecting. “It’s over between Cage and me, anyway. We’ve agreed it’s for the best to keep things on a professional level instead of a personal one.” Except that her lips still tingled with the imprint of his. She could still taste him on her tongue. Feel him against her skin.

  “And the problem at the hospital you told me about? I assume that’s what has Howard all in a lather.” Not for the first time, Ripley wondered at her parents’ relationship. There was no anger in her mother’s voice. Only a fond tolerance, and perhaps a hint of something else.

  Something Ripley hadn’t noticed when she was a child.

  “That’s still a problem,” Ripley allowed. “But I don’t want you or Father to have any part of it. I’ll handle it myself.” By unspoken agreement, neither she nor Howard had mentioned the full extent of the problems to her mother. It was perhaps the first time in her memory that she and her father had worked together, but neither of them wanted Eleanor near BoGen. Ripley wanted her mother safe. Howard just wanted her gone, or at least that was how Ripley interpreted his chilly silence and quick absence.

  “Are you sure?” Her mother’s touch was gentle, and lodged a ball of sweet memory in Ripley’s throat. “I haven’t been around much these last few years, but I’m not stupid, you know. If you’re in some sort of trouble, let Howard help you. I know he can be heavy-handed in his methods, but your father only wants to fix things for you because he loves you.”

  Ripley shook her head with a wistful smile. “No. He doesn’t want me to make him look bad. Don’t try to placate me, Mother. I know the score.”

  Instead of responding, Eleanor looked at her for a long time until Ripley had to fight the urge to squirm. Finally, her mother said simply, “I have been gone too long, Ripley, and I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”

  What was there to understand? Howard was a tyrant and his wife had gone golfing rather than be around him. That’s all there was to it. That was all Ripley wanted there to be, because if there were other factors involved, she might have to reevaluate her own thinking about relationships.

  About love. About being vulnerable to a man like Cage.

  Suddenly unable to sit there any longer, Ripley climbed painfully to her feet and checked her pager, though both of them knew it hadn’t gone off. “I do understand, Mother. And I have to get to the hospital. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  Eleanor sighed. “Yes, Ripley, I’ll be here tomorrow. Maybe you’ll want to talk then.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Ripley said, though she was pretty sure she’d heard it all before. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Up in her room, she dragged jeans over her skinned knees and a sweatshirt over her drying hair. As she snuck out the side door so she wouldn’t have to pass her father’s library, Ripley thought she heard the murmur of voices from the parlor. Then she shook her head. Her mother must’ve turned on the small television that was hidden in an ornate cupboard.

  The alternative was too unbelievable to consider.

  Once outside the main gates, Ripley paused at the crossroads, realizing she didn’t have a plan. She’d just needed to get out of the big house. She couldn’t go to her apartment because the killer had called there. He knew where she lived. And she couldn’t go to Tansy’s apartment because it wasn’t in a secure building. Besides, it seemed as though Tansy had problems of her own.

  The car seemed to turn itself toward the city tower she’d visited earlier that night. The guard at the parking garage let her in without a fuss, though it was close to two in the morning, and the man at the front desk greeted her with a smile and addressed her as “Doc
tor.” The elevator carried her up to the top floor and deposited her in a plush foyer.

  At the door, Ripley faltered as she looked around. What was she doing here?

  It seemed unbelievable that Boston General’s rude, outspoken RSO lived in the penthouse of one of the most desirable buildings in the city. The floor of the elevator lobby was done in dark marble, and the green plants spilling from the tasteful indoor garden probably had a staff of their own. It was, Ripley thought, exactly the sort of place her father would buy if he lived in the city. That alone was enough to spark her retreat.

  Her finger was on its way to recall the elevator when she heard the door behind her open.

  “Ripley?”

  And suddenly it didn’t seem so strange anymore, because there he stood, shirtless, with ragged sweatpants hanging off his narrow hips, and he looked like Cage. He didn’t look like the multimillionaire owner of several buildings, or the man who’d fought Albany Memorial for justice and lost. He didn’t look like the young pitcher in the clippings Milo and Livvy had been passing around, or like the man she imagined had married a woman named Heather.

  No, the ragged, tired man holding his hand out to her looked nothing like the person he’d once been, Ripley realized. He looked like the man she’d come to know so well in such a short time. The dusky skin across his chest was etched with strength and lined with muscle. In that moment, she thought she could trust him to protect her from anything. Everything. “Cage,” she breathed, finding for the first time that his name seemed stiff on her tongue. Formal.

  He seemed to sense it. “You can call me Zachary, if you want. Zack.” He stood back from the door and gestured. “Are you coming in?”

  Ripley stayed put, feeling as though the small step into his home was inevitable, yet knowing it was the biggest decision of her life. She peered past his outstretched arm, thinking that he had shared the space with his wife.

  As though sensing her concern, he took Ripley’s arm and led her in. “I gave away most of Heather’s things and boxed the rest up. There’s not much here now, just a few pieces of furniture and some odds and ends.” He paused. “There’s not much of Heather in here, but there’s not much of me either, Ripley.” And she didn’t think he was talking about the furniture anymore.