Three hours ago, after the police had left, standing in the stark reality of the emergency room, amidst clanging carts and orders being barked, Ed had ignored the people gawking at him as he bowed his head in an uncharacteristic move. If You’re really there, help this girl. He had looked up. Expecting what? A huge hand to come down?
He laughed at his own foolishness.
There was no caring God.
Now, the girl called Rochelle was stabilized and had been moved to a room on the med–surg floor where a spider web of hospital paraphernalia crisscrossed her. Ed smoothed the tape loosening over the IV for the third time.
When he sat down, the chair didn’t give, but he managed to squeeze into a bearable position. He planned to spend the night, and no one had better try to stop him. Celebrity often opened doors closed to most people. Tonight that theory had been put to the test in the ambulance. Ed one—EMTs zero.
Beyond tired and emotionally drained, he stretched his arms back and over his head. A loud pop preceded a boatload of hurt. The AC joint again. He grabbed his left shoulder and squeezed hard, bit down on his lip to stop the pain. No doubt strained the joint when he dove on it playing hero.
He pictured his trainer Jesse cranking his arm then packing him in ice.
Pain or no pain, Ed couldn’t leave the girl alone in the hospital, no matter how uncomfortable the chair. Like every other aspect of his life, he took obligation seriously. He’d found her; she was his responsibility now.
Suddenly, his lids, like ten-pound weights, started to close.
A familiar woman’s voice and the tempting scent of mocha interrupted. “Ed?”
He drew himself up on his good arm and glanced at the door. “Donna?”
His sister-in-law’s face registered surprise as she breezed past the restroom with a huge purse smacking the laundry bin. “Ed, what are you doing here?”
He rubbed his eyes, focused, and stood. “I was about to ask you the same.”
“Rochelle’s the friend I told you about from the radio station.”
“Rochelle?” His forehead pinched as he tried to recall.
Her hand shook as she sipped a large coffee from the vendor downstairs, her face a mask of exasperation. “You know. The one I tried to fix you up with.”
“Please, this girl’s … a kid.”
She wagged her head. “I don’t think so. You’re only a couple years older.”
Knees bent low, he stole another glimpse of the girl struggling with each breath in the bed. He finally put together what should have been an obvious connection. “She’s that Rochelle?” Impossible to tell through all the swelling.
Her face appeared on the side of half the buses in the city. Hence, the ruthless nickname.
Son of a gun. Rochelle Cassidy, Motor Mouth Princess of Detroit.
CHAPTER 11
GREEN EYES ZEROED IN on Rochelle, and she stretched her forearms up for protection. Her blood pressure shot up; head pain spiraled, raspy breathing increased. Eye hurt, shoulder and neck hurt. Where he kicked her in the side hurt.
Where was she? She still couldn’t open her swollen eye, but she fought to see. No one was there. Just a bad dream. These nightmares had become her constant companion the last two days.
Had it really been two days since she’d been attacked?
The pain was still raw and unsettling.
She reached for the call button again and barely pressed before a strong grasp stopped her.
“Let go of my hand.”
“I’m here to help you. Be quiet.”
Did she know that voice? One of the EMTs? A familiar timbre.
“Who are you?” She squinted to make out the face, but her eyes refused to focus on his face.
“I’m here to help. I told you I’d be back.”
The man who’d saved her? He was a security guard? Or was she dreaming?
“I’ve been trying to call the nurse. Could you get her for me?”
He patted her hand. “Certainly. Relax, and I’ll send her in as soon as she’s free.”
“Ask her to hurry, please. I need something more for pain.”
“Of course. Anything for the princess.”
Princess. Rochelle froze. That voice. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand covered her mouth while the other pressed into her throat.
A hazy veil slipped over her and the room swirled. The security guard?
A voice crackled behind her. “Something I can get you, Ms. Cassidy?”
Rochelle called on every bit of strength and yanked the hand from her mouth. “Help!”
There was a quick tug at her neck, and the man in her dream disappeared.
#
After Ed marched out of an elevator that jerked the last three feet, he breathed a sigh of relief. No one had rushed at him for an autograph today. No one had pointed or stared at his bruises. Then again, why would they? Folks expected him to be bruised.
Still, gaze on the floor, striving to blend in, he approached the doorway to Rochelle’s room. Once past the family waiting area where kids played with a noisy toy Christmas train, he glanced up, searching for her room number.
As he neared 237, a guard stepped from the doorway. Without so much as a nod, he hurried to the elevator. Must have had a tough day. Much like Ed.
A nurse pushed behind him, shoving him out of the way.
“Sir, you’ll have to leave.”
Ed moved toward the lounge then waited until he saw her come out.
He snagged her arm. “Is Rochelle all right? What happened?”
“She thought someone was in her room. Tried to hurt her.”
That must have been why the guard talked to her.
“And she’s okay?”
“Well, when I got in there, she said she thought she might have dreamt it. She’s been having nightm—” The woman stopped talking, leveled a gaze at Ed. “You’re who again?”
“Ed McGrath. I’m the guy who found her the other night.”
“Oh, right. I remember you. Forget I said anything, please. Shouldn’t be running my mouth. Go in. She could use a friendly face right about now.” Her gaze dropped to his hand. “And the flowers are beautiful by the way.”
A Caution Wet Floor sign straddled the entrance. Ed stopped and stared. The tile appeared dry. His gaze fixed on Rochelle. Caution was right. Once he’d realized she was no child, peculiar feelings rippled through him. He didn’t particularly like it.
He sneezed at the combination of antiseptic and other disagreeable hospital odors. Lifting his hands to his face, Ed buried his nose in the fresh holiday bouquet. He breathed in the comforting pine aroma to mask the myriad hospital smells.
If he had any brains at all, he would leave the roses with the nurse. But he’d made the mistake of glancing inside the room. And now it was too late to make a clean getaway.
Rochelle’s lashes flickered long and thick against her cheeks. Stitches over swollen bruises defined her eyes. Man, how he would have liked a few more minutes with the guy who beat her.
Past experience told him with nurses in and out, checking equipment and adjusting IV lines, Rochelle probably hadn’t received the sound sleep her body needed to heal properly. The last thing he wanted was to disturb her.
Or … was that simply an excuse? But he gazed at her face and walking away became impossible, flowers the only evidence he’d visited.
In sleep, the tiniest hint of a smile played on her lips. A beautiful mouth, despite the swelling. A mouth any other time he’d like to get to know better.
Ed spun from the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, disgusted with himself. One of the rosebuds snapped against his shoulder. He butted the back of his head on the wall and groaned. This woman was a victim, a stranger, and someone he had no intention of ever seeing again. So why the startling feelings?
He concentrated elsewhere. The picture in the hallway that told how to wash hands properly. Another that reminded the staff not to discuss patients. Her radio show
. Maybe that other aspect of her mouth, the opinionated one that caused people to love or hate her. The mouth that gained her the infamous name in Detroit.
Another nurse eyed him from the station. So hard to be invisible. With a flick of her hand and a knowing smile, she shooed him back into the room.
Quietly, he retrieved the rosebud from the floor, moved the sign aside, and entered. His gaze scanned the room, avoiding her directly. He didn’t belong here. Wasn’t sure why he’d come.
Standing a few feet from her bed, he couldn’t resist. This wasn’t the same woman he’d accompanied to the hospital. With her wounds barely starting to heal and the cuts stitched, she had the look of a sad, little angel—an angel with black, blue, purple, and gold-colored bruises.
Her hair stuck to her skin as it curled around her face. No wonder he’d thought she was a kid when he first found her.
He swallowed hard, plunged toward the window. Doggone it. This was crazy. His stomach tightened in a wave of discomfort.
The tissue paper withered under his grasp until he feared the bouquet might be crushed.
Just give her the flowers and amscray, buddy boy.
He edged closer, propped the roses on top of the tray, and murmured thanks she’d survived. Without thinking it through, he extended his fingers, brushed damp, dark hair from her forehead once again.
She jerked, rolling into a protective ball with a groan. “What?”
Ed slumped in the chair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He frightened himself enough, no need to cause her to go crazy. Trying to process why he had come, he shifted in the seat.
He stretched his fingers for her hand, but she pulled back.
Her brow gathered. “Oh, I thought—I had the strangest dream. I thought you were him.”
“S’all right. You don’t have to be afraid of me. Here.” He nodded toward the flowers.
“Thank you.” She made an effort to smile, a smile he figured came at no small cost.
He bit his lip and breathed out a low rumble. Not at all what he’d planned. Beelining out of the room made sense, but instead, the touch of her hand shocked him. Scrapes rose red and hot across her knuckles. They practically matched his, cut for cut—bruise for bruise. Just one more second with the guy. “Do you know who I am?”
She strained her eyes. “Yes.” Pain shot across her face, but that timid smile returned before pity consumed him. “You’re the man who saved my life. I’ll be indebted forever.”
“Well, that’s a long time to indenture yourself. I’ll settle for a smile.”
He had to stop. This could only hurt both of them.
“Sorry if I snapped at you before. I’ve been having dreams about that man.”
“Nightmares can seem so real.”
“This was real. I would have sworn he was here. He was dressed like a security guard. I mean … I know it didn’t happen but it seemed so re—”
“A security guard?”
CHAPTER 12
WHERE DID HE GO? Rochelle hadn’t dreamt the man sitting here.
Loud steps sounded outside her room. Her heart thundered in her chest.
“Hey. Still awake?”
“Where did you go?”
His forehead wrinkled in a frown. But his lips forced a smile. For her sake? “When you mentioned the guard, I had to check on something with the nurse. I—uh, promised her I’d let her know how you were feeling.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me your name. I can’t call you The Guy Who Saved My Life forever.”
“The name’s Ed. Nice to officially meet.” He sat straighter in the chair and took her hand. “Please don’t make me out to be some kind of hero. Are you supposed to be talking?”
She rolled her good eye and wondered how silly that must look. “Of course I can talk. I have brain swell, not brain death.”
“There’s the Rochelle I’ve heard about.”
She snatched her hand away, hoping her glare sent a strong message. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The volume of her voice rose with her level of dignity.
“It means, I think you must be feeling better.”
“Because I’ve got a smart mouth? It’s suited me well.” Her chin jutted in a little defensive motion before another shot of pain sliced her in two. “So far.” Just what she needed, another chucklehead reminding her of all the hateful comments aimed her direction.
“That it does.” He grinned. “Aren’t you called the Mo—”
“Motor Mouth Princess? Thank you for bringing that up. Part of my steps to recovery? Facing the truth one day at a time.”
Ed looked suddenly contrite. “I wasn’t thinking. It’s just … you have quite the reputation for sinking your teeth, quite literally, into those issues you believe in.”
“And standing up for what you believe in is bad?” Her fingers squeezed the flowers in a death grip, the sprigs of pine spewing a strong odor in her face.
“Not necessarily. But I did hear about you and the councilman.”
Rochelle felt the color drain from her face. Thinking of Bennett brought back the attack. Had he paid that man to—? She shook her head. He wouldn’t risk that, would he?
“Listen.” Ed held his hand out. “May I start over? I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She tried to hide her discomfort, but each move and thought returned her to the cold ground. “I appreciate what you did. Without you, I probably wouldn’t be alive right now. Or worse. He might have …” She sucked back a breath. “And then killed me. You are quite the hero. I’m grateful.”
#
Hero? The self-protective shield he’d nurtured since his first game shot up. Another fan?
Every day, from every direction, women insinuated themselves. Fed up with fans sending him personal emails, personal letters, even intimately personal articles, Ed fought being friendly. Like the woman in Boston who had dropped a slinky thong in his pocket after he scribbled an autograph for her. The guys had loved that one. Months of ribbing and the underwear was still framed and hung in the locker room. He remembered one of the first looks of admiration in his father’s eyes as he slapped Ed on the back.
He shook his head. “That may not be exactly what happened.”
“You called EMS. I believe you sat with me the last two nights and even held my hand during a few rather uncomfortable tests. Am I right or did I dream up a person twisting and turning to find a relaxed spot in that lumpy lounger?” This smile was genuine, a one-eighty from two minutes ago.
“What makes you think that?” He changed positions in the chair at the suggestion as she grinned. He didn’t have answers for her. “You were so heavily drugged. I can’t imagine you recalling much.” Her bruises enraged his sense of decency.
She cringed and leaned against the bed, once again the little girl without attitude. “But I do remember you.”
Oh man. What is happening to me?
That timid gaze that he figured she didn’t often show. “When you looked at me, you made an impression, and if I remembered nothing else, I would remember your eyes.” Hers started to close. “My mother always said you can tell a person by their eyes. Yours are kind.” Her words labored. “At a time when I … truly understand the difference.” She yawned, the roses and greens drooping at her side.
Whoa. “You look tired.” He had to go. She was dragging him in like a big dog on a chain. Tighter and tighter until he could barely growl without choking. He’d done his job: called for help, assisted the paramedics, remained with her most of the night, and brought her flowers. Time to return to a life he understood. To the type of woman he understood. Air hissed through his teeth. Alicia.
Or maybe not. For the last two days, he hadn’t given her a thought. Why? What was happening to him? Blue Eyes was happening to him.
He shook his head to instill a sense of normalcy, but his idea of normalcy had died somewhere along the way and had been replaced with what? Decency? He almost laughed. No one who knew him would ever call him tha
t.
Sliding the flowers from her hand, he placed them atop the tray. “I suppose I should let you get some sleep, sweet girl.” Her eyes widened.
He didn’t want to be another source of sadness for her, but if he didn’t leave, he might not be able to. And with a guy like him, no strings, that would end up causing her even more harm as a result. He’d get caught up in those questioning eyes for a time, and then he’d be gone. Like always. “I hope you like the roses. A friend of mine said all women like roses.”
What a lame comment. There had to be women who didn’t like roses, didn’t like flowers at all. Now he was stammering like a schoolboy.
Well, here they were, and if she didn’t like them, she could toss the bouquet in the trash.
“How can I reach you?” Her eyes flickered shut and opened again as if she remembered what she had to say. “To thank you for all you’ve done.”
No way. There wasn’t going to be any reaching … or thanking. “There’s no need for that. I’m just glad I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
Already he couldn’t look her in the face without babbling like an idiot. As if she had this strange power over him. Power he’d never known before and he knew power. He didn’t need some helpless female tugging at him like a security blanket.
But one last look told him otherwise.
CHAPTER 13
KYLE SLAMMED HIS PALM against the steering wheel, splitting the thin wrap into two strips. One more second in her room. Just one more. He might have been able to finish the job.
Wasn’t that the story of his life? He’d planned the visit to coincide with her meds. He’d waited in the lounge until the nurse moved the med cart past her room. Then he visited Rochelle. Drugged and willing.
All right, not so willing, but he’d have fixed that.
Close the door. Adios, Rochelle.
Why did the nurse have to answer the call, spoiling it?
He shuffled his hand over the seat. A gold necklace for his efforts. A cross, no less. One breath longer and he’d have twisted the chain. Not even a nurse would have suspected a guard of harming a patient.
Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror. Page 4