by Lisa Childs
“He discovered he’s only human,” she told the doctor. “He’s still bleeding, and I think he’s gotten an infection. I can hang an IV of antibiotics and plasma.”
The doctor nodded. “You do that,” he agreed. Some of the residents refused to listen to nurses because they didn’t respect them. Others relied on them too much. This resident tended toward the latter. “I’ll get over to check the stitches as soon as I can. We’re busy as hell.”
That was often what they called the ER: hell.
“This is a bad idea,” Clint whispered as he kept glancing around the overcrowded area. But he followed as she led him to a gurney.
“Take off your shirt,” she told him.
That was a bad idea, too. Seeing him without his shirt did something to her, like give her amnesia, because she forgot all about their past and focused only on the present and how damn sexy he was.
He was careful when he removed the jacket he wore over the shirt, taking the holster with it. He sat it next to him on the gurney, so the weapon was within reach. She didn’t believe he would actually need it, though.
Not here.
Then he took off the shirt.
And she had to remind herself—not here. She couldn’t climb all over him here. But then she forced her gaze from his muscular chest to his shoulder.
The bandage was completely saturated, blood streaking beneath it to trail down the heavy muscles in his arm. She removed the bandage slowly and carefully, so that she wouldn’t tug loose any of the stitches, but they were already loose, the skin swollen and red. It wasn’t just red. Along with the blood, the pus of infection oozed from the wound, just as she’d feared.
She rushed around, grabbing an IV stand and putting in an order for the fluids.
Clint glanced uneasily at his nasty-looking shoulder. “Is it bad?”
“It’s not good,” the resident said as he joined them. “Guess you aren’t a superhero.” He didn’t sound all that disillusioned, though. “Good call,” he told Rosie, “bringing him back. Who knows what that infection could become.”
He turned to Clint then. “You’ll need to stay here for a while for the IV antibiotics.”
“I’m not checking in.”
“Hell, no,” the resident agreed. “We don’t have the beds. But this gurney will be yours for a few hours. You’re lucky you have connections, or you’d be bleeding out in the waiting room with the others.”
A nurse called out to him from behind a curtain.
“I’ll be right back to redo the stitches,” he said as he rushed off.
Rosie had automatically donned gloves before reaching for Clint’s arm. But as her fingers touched his skin, even through the latex, she was aware that this was him. His skin, his body...
Her fingers trembled slightly tapping at his vein before piercing it with a needle. Despite her uncharacteristic clumsiness, he didn’t even flinch. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“Figured you owe me,” he said.
She knew now that he blamed himself as much for Javier’s death as she did. Maybe more.
She hooked the IV into the needle. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t be worried about you.” Someone called out for her, but before she could move away, Clint caught her hand.
“We can’t stay here,” he said.
“You have to,” she reminded him. “You need these antibiotics.”
He had his hand on the IV line as if he were about to tug it out. “I don’t like drugs.”
“These aren’t those kind of drugs,” she assured him. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m worried about you.”
She gestured at the area around them. “I’ll be right here,” she said. “You’ll be able to see me and see that I’m fine.” She didn’t wait for him to agree, just rushed off to the other nurse who’d called out to her.
“That man of yours is fine,” the woman remarked with a whistle of appreciation as she gazed over at the bare-chested bodyguard.
That was all he was to Rosie. Just a bodyguard. Not her boyfriend. Rosie had to remind herself of that—repeatedly—as she caught glimpses of him as she moved around the ER, helping treat patients.
He was seething. She could feel his anger across the space separating them. And maybe that was why he was angry—because she didn’t come close to him again.
She didn’t dare. For one, he would want her to leave. For another, he was too damn good looking, and she couldn’t be near him and not want him. So while he was being treated, she kept busy.
Her heart pounded fast and hard just from knowing Clint was in the same area and that he was watching her. She pulled back the curtain around the next gurney and found a teenager sitting alone in the space. His shirt was torn and streaked with blood. She looked around for the ER laptop to pull up his intake information.
Had he been in a car accident?
A fight?
“Are you alone?” she asked him. So many kids came in without parents—because they didn’t have parents who cared, like her and Javier.
And Clint.
“Are you alone?” he asked her.
She smiled. She was used to the defensiveness. That was how you survived the streets around here; you acted tough, tougher than you really were.
But then he continued, “Or is your damn bodyguard with you?”
She knew, even before he pulled the knife on her, that this was no patient. He was one of Luther’s crew—sent to kill her.
Clint had been right. It was too dangerous for her to come to the hospital. But she was afraid she would never get the chance to tell him he’d been right.
He would know when he found her body. And then he would blame himself just like he did for Javier’s death.
* * *
Rosie had lied to him. Clint couldn’t see her. She kept disappearing behind those thick vinyl curtains, like she just had again. All Clint could see were her tennis shoes beneath it. So he noticed as she took a quick step back and then stumbled forward as if someone was jerking her around. Or fighting with her.
He hadn’t been able to see who was behind that curtain with her. She’d barely pulled it back before slipping behind it. She was so damn concerned about everyone’s privacy when she needed to be concerned about protecting herself.
No. Clint was supposed to do that. But he couldn’t when he couldn’t even see her. Or whatever the threat might be against her.
Anyone could be behind that curtain with her. Clint should have never let her out of his sight. Hell, he never should have agreed to come to the hospital in the first place—no matter how bad he’d started feeling.
He felt better now, though. Stronger.
He pulled the IV from his arm, pulled his shirt over his head and his freshly bandaged shoulder. Then he grabbed his coat, so that his hand was on the holster and his weapon.
He had a feeling he was going to need it.
* * *
“How the hell did you let him just slip out?” Parker demanded to know from the guards standing around the empty safe house.
He’d had a feeling—that damn Payne gut feeling—that Clint would ignore his orders. So Parker had shown up to check it out for himself. And he’d found the safe house empty and one of the SUVs gone.
Cole Bentler shook his head. “I didn’t think he’d give us the slip. He’s supposed to be protecting her, right? Why the hell would he take her out of the safe house?”
Parker cursed. “Because he thought she was in danger here.”
Parker never should have called him about the tail Landon had picked up. But maybe Clint would have left anyway. He’d been after Luther Mills so long that he knew how the drug lord operated.
Those he couldn’t buy, Luther either intimidated or killed. It would have been stupid to believe that Luther hadn’t found out where Rosie was.
; Once he knew where the witness was, Luther wouldn’t hesitate to have her eliminated. Because of the size of the organization he ran, Luther would have enough manpower to take on even the Payne Protection Agency.
Maybe Clint had been smart to get Rosie out of here. But did he have a safer place to take her?
Would any place be safe from Luther Mills?
Chapter 10
The kid looked as scared as Rosie was. He was breathing hard, and his dark eyes were wild.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said, and hoped like hell that she was right.
But if he did want to kill her, he would have plunged that knife into her heart the minute she stepped behind the curtain with him. Instead he’d nearly let her slip away from him.
Before she could get away, though, he’d caught her. He grasped her wrist tightly now in one hand, which was clammy against her skin. If his other hand was sweaty, it didn’t show in how steadily he gripped the knife in it. The blade was long and so shiny that it had to be sharp. And it was close to her now.
If she tried to break away from him again, she had no doubt that he would slash her with that blade.
Not just his hand was sweating. Sweat beaded on his lip and streaked down his temples from his forehead. He was probably as scared as she was.
And she was pretty damn scared, her heart beating furiously in her chest.
“You don’t have to do this,” she told him.
He shook his head. “I don’t have a choice, lady.”
And she knew. He wasn’t here because of money. He hadn’t been paid to kill her. He had been coerced into doing this. Either his life had been threatened or the life of someone the kid cared about—like Javier had cared about her and she him.
Was that how Luther had gotten Javier to sell for him? They had never really talked about it. She had refused to believe he would work for Luther after she’d tried so hard to keep him away from drugs and most especially from the drug dealer. She had preferred to believe that Clint framed him—even though Javier had apologized to her.
Why would he have apologized if he’d been framed? She’d known the truth; she just hadn’t wanted to face it.
That was becoming a dangerous habit for her. Because she’d known that Clint was right. She shouldn’t have come here. And now she might lose her life because of her stubbornness.
She wasn’t giving up on herself or on this kid. Maybe she could reach him.
“Who is it?” she asked. “Who is Luther threatening to hurt if you don’t kill me?”
The boy’s eyes grew wilder with fear, as if just her saying that would endanger whoever he cared about.
“I can get you help to protect whoever it is,” she offered him.
Clint would help.
But would he be able to help her before this kid got up the courage to swing that knife? Or would he be too late?
The kid’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Wanting to help me? I gotta kill you, lady. That’s the order.” And now he lifted that blade toward her throat.
She needed to fight. To scream. To do something.
Or she would let down herself and most of all, she would let down Javier. He deserved justice, so she needed to testify against his killer. She needed to make certain that Luther went to prison the rest of his life for Javier’s murder.
She was just opening her mouth to scream when the thick vinyl curtain ripped—torn loose from the metal track holding it up.
Both she and the kid gasped as Clint stepped into the space with them, his gun in his hand. “Let her go,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Your bodyguard is here,” the kid said as if she’d lied to him or betrayed him.
She’d never told him that Clint wasn’t there. She just hadn’t realized how closely he’d been watching her. But she should have known.
The kid had slipped closer to her now, and that sharp blade was pressed against her throat.
Rosie felt the sharpness as the blade pricked her skin. She held her breath, scared that any movement, even breathing, would cause that blade to sink deeper and cut the artery in her neck.
“Don’t come any closer, hero,” he warned Clint. “Or you’ll just watch her die.”
A muscle twitched in Clint’s cheek, above his tightly clenched jaw. But he didn’t move, not even to lower the gun he pointed at the kid.
“Lady, where’s the back way outta here?” the kid asked.
“There isn’t one,” she lied. But then she felt the knife nick her skin, and she cried out.
“Don’t lie to me!” he yelled, and in his anger, he gripped the knife a little more tightly against her throat.
The cut deepened so that she felt a trickle of blood. If it went any deeper that trickle would become a gush.
“You took your bodyguard out the back way last night,” he said.
So this was one of the kids who’d been here the night before—one of the ones that Clint had suspected worked for Luther. He hadn’t been wrong. She had.
About so many things...
“I’m sorry,” she said. But it wasn’t really the kid to whom she was apologizing.
“Take me there,” the kid told her. “Get me the hell away from this guy.”
He must not have liked the way Clint was staring at him so intently. Despite the sweat that nearly dripped from him now, he shivered.
And so did Rosie.
She knew what Clint wanted her to do, what she had to do.
“Sure, sure,” she said. “I’ll take you there, but I can’t walk with that blade against my throat.” She reached her arm up, closing her hand around the kid’s wrist. He had already begun to lower the knife as she jerked it farther away from her throat.
Then she heard the gun blast, which was deafening and close. So close that she felt the rush of air as the bullet whizzed past her face and struck the kid’s shoulder. The knife slipped free of his loosened grasp and clattered to the floor. Then the kid dropped to it as well.
Rosie screamed—in surprise at it all more than in fear. Instinct had her dropping to her knees next to the kid to assess his wound. How badly was he hurt?
Had Clint taken his life in order to save hers?
* * *
Clint picked up the knife. The sharp blade was smeared with blood. Rosie’s blood. She was lucky to be alive. But she might not stay that way.
He reached for her arm, trying to pull her up from the floor. “We have to get out of here.”
He doubted the kid was alone. He hadn’t been the night before. There had been at least one other kid with him. Maybe even more of Luther’s crew in the rest of the hospital or the parking lot.
“C’mon,” Clint urged her. “You know Luther didn’t send just this one kid after you. There is more of his crew here.” Just waiting to finish what the kid had started.
She ignored Clint as she gestured for help. “He has a GSW,” she called out to the rest of the staff, as if they hadn’t heard the shot, as if they weren’t standing around—their faces white—as they had watched it all play out.
They were frozen with fear—until finally the young resident moved, dropping to his knees beside Rosie. “Badass,” he murmured again like he had the night before.
But Clint suspected the young man was talking about Rosie now, instead of him. She was badass.
If she hadn’t gotten that knife away from her throat, she would have died. Clint wouldn’t have been able to get the shot without the kid cutting her carotid artery.
The rest of the staff finally mobilized and rushed forward to help the kid. And the security guard, the same one from the night before—the retired cop—came up to Clint with his gun drawn. Where had he been when Clint needed backup?
Of course, he could have been there, and Clint might not have noticed. He’d been totally focused on that kni
fe pressed so tightly to Rosie’s throat.
The security guard held out his other hand for Clint’s weapon. But Clint shook his head and grasped it tightly as he glanced around the busy ER.
“There must be others,” he warned the guard. “You need to lock the place down, make sure nobody leaves.” He could only hope that the other members of Luther’s crew would leave instead of trying for Rosie themselves.
He wasn’t sure the security staff would be much backup if Luther sent in a firing squad the size of the one he’d sent to her apartment. Clint had been right to not want to bring her to the hospital.
“Call the police,” Clint said.
“You’re the police,” the guard said, no doubt believing that Clint was still with the River City PD.
But now he shook his head. “Not anymore. I’m private security for the Payne Protection Agency.”
The guard reached for his gun again. “Then I need to take that.”
Clint held tight to his weapon and to the knife. “I’m on special assignment for the chief of police. Call Woodrow Lynch’s office.”
The guard’s face flushed. “Yeah, right, like the chief would take my call.”
“Tell him you’re calling for me,” he said. “Clint Quarters.” He turned away from the guard to focus on Rosie. But she was gone.
Only a puddle of blood lay on the floor where the kid had fallen. That and something else...
He stepped closer to see what it was. He’d already picked up the knife. Now he picked up a cell phone. It wasn’t Rosie’s. She’d stowed hers in her purse and her purse in her locker when they had first arrived.
Where the hell was she?
While he’d been arguing with the guard, Rosie must have slipped away with the others who’d wheeled off the gurney with the kid on it. But where had she gone?
She wasn’t a surgical nurse, if that was where they were taking the kid. And she wouldn’t be responsible for taking him to the morgue, either. Not that Clint believed that gunshot wound would kill him.
