After dumping the contents on to the comforter, she dug out her dad’s picture. She’d considered the frame too small and thin to be able to hide anything, but what did she know? She didn’t exactly have a subscription to Spy Magazine Weekly.
The frame was wooden, but not expensive, and the seams were attached with heavy, sharp staples. She pried them apart and searched every inch of the frame. Nothing. Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled her pent-up breath. No telltale spy chips. No sign of tampering.
She pressed the frame back together as best she could. The pieces didn’t quite match up after the abuse. She’d buy a new one when everything settled down. At least one thing hadn’t gone wrong today. She didn’t want to have that conversation with Corbin.
Oh, sorry, it was my fault we were being chased all along. No hard feelings, right?
Corbin.
The stubborn idiot.
There was no way he could bandage the arm on his own. She had a feeling he was testing her. Seeing what she’d do. Would she contact someone? Would she run? It would serve him right if she disappeared into the night. But she was staying. She’d made her decision.
He wasn’t going to ask for her help. She had to take matters into her own hands.
“Let me in.” She knocked on the adjoining door, and called, “You can’t reach that shoulder by yourself.”
“Go to sleep, Beth,” came the muted reply.
She paced before the closed door and grumbled. He’d bleed to death rather than admit he needed help. She sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs, then crossed her arms. She flexed the ankle of her dangling foot a few times before springing to her feet.
She took the stairs two at a time and retrieved another key card from the sharp-eyed desk clerk. A benefit of being the one who’d checked them in earlier, both rooms were under her assumed name. Returning to their adjoining suites, she knocked gently on his door.
When he didn’t answer, she used the key card.
Keeping one eye squinted, she peered around the edge of the door.
“I hope you’re decent,” she called quietly.
Corbin glared at her from his seat on the nearest double bed. A five o’clock shadow darkened his chin, and the bruise on his jaw had swelled and turned purple. He’d yanked his shirt sleeve over his shoulder and held a square of gauze against the wound. Deep red blood seeped through the cracks in his fingers.
She tsked. “You started the bleeding again, didn’t you?”
His vivid blue eyes drooped to red slits. “It’s better than it looks.”
“I’m going to get some ice for that chin.” She stepped through the doorway and grasped the plastic-lined ice bucket from the side table. “Don’t bleed to death before I get back.”
He scowled in reply.
She returned a short time later and pressed the makeshift ice pack against his jaw.
He covered her hand with his, holding the bag in place, and offered a reluctant, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She brushed aside a dark lock of hair trapped beneath the frame of his glasses. The strands were surprisingly soft, and her fingers lingered. Though she doubted he’d ever admit as much, he was exhausted. “You really should engage the slide bolt when you’re in a hotel room. You never know what sort of people are lurking around the corridors.”
“I wasn’t worried.” He grunted. “I figured you’d be long gone by now.”
She snatched her hand away.
He had been testing her. “Then why do you look annoyed that I’m still here, instead of relieved?”
“Because you should be getting some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
They were both exhausted and cranky—an ominous combination. She should have let him bleed out alone. But there was more than one stubborn person in the room.
“After you slammed the door in my face, I considered doing just that.” Guilt tripped along her nerve endings. “Except I didn’t trust you to take care of that wound alone.”
There was nothing stopping her from leaving, and despite the parking garage, she hadn’t ruled out Corbin as the one being tracked. Even with her misgivings, she couldn’t fathom abandoning him when he was injured.
The supplies they’d purchased earlier were strewn over the harvest-gold flocked bedspread. Bandages, gauze and butterfly strips were set alongside antibacterial ointment.
She tore open one of the boxes. “Lie down.”
He peeled the gauze aside, and she caught her first real look at the damage inflicted by the gunshot.
Blinking rapidly, she kept her expression carefully neutral. The wound was two inches long and ugly, the edges jagged. A crimson-soaked towel rested on the bed beside him. Her stomach pitched, and she took a deep, calming breath through her nose.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple worked. “Not much.”
“Men,” she muttered. “You said this was a scratch.”
“It is.”
She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, and he flinched away. She held up her arms in a placating gesture. “Easy there, superhero. I’m just checking to see if you’re running a fever. You don’t feel warm. That’s something.”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “It’s been a long day.”
“You’re telling me.” She gently nudged him, being careful to avoid the wound, and gestured toward the pillow. “This will go much faster and easier if you don’t argue with me.”
Their gazes met and clashed, and they engaged in a silent war of wills. He was bigger and stronger, and she had no authority over him. She sensed he was accustomed to giving the orders, and not receiving them. So was she. After a long moment, his expression softened.
“Fine,” he said, his voice hoarse—almost pained. “But make it quick. It doesn’t have to be pretty. We both need sleep.”
She offered a half grin. “Yes, sir.”
He rested his head against his pillow and tucked his fingers under his cheek, then lifted his legs on to the coverlet. He used his right hand to hold the ice pack against his jaw. She sat and adjusted the light before leaning in.
He appeared younger, almost boyish, and her heart went out to him. What was he like as a child? What forces had shaped him? As much as he played the tough guy, he was never overbearing or forceful. He’d even apologized at the train station for pretending to be her boyfriend. He’d only been trying to warn her. How could she fault him for trying to save her life?
She was grateful he’d been thinking on his feet. He’d been focused on her safety even though she was technically in his custody. Were it not for his quick action, things might have gone very differently for her.
She owed him. Whatever happened in the future, they were compelled to work together now. They might as well make the best of it.
“You really need stitches,” she said. “I can pull the edges together, but you’re going to have a scar.”
His strained face was set against the pain he was experiencing. “Won’t be the first. Let’s just get this over with.”
She dabbed a pad soaked with antibacterial ointment around the edges of the wound. “This is going to hurt.”
“Yep.”
“I thought the Feds were morning people,” she cajoled.
“It’s not morning, it’s the middle of the night.” He hissed, his lips tightening across his teeth. “I seem to recall someone else saying that.”
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” His expression was pinched, and she sympathized with his predicament. “You really need a doctor and not an accountant with a first aid badge from summer camp.”
“That’s better than nothing.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand. “I thought you were a forensic accountant.”
She
caught herself staring and glanced away. She’d never seen him without his glasses. While some people might prefer his looks this way, unimpeded, she liked the glasses.
Her heart did a little zigzag in her chest. She liked the handsome, Clark Kent appeal.
After donning the disposable gloves, she cleaned the wound with the supplies she’d bought, then used the butterfly bandages to hold the edges together. He must despise being out of control and dependent, but he remained silent during her ministrations, barely flinching.
She carefully washed the area around the wound in small circles, then rinsed and patted his skin dry with a fresh towel.
“I have a confession,” she said, smiling.
He seemed to read the amusement in her eyes. “What’s that?”
“I exaggerated my summer camp merit badge.”
“How so?”
“The badge was for first aid rendered to a stuffed animal. I administered aid to my teddy bear.”
“Did he survive?”
“To a ripe old age.”
“Then you earned your badge.”
She’d never been a particularly nurturing person. Maybe because she’d been raised by her dad, or maybe it was just her inherent personality. Either way, she’d never been one to bandage up her dolls as a child. She’d been more interested in reading. Yet caring for Corbin was invoking feelings she’d never experienced before.
As she smoothed the bandage, she caught sight of a scar slashing across his forearm.
She touched the spot. “What’s this from?”
He observed her from lowered lids as her fingers paused. Goose bumps pebbled his arm.
“Shrapnel,” he said without elaborating.
She’d been around enough cops growing up to know there were all kinds of heroes. Willing and unwilling, tragic and flawed. There were braggarts and loners. Even if he’d rescued a classroom full of small children and a litter of puppies from a burning building, she had no doubt he’d downplay the tale. There was an inherent protectiveness about him.
She’d watched him over the past two weeks, and there were certain qualities that stood out. While she realized he’d been acting, no one could change their nature entirely. There was an unconscious selflessness about him. An automatic need to look out for those around him. She’d seen this character trait during meetings, and she’d seen him in action when danger swirled around them.
Her hands fidgeted with the bedspread. “When I asked before, you said that you served in the military.”
“Yep.”
“Special Forces?”
“Something like that.”
“Humph.” She perched next to him, stretched out her legs and flexed her feet. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a wonderful conversationalist?”
He set the ice pack on the nightstand. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head was bent, and he braced his hands against the mattress. She made a point of gathering the supplies, her gaze averted.
She was pestering him, but she didn’t see the harm. He’d investigated her, after all. It was only fair, considering the circumstances, that she knew a little bit more about him.
Shouldn’t she be allowed some information about the man who held her life in his hands? The only thing that had been standing between her and certain death at that train station had been Corbin. She’d have walked right into the arms of that goon if he hadn’t been there to stop her.
“You can’t blame me for being curious.” She heaved a sigh. “It’s nearly three in the morning. I’ve been shot at and nearly kidnapped. Twice. I’m exhausted, but I don’t feel like I can sleep. I haven’t been up this late since I was cramming for tests as an undergraduate.”
She’d reached that odd state of exhaustion where she felt as though she’d tipped over a precipice. Her thoughts were fuzzy and unfocused, ricocheting around her head. The tension of the past few weeks had left her drained and mentally weak. She wanted a friend. She wanted someone to confide in. She wanted to talk to her dad.
She missed being completely authentic with someone. In all friendships, everyone played a role, and she’d always been the boring, responsible friend. When everyone else was acting crazy around her, she’d felt as though she was oil floating on water. She’d see their drama, but she was never pulled in. Now she was caught in a hurricane, and she couldn’t slow down long enough to catch her bearings.
“You’ve been through a lot today,” Corbin said. “It’s understandable. The adrenaline is still wearing off for me, too. You’ll sleep for a week when this is all over. Trust me, exhaustion has a way of catching up with you when you least expect it.”
He spoke like someone who was intimately familiar with the effects, and she suddenly understood why friendships forged under tense circumstances were the friends one kept for life. Bonds formed under stress were durable. Tested.
The room suddenly became too small, and the air too close. “At least the shot didn’t graze your other arm,” she said with a weary smile. “Karli, from accounting, would be devastated if anything happened to that tattoo.” Keeping her gaze averted, she gathered the garbage into the discarded plastic bag. He’d tossed his suit jacket on the bed, and she touched the torn sleeve, instantly yanked back to the moment on the platform. “I was terrified when I heard that gunshot.”
The words seemed to trigger a relaxing of her guard against the fear and shock, and she fought against weakening. She desperately needed those defenses in place if she was going to survive the next few days.
“You were supposed to be running in the opposite direction,” he said pointedly.
The shaking began again, like it had earlier in the car. Or was it yesterday? She’d lost all track of time and place. Her body seemed to have a will of its own.
To cover her reaction, she said, “It’s a good thing I didn’t run.”
She’d taken control of the situation. When she’d seen Corbin on the ground, seen the man reaching for the gun, she’d known she had to act. A violent shudder traveled all the way down her body.
She was tired of being scared. She wanted another emotion. Anger. Frustration. Joy. Anything but this constant dread.
They sat side by side, though not touching, and warmth radiated from his body. Her gaze lingered on his lips, and her pulse thrummed.
For a moment she thought he swayed toward her.
Butterflies floated in her stomach. She jolted to her feet.
What was she doing? She barely knew him. She’d worked with him for two weeks, and she didn’t know which parts of his personality were the truth, and which parts were a lie.
Corbin coughed quietly and sat up straighter. The moment had passed. Instead of feeling relieved, she felt vaguely empty. As though she’d missed out on forming a deeper connection with someone and might never get another chance.
He adjusted the bandage and said, “Thanks for helping,” without looking up.
“It’s the least I could do. You saved my life twice, remember?”
He rolled back the sleeve on his left arm, and she finally got a chance to view the elaborate tattoo on his arm. There were loops and whirls, the pattern geometrical, almost Aztec-looking in design.
She tilted her head. “What does all that mean?”
“It means I was young and stupid once.” He rubbed his fingertips over his creased brow. “I lost someone, and I went a little crazy. Did some dumb stuff. I’m stuck with it now.”
“In Afghanistan?”
“Yep.” He stared at the patterns on his arm as though seeing them for the first time. “It’s embarrassing now, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“I think it’s understandable. Grief does odd things to people. I wish we could go back to Victorian times when people wore black armban
ds to show they were in mourning. Like a warning to others. Beware—this person may burst into tears at any moment. I was a mess after my dad died.”
“I’m sorry. I saw his picture on your desk. He must have passed away young. Did he die in the line of duty?”
“No. He would have loved that, though.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t apologize. That came out all wrong. It’s just that he loved the job, and he would have liked to die doing something spectacular. He would have enjoyed the rest of his buddies having a drink and telling increasing taller tales about him. Instead, he had a stroke. He spent the last few months of his life trapped in his own body. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t feed himself.” She made a sound of frustration. “You must think I’m a total basket case discussing this with you. We don’t even know each other, and you want to arrest me.”
“I don’t—”
“Never mind. It’s all right. What does it matter? It’s not like we’ll ever see each other after this. When my dad died, I was like a raw nerve ending.” She knotted the plastic bag around her fingers. The talking seemed to help. She’d kept everything inside for so long. There was a part of her that desperately wanted Corbin to understand something about her. She wanted someone to understand. “I felt every emotion so deeply. I’d never been like that before. I’d always been cool and analytical. Not then. Everything was exaggerated. I wasn’t angry at injustice. I was enraged. I wasn’t frustrated by the traffic. I was infuriated. I cried during all the holiday commercials, especially the one where the soldier surprises his family on Christmas morning. And it wasn’t even the sad stuff. I once laughed so hard at a joke that I snorted during a business dinner. I’m sure my friends thought I was going mad. Getting a tattoo doesn’t seem that strange to me.”
“At least you can wear what you want at work.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Because of most dress codes, I have to wear long sleeves, no matter the weather.”
“I think it makes you look dangerous. In a good way.”
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