Was that because he was innocent? Or guilty?
Fifteen minutes later, she parked in the ER lot. He opened the car door and stepped out into the humid night.
Stella got out of the car. “Eventually you’re going to tell me how you got that gunshot wound.” Among other things . . .
He shut the car door and walked away.
“Hold on.” Stella locked her vehicle and hurried to catch up. “I’m coming with you.”
And she wasn’t leaving him until she had some answers.
Chapter Eight
The ER was Wednesday-night slow, and Mac didn’t have to wait. An hour later, the doctor had finished restitching Mac’s wound.
He eased back onto the pillow in his hospital bed, his side blissfully numb from the local anesthetic. For the first time since he’d been shot two days before, Mac wasn’t split in two with pain. The downside of less physical discomfort was that the empty space left plenty of room for grief over the deaths of his father and Cheryl.
And the image of the woman lying in the rain was seared into his optic nerve. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Had he actually seen a woman, or had his mind summoned an image of Cheryl dying in the rain forest?
He was sure of one thing: he’d seen too much death in the past few days.
Sorrow came rushing back with a vengeance. Tension in his chest clamped around his lungs.
“Hello?” Stella’s voice sounded from the other side of the curtain.
Relieved at the distraction, Mac said, “Come in.”
The curtain shifted as she stepped up to the side of the gurney.
Stella Dane.
Her black slacks and blazer were damp and wrinkled. The downpour had destroyed her uptight bun. He knew instantly why she wore it up. Wet tendrils fell past her shoulders, framing her face and highlighting her gorgeous blue eyes. The shiny wave of black made a man want to plunge his fingers into it, cup the back of her head with both hands, take control of that serious mouth and kiss her until the cop in her eyes melted.
As far as distractions went, it didn’t get much better than Stella. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been in full uniform. No cop had ever made a uniform look like she had, but body armor had concealed her shape. The new look definitely did not.
“Your new job suits you.” His comment surprised them both.
Where did that come from? Usually he was better at keeping his mouth shut, a great life-preserving quality in the circles in which he traveled. But his raw emotions were affecting his self-control. His filter was on the fritz.
She flushed.
Silence filled the space. What was there to say? She was waiting for the drug tests to come back. He didn’t blame her for the request. He had a bad track record, and no one knew the truth. But her direct questions had told him Detective Dane wasn’t going to settle for his usual bullshit. She was kind and sympathetic, but she was no pushover.
Last November he’d discovered she was smart and loyal. Tonight she’d listened to his crazy story. Instead of telling him he was nuts, she’d reacted with common sense and empathy. To a man who couldn’t connect to a goldfish, sincere compassion impressed him.
As if he needed another reason to have her stuck in his head.
“Mr. Barrett.” The doctor came in and opened a wall-mounted laptop. He glanced at Stella, then Mac. “Is it all right to discuss your medical care and history in her presence?”
“It’s fine.” Mac was tired of secrets, and he suddenly didn’t want to keep anything from Stella. What kind of luck had brought her back into his life? He’d known he was in trouble with the pretty cop last fall, and she’d been one of the reasons he’d stayed far away since.
“I’ll send you home with some prescription pain meds.”
“I already told you I won’t take any narcotics,” Mac said without breaking eye contact with Stella.
The doctor typed on the computer. “You did, which is why I injected a long-acting local anesthetic into the site. That should alleviate your pain for up to four days. The medication I’m dispensing is a non-narcotic, anti-inflammatory pain reliever. It’s not habit forming.” He closed the laptop. “I know we talked about your reluctance to take any medications, but there’s no need for you to be in agony. We have good non-opioid options for pain relief.”
The doctor turned to Stella. “His drug and alcohol tests came back negative. Frankly, I can’t believe anyone could be walking around with that injury and not taking anything for the pain. I’d be crying like a baby.” He refocused on Mac. “How do you handle it?”
“I had a drug problem in my teens. I won’t go there again.”
“And I respect you for it.” The doctor closed the laptop.
“Seriously I find the best method for controlling pain is to accept it and find a distraction.” Mac’s gaze found Stella’s.
“OK. Well, you won’t have to live with it this time. The nurse will be in with paperwork.” The doctor disappeared through the break in the curtain.
Stella propped a hand on a curvy hip. “So you want to tell me how you were shot?”
Voices hummed in the three-bed ER triage room. This was not the place for confessions. Mac lowered his voice. “Not here.”
Stella’s eyes narrowed, and that gorgeous mouth flattened out into a suspicious line. “Are you sure I can’t call your brother or sister for you?”
“No.” Mac sat up and reached for his shirt. “They have enough to deal with right now.”
Her eyes softened. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Isn’t your family going to be angry that you didn’t call them?”
“Maybe.” Definitely. “But I’m not ready to deal with them.” Mac almost wished for the pain in his side to return.
“I can’t keep this from Brody, and you know he’ll tell Hannah.”
Mac sighed. Relationships interfered with subterfuge. “He will.”
“They care about you.”
“I know.” The tightness returned to Mac’s chest. “This isn’t about them. I’m the one with the problem. Our family history is complicated.”
“Aren’t they all?”
Mac hated the sadness that clouded her eyes, but every family had its issues. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow. I’m just not up for it tonight.”
“Fair enough.”
He reached for his stained shirt. Stella’s gaze drifted down over his torso. Female appreciation lit her eyes, and a lick of heat warmed Mac’s belly. As much as he wasn’t ready for an interrogation session with his siblings, for the first time in his memory, he didn’t want to be alone. “Give me a ride home, and I’ll tell you everything.”
A wry smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Deal.”
What would she think when he told her the truth?
Chapter Nine
Stella blinked and turned away as Mac tugged his shirt over his head. Staring at the man’s bare chest, no matter how fine, was beyond inappropriate.
It was, however, perfectly professional to be excited about the prospect of a real conversation with the mysterious Mac Barrett, one in which he did not spend every second evading her questions. She’d been exhausted when she’d left the Millers’ house, but the prospect of getting to know Mac better had energized her. A little caffeine would keep her going for a couple of hours, long enough to satisfy her curiosity. His family seemed to think he was scatterbrained, but Stella knew there was more to Mac than he allowed to show on the surface.
A nurse came in with discharge papers and a small prescription bottle. Mac ignored the bottle and shoved the folded papers in the back pocket of his cargo pants. As he headed for the door, Stella picked up the medicine.
“I won’t need those,” he said over his shoulder.
Stubborn man.
“But you’ll have them if you do.” She slipped the bottle into her pocket.
He was in front of her, so she felt rather than saw his amusement.
They left through the sliding doors. The rain h
ad stopped, but humidity hung in the air. Crickets chirped as they crossed the parking lot and climbed into her cruiser.
Stella started the engine. “When did you get in from Brazil?”
“Left Manaus yesterday. Flew into New York today.”
In the course of two days, he’d been shot, traveled from one hemisphere to another, lost his father, and crashed his car. How was he still conscious? Exhaustion was fuzzing Stella’s brain. She checked the dashboard clock. Nearly midnight. With Missy’s case turning into a homicide investigation and Dena Miller’s strange disappearance, Stella’s day had been long before she’d run into Mac.
“Do you have coffee at your place?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.” He eased the seat belt across his torso and clicked the latch. “Do you know were my Jeep was towed?”
“Probably to Thompson’s Garage. I’ll call in the morning.”
“Thanks. My phone and bags are still in it.”
At the edge of town, Stella pulled into a strip mall and went thru the drive-thru of a Dunkin’ Donuts. “Coffee?”
“Coffee would be great.”
Stella’s stomach rumbled, and she assumed Mac hadn’t eaten recently. “Food?”
“I’m OK.”
She added three sandwiches and a dozen donuts to the order. Even if he wasn’t hungry right this minute, she bet he would be soon. “Well, I’m starving.”
“Sounds like it.”
The cashier handed Stella the food, and she passed the bags and box to Mac. Back on the road, he directed her to the rural highway where he’d crashed. The only sign of his accident was a muddy path of bent weeds and a few broken pine trees.
She drove a mile farther and pointed to a turnoff on the right-hand side of the road. “I live down there, on the river.”
“We’re practically neighbors, though you live on the developed side of the road,” said Mac.
“I live with my grandfather. My sister and her three kids live there, too.”
“Sounds crowded.”
“I don’t mind. They’re family.” Stella took the coffee cup he handed her. “Morgan’s husband was killed in Iraq. She and the kids need us.”
“I’m sorry.” From a military family, Mac would understand.
“I wish I could help more, but I can’t grieve for them.” Sadness spread through Stella’s limbs, weighting them down.
“No, you can’t.” The news quieted Mac. He didn’t speak again until they’d driven another two miles. “Take the next left. Watch the mud. My lot is a little more rustic than yours.”
Stella had neighbors around the lake. Mac had no one close to him. She might be his closest neighbor.
She slowed the car. Her cruiser splashed and lurched down the rutted dirt lane. “Some road.”
“Keeps out the riffraff. I like it quiet.”
“You must.” Stella’s teeth snapped together as the car lurched through a lake-size puddle.
The narrow lane ended in a small clearing. Her headlights swept over a log cabin. Except for the beams of her headlights, the clearing was black as pitch. She could see the dark outline of a small outbuilding behind the cabin. “You really like your solitude.”
“I do.”
She fished her flashlight from her glove box, but Mac was already out of the car and striding into the darkness. Clicking on the flashlight, she followed him up onto a wooden porch. He dug keys out of the front pocket of his pants and opened the door.
The overhead light went on, illuminating a cozy but dusty combined kitchen and living area. The air was stuffy and hot. The scents of must and mildew tickled Stella’s nose. She sneezed.
“Sorry.” Setting the food on the kitchen table, he went to the kitchen window and wrestled it open. The wood groaned. “The place has been closed up for weeks.”
“No air-conditioning?”
“Nah.” He opened three windows in the living area. “I spend a lot of time in the jungle. I’m used to serious heat, and I like the sounds of the forest at night.”
Warm and humid air flooded the cabin, and the scent of pine freshened the room. Something moved in her peripheral vision. A gigantic brown spider skittered across the floor. Stella jumped sideways.
“There are always a few squatters when I get home from a trip.” Mac laughed. “Relax, he won’t hurt you. He’s probably terrified.”
“You could saddle that thing and ride it.” Stella didn’t take her eyes off the spider for fear that it would move out of sight, and then she wouldn’t know where it was. Somehow that would be worse than having it right in front of her. Goose bumps rose on her arms.
“Wolf spiders only bite if they feel threatened, and they eat a lot of other insects.” He picked up a magazine, scooped up the spider, and released it on the porch.
“They can balance the ecosystem outside.”
Mac contemplated the food. “Would you mind if I took a quick shower?”
Stella gestured toward the discharge papers he’d tossed onto the table. “You should read those. The doctor said you’re not supposed to get your stitches wet for forty-eight hours.”
He sighed. “I need a shower.”
“Do you have plastic wrap?”
“Probably.” He opened a kitchen drawer and seemed surprised to find some. He handed her the box.
“Take off your shirt.” She probably should have phrased that differently.
“Yes, ma’am.” Humor glinted in Mac’s clear blue eyes, but his movements were slow and careful as he eased the shirt over his head.
Stella refused to admire his impressive physique as she began to wind clear plastic around his ribs. Not one bit. Except maybe the hard ridges of his tanned twelve-pack. Eyes up.
“You’re pretty good at that.”
“My mother was an ER nurse, and my brother was a regular customer. He didn’t grasp the concepts of gravity or mortality until our dad died.” She walked around him, keeping the wrap snug and her gaze off his muscles. Mostly.
“When was that?”
“He’s been gone fifteen years.”
“Must have been hard.”
“Yes. I still miss him every day. Dad was a great guy. He was an NYPD detective. Killed in the line of duty.” Stella swallowed the grapefruit in her throat.
Mac tilted his head. “I bet he’d be proud of you.”
How did he know the exact question she’d asked herself every day since the shooting? Would her dad be disappointed that she’d missed the opportunity to stop a killer before he hurt more innocents?
“I hope so.” She tore off the plastic, smoothed it against his hard belly, and tucked in the tail. “That should keep the stitches dry if you’re careful.”
“I’m not a very careful man.” Mischief lit his eyes again.
“No kidding.” She stepped back and pointed to his bandage. “Keep the spray on your other side.”
He reached forward. Stella froze. Part of her wanted him to touch her very, very much. But her sanity questioned her judgment. This man had too many secrets.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, draped his bloodstained T-shirt over his shoulder, and sauntered down a hallway. A minute later, she heard more windows opening, then the rush of water through pipes.
She definitely needed air-conditioning.
Keeping one wary eye on the shadows, she popped the top off her coffee cup and sipped with gratitude. Her day had been long, and it didn’t appear as if she’d see her bed any time soon. The thought of bed brought Mac’s ripped body to mind, but the only things she would be eliciting from him tonight were answers.
Dust coated every surface in Mac’s little cabin. Stella unwrapped a chicken sandwich and ate it while she snooped. His fridge was empty except for condiments, and the cupboards contained only canned goods. Wildlife magazines were stacked on the counter. She picked up the latest issue, not the one covered in spider cooties. The mailing label read Dr. McClellan Barrett.
“Find anything int
eresting?”
Stella turned. Mac stood in the doorway, dressed in a soft blue shirt, unbuttoned over a pair of low-slung jeans. His damp, shaggy blond hair hung well past his ears, and he obviously hadn’t shaved for weeks. Holy hell, the man could work ruggedly handsome like nobody’s business.
She raised the magazine in her hand. “I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“I’m not.”
“You have a PhD.”
“Yes.” The admission seemed to embarrass him.
“Considering you had a troubled youth and likely didn’t spend much time on schoolwork in high school, your PhD is pretty impressive,” Stella said. “Is your real name really McClellan?”
He crossed the room. “It is. My father was a Civil War buff.”
“Hence your brothers, Grant and Lee.” Stella sipped her coffee. The caffeine was working its magic on her brain.
“Exactly.” He reached for a sandwich and ate it in three bites. “Where does Stella come from? That’s not a name you hear very often.”
“I was named after my grandmother.” She handed him another without a word. When he’d finished it, he went to work on three glazed donuts and downed half a cup of coffee. Once she was satisfied he wasn’t dying of hunger, Stella got down to business. “Now tell me about the woman you saw tonight.”
Mac wiped his mouth with a napkin, balled it up, and tossed it into a trash can in the corner. “I only saw her for a couple of seconds as my headlights hit her. The road was wet, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t have any option but to swerve into the trees.”
“Anything you can remember will help.”
Mac rested his forearms on the table and closed his eyes. “She was naked and sprawled on her back.” He opened his eyes. “I wasn’t close enough to see her face, but her body was thin. Her hair was short. Don’t know what color since it was wet. She wasn’t moving. At the time, I thought she was dead. But I suppose she wasn’t.” Confusion lowered his brow. “Unconscious maybe?”
A thin woman with short hair . . .
Dena Miller?
It couldn’t be.
Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 6
