Dead Calm. Lindsay Longford
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the stink of liquor, his skin smelled clean, confusing her. He smelled way too good for her peace of mind. Too clean and fresh for a sloppy drunk. Sophie touched the edges of the wound, checking the depth. “Your drinking buddies roll you?”
“I was careless.”
Probing gently now, she cleaned the last of the blood away. “Stupid, more likely.”
“Yeah. Probably that, too.” His hard-edged eyes flashed her way. “But mostly careless.”
“Too bad. Carelessness causes a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll make sure I write that down so that I don’t forget. Next time.”
She looked up at him. “Hey, Claus, do the ER a favor and make sure there isn’t a next time? Save us all a lot of time?”
Even masked by the scruff of beard, his mouth was tight with resentment.
But his eyes followed her every movement. “Filled with sympathy and compassion, aren’t you?”
“For those who need it? You betcha.” She glared back at him for a long second before returning to her work. The sharp edge of contempt in his eyes bothered her, but she wasn’t sure why. What she did know was that he was ticking her off. And once more that disturbing sense that she was missing something here peeked out of the shadows. “You want to know if I have compassion, buster? Sympathy? Up to here.” Head down, she motioned to her chin. “But you? You’re a waste of my time, you and all the other bozos who make messes because you’re careless or just looking for a good time. I have to do the clean-up after you’ve had your fun. And sometimes, Claus,” she poked him in the chest, “sometimes I get damned tired of deliberate self-destruction. I don’t have the patience for it. There are people out there,” she gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the curtain, “people with real problems, problems they haven’t caused, and you’ve just created a paper-producing, time-consuming mess that I’m not in the mood to deal with.” She slapped the irrigation needle and bottle down on the tray. “Not tonight.”
“Long speech. It’s a wonder you didn’t pop a gasket holding all those words in this long.”
“No speech. Telling it like it is.” Finished with the irrigation, she yanked the edge of the beard around his jaw. “Beard’s got to go, Claus. I can’t stitch the wound with this mess dangling in the way.”
He turned. His face was suddenly too close, his warm, coffee-scented breath mingling with hers, the strands of his beard tangling with her hair. He reached up, those long fingers separating the commingled strands, and his palm brushed against her cheek, lightly, accidentally.
Then, as if he weren’t aware of his movement, as if his fingers moved with an unwanted will of their own, he tucked her hair behind her ear, a curiously personal touch that rippled all the way down her body to her toes, curling them in her damp green socks.
She blinked.
He frowned, dropped his hand.
Sophie spun to her feet. The stool wobbled and rolled away, careened into the wall. Like a crazed horse, her blood leapt and bolted through her veins.
Behind her, Santa cleared his throat.
Snapping open the supply cabinet, she pulled out cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol. As if it had a memory of its own, her ear still tingled where he’d touched. She stared blindly at the objects in her hands.
Coffee-fragrant? No smell of liquor on his breath? Alcohol stink only on his clothes?
She glanced back over her shoulder. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. Drifting shut, but focused.
That didn’t fit either.
Caught up in her irritation, she’d missed that sharpness.
And there was that damned, niggling sense that she should know him.
Not wanting to look at him, not wanting to be stranded in the unsettling ocean of his gaze, she pivoted and began pulling at the sticky edges of his beard, lifting it from his neck. She rubbed the alcohol-dampened swabs along his jawline, working swiftly, loosening the glued-on beard until it fell free.
And all the while her hands skimmed along his jaw and chin, she thought about the contradictions and that warm, intimate scent of him.
Tossing the blood-soaked mass of beard and swabs into the waste container, she turned and saw his face, fully, for the first time.
“Nice bedside manner, Dr. Brennan.” Santa was motionless.
“Oh, hell.”
His face was one of those southern Florida faces she’d come to recognize, long, all bones and angles. His blue eyes watched her carefully now, eyes she really, really should have recognized staring at her from a face that had given her sleepless nights for months.
“Swell to see you haven’t lost your gentle touch,” he said.
Not a drunken bum after all.
“Why didn’t you say something as soon as I walked in?” Her throat was tight, squeezing shut.
“My name’s on the chart. You should have seen it. I wondered if you knew who I was.”
“I didn’t look at the name. Detective Finnegan.” A sigh, the name slipped out as she stared at him.
“Yeah. Me. In the flesh. Alive and well. Disappointed, Sophie?” A flame that burned cold, challenge flickered in his chilly eyes.
After that first appalled glance, she couldn’t look at him. Still, she was proud of herself. Her hand didn’t tremble. She hadn’t flinched. But Finnegan would have heard a thousand things in the sound of his name. Even during their short time together a year ago, his ability to analyze every little bit of body language and nuance of voice had astonished her. Even then, even under the awful circumstances that came later.
On that disastrous Christmas Eve that changed everything between them.
Oh, yes, even then Detective Finnegan had been good at reading between the lines.
Both hands bracing him on the table, he leaned closer, so close that it was all she could do not to lean back as he murmured, “I didn’t know you were on duty, Doctor.”
She wouldn’t move an inch. Not for Finnegan, she wouldn’t. Not for anything he threw her way. “Why? You would have gone to a different hospital?”
“Hell, yeah. I don’t care if this is the only hospital in the county. If I’d known you were working ER tonight, I would have driven myself one-handed down to Sarasota instead of coming here. But here I am. And here you are. Fate’s a bitch sometimes, isn’t she?” His thin mouth tightened. “So, Dr. Brennan’s on duty the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Where else would I be?” She made the mistake of looking up.
“At Home Depot? Picking out a tree?” The tubing lifted with his shrug. “And if I’d had the least bit of luck tonight, another town? Another state?”
With jerky movements, she lifted the suture tray from the counter and placed it near the stretcher. Damn Judah Finnegan. Taking a deep, steadying breath she faced him, her smile as false as the tatty fur on his Santa suit. “I’m needed here.” In spite of herself, that year-old pain spilled out. “Besides, you look as though you’ve done enough celebrating tonight for both of us.”
“Appearances to the contrary, I don’t do trees, Christmas, or jolly.” Aggression radiated from every line of his long torso. “I’m not really a holiday kind of guy.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. Not under the circumstances.” She tightened her mouth and stared down at the suddenly foreign needles and antiseptic, a fine tremble now vibrating from her to the plastic tray.
“No, not under the circumstances.”
“But time passes. Things change. People change.