Dead Calm. Lindsay Longford
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had to acknowledge. “And how tacky of me to bring up Christmas, huh, Sophie?” His fingers were cold against her flushed skin. “But I had to know. I would have bet a thousand dollars you’d forgotten. After all, hey, it’s been a year.”
“Really? You think you know me that well, Finnegan? How nervy can you get?” She jerked her head free.
“Pretty damn nervy when the occasion calls for it,” he said, tapping her with controlled ferocity on the chin. “But hell, yeah, sugar. You bet I’ve got your number. I think you put that episode with my partner out of your mind the minute you left the hospital last Christmas Eve. I wouldn’t have expected anything else, not from you. Not after the run-ins you and George had already had. You had it in for him from the get-go—”
“Never—”
“Sure you did. You and George were oil and water. Yeah, he was loud and crude. A jerk sometimes. But that night, hell. That night the patient was more than just another drunk who’d screwed up on Christmas Eve.” He leaned forward until his face was all she could see. “That night you couldn’t wait to run the blood test. Because it was George. Because he bugged you. Because he was mouthy and vulgar. You prissed up like a prune every time he came within five feet of you. It was George. It was personal.”
“No!”
“Shoot, sugar, your little butt was just quivering with righteousness. I thought you were going to cheer when the test proved Roberts was DUI.”
“He wrecked his cop car. He hit a light pole with the squad car, for God’s sake. He was lucky—” She stopped, appalled, wishing she could take the words back.
“You think he was lucky?” Finnegan smiled, a smile as bitter as any she’d ever seen. “Yeah, Roberts was lucky that the suits would probably let him ride the desk for the last three months before his retirement. Sure, he was going to be disgraced, demoted. His pension cut. Hell, you’re right. He was lucky.” He paused, and then, as smoothly as a surgeon’s scalpel, he added, “Personally, I never could figure out what the big deal was. Sure didn’t seem to me like he had any reason to go home that night and eat his gun.”
Instruments clattered on the tray she held.
“Or didn’t you know what happened to Sgt. George Roberts?”
“I read about his suicide in the Herald the next day.”
“And what did you think, when you read that bit of news? Anything? Feel bad about how you’d handled things? Wished you’d done anything different?”
“What I felt or didn’t feel isn’t any of your business. I did what had to be done.”
“Did you?” Soft, soft the accusation.
“You bet I did.” She’d walk across glass before she’d let him inside her soul to know how she felt about that night. Any doubts or second thoughts were hers and hers alone.
“Now get out of the rest of your suit, Detective. I can’t stitch you up like this.”
“Oh? I thought you could do anything. I thought you knew everything. You sure seemed damned certain you knew best last year. No doubts. No hesitation. Just a ‘gotcha’ for George.”
In the face of his bitterness, Sophie fell like a drowning woman on the raft of professional competence. She motioned to the green suture kit. “I’m going to numb the area before I sew you up.”
“Why bother?” With his free hand, he jerked apart the Velcro tabs along the front of his Santa suit. “Just more needle sticks.” Shark-like, his teeth flashed as he shrugged off the padded belly and jacket, letting them fall in a blood-red pile on the floor. “Besides, you might enjoy it too much.”
“I might.” She saw the rest of the old scar that curved down over his ribs and flat stomach to the tight semi-circle of his navel. “But I’m the doctor and you’re the patient. Guess you’ll have to trust me, won’t you?” She smiled in return, a smile as controlled and taunting as his had been. But her stomach twisted in knots.
“Trust you, Sophie? Lord, that prospect makes me shake in my boots. But stitch away. If you can stand it, I can.” He winced as she dabbed cold antiseptic along the line of the wound. “But hurry up. I have to get back to a stakeout.”
“Right,” she said, her grim face reflected back to her from the shine of the table. “Right. Whatever you want, Detective.”
She bent forward, and as she did, he whispered into the curve of her ear, his warm breath sliding around the rim and curling deep inside her. “In case you were wondering, Dr. Sugar, I’ve already filled out the police report. This was a job-related injury.” Contempt lifted the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have to worry that I’m getting away with anything.”
For a moment she paused. There were things she could say, should say. She wouldn’t. He was her patient. She’d give him the same care she gave everyone. The same care she’d given his partner last Christmas Eve. She could do that. And then he’d be gone.
She stitched. Silently. She didn’t trust her unruly tongue.
And the entire time she felt the burn of his eyes on the back of her neck as she bent to her task. Doggedly she moved the curved needle through his skin and wondered why in the name of all things good, Judah Finnegan had landed in her ER tonight.
She dressed the wound. Silently.
But even as her brain registered the animosity that rose like shimmers of heat from him, she was aware, too, at a tactile level, of his sleek skin and the supple muscles beneath it. Aware of the heavy stillness between them, a stillness and silence that would take only a movement, a word to turn into something…reckless.
She smoothed down the last piece of tape and took a deep breath. Almost home free.
As if she’d spoken aloud, Finnegan moved suddenly, his thigh brushing her hip.
She stepped back, a shade too quickly, but he remained seated.
“Done.” She handed him the list of instructions. “I need to go over these with you. One of the nurses will explain—”
The curtain flew open behind Sophie. She turned, relieved. “Oh, good, here’s—”
“Dr. Brennan!” Cammie stood there, the chubby shine of her face flattened with tension.
Just over Cammie’s shoulder Sophie glimpsed Billy Ray’s ponytail swinging against the back of his shirt as he hovered in the hall.
“Room 4. Code Blue.”
The beating victim.
There would be no miracles tonight.
Sophie dropped the instructions on the examining table, shoved her pen into her pocket, and pointed a finger at Finnegan. “You. Sit. Stay!” Her coat billowed around her as she ran to catch up with Cammie, who’d already disappeared.
The muttered “woof” behind her didn’t even slow her steps.
Finnegan eased off the table. He watched her race down the hall, her shoes jingling.
Sophie’s curly hair bounced wildly against her white medical jacket. Dark brown with the glow of fire. Not red exactly but not brown either. There was a word for it. Russet. Yeah. That was it. The gray material of her skirt bunched and pulled against the length of her thighs as she darted between oncoming techs, hands out, warning them out of her way.
Long, smooth-muscled thighs.
His fingers curled around the curtain. When she’d leaned in close to him, she’d smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin.
And antiseptic.
In a full-out run behind her, a tech followed with a crash cart.
Electricity buzzed along his skin. Whatever was happening was bad. He understood that sudden crackle in the air—like ozone before a storm. He’d smelled