TEMPERATURE'S RISING

by Donna Sterling

  Gloria spent over an hour with Callie, showing her photos she'd taken at the picnic, allowing her to look through others and giving her prints or negatives of any she chose.

  One photo showed Jack lounging near a tree with a beer in his hand. Callie supposed it might prove to be damaging if the jury believed he'd been drinking before administering the injection. She'd have to ask around to determine if he had been.

  Callie didn't feel her usual satisfaction at finding a promising angle. She felt reluctant to take the photo at all.

  She forced herself to take it. Business was business.

  Gloria also gave her photos of Jack at other picnics. In one, he sat on a huge, black motorcycle with an open leather vest hanging from his massive shoulders. He wore torn jeans. His jaw was shadowed by beard stubble, and his scar dominated one side of his face, much more intrusive than it appeared now. He looked more like a wild outlaw biker than a surgeon.

  Another photo featured him bare chested on the beach with two bikini-clad women. One of his buddies had stuck a stethoscope around his neck, as Gloria laughingly explained. She'd written beneath the picture, "Doc Forrester, hard at work."

  The photos, Callie knew, could be used to portray him in a decidedly unprofessional light—not the image his defense lawyer would like to project to a jury.

  Gloria believed Callie wanted the photos for old-times' sake, since most of them featured her childhood friends. It wasn't until she had left Gloria's house and returned to the inn that Callie's conscience got the best of her.

  What was happening to her? She was simply doing her job—looking for leads and gathering items that might prove useful. Why, then, did she feel so guilty?

  Sitting near the phone in her suite at the inn, Callie imagined how Gloria would feel when she learned the truth. Betrayed. Hovering over the phone, Callie debated calling her and confessing her true role in the malpractice case.

  It wouldn't be wise.

  She had to tell her, though. Perhaps, if the truth came from her, it wouldn't seem like such a betrayal.

  Taking a deep breath, she dialed the phone. Gloria's warm greeting only made the confession more difficult. Holding the phone tightly, Callie explained the circumstances she hadn't mentioned—that her sister Meg was representing Grant Tierney in the lawsuit, and that she herself had been hired by Meg.

  "But you came to my house with Doc," Gloria said. "I saw him kiss you. How can you be working against him?"

  "I know it seems strange, but—"

  "Does he know you're working against him?" she asked, her voice suddenly sharp with suspicion.

  "Yes, of course he does. But he says he hasn't done anything wrong, so the investigation can't hurt him, and the truth will eventually speak for itself."

  "That does sound like something he'd say," Gloria cautiously judged, as if trying to evaluate how much to believe.

  "Gloria, do you want me to return the photos?" Callie half hoped she would. Though Meg would definitely want them, they weren't really evidence in the malpractice case itself.

  "The photos?" Gloria repeated in alarmed surprise. "They can't be used to hurt Doc, can they?"

  "I'm not sure," she hedged.

  Gloria's silence bothered her far more than any reproach would have. After a long pause, Gloria quietly said, "Do whatever you feel is right. If you're planning to stab Doc in the back, you'll copy those photos before you return them to me, anyway. Personally, I'm betting that you won't use them."

  Gloria hung up without a goodbye.

  Callie felt worse than she had before she'd made the call. After a glum moment, she shook herself out of the doldrums. She'd been crazy to offer to give the photos back. She couldn't let personal issues like friendship interfere with her job.

  Carefully she tucked the photos into her briefcase.

  Determined to finish her business on the Point as quickly as possible, she called a couple of the witnesses on her list and obtained permission to drop by their houses after supper. She set an appointment to interrogate the hospital staff on Tuesday. She then drove Jack's car to the county courthouse, where she spent the remainder of the Friday afternoon searching the records for previous lawsuits against him.

  She couldn't help feeling relieved when her search produced no previous lawsuits. Angry at herself for that relief, she dined alone at a roadside café, then drove to Sally Babcock's house to keep her first appointment of the evening.

  Sally, it seemed, had been forewarned about her role in the investigation. She greeted Callie with an unmistakable coolness, then told her about the wonderful care Dr. Forrester had given her son after an accident; how he'd delivered her grandbaby when they couldn't get to the hospital in time; how he'd diagnosed a condition of hers before she'd known there was a problem.

  One question Sally hadn't been prepared for: had there been shrimp in her gumbo at the picnic?

  Her answer had been a no. Which gave credence, of course, to Grant's claim that Agnes's allergic reaction had been imagined. This would mean that Jack's injection had been unnecessary, and opened the door to speculation as to whether he'd administered the right medication.

  Bad news for Doc.

  Callie wouldn't let it bother her. She slipped the tape of the recorded conversation into her briefcase and went on to the next witness's house, who had nothing useful to tell her.

  She returned to the bed-and-breakfast inn around eight o'clock, wondering if Jack would be waiting for her there.

  He wasn't.

  She felt both disappointed and relieved. As much as she'd warned him about her intention of gathering "dirt" to use against him, she wasn't looking forward to facing him after a day of doing just that. On the other hand, she wanted to reclaim her car and give him the key to his, putting an end to his reasons for contacting her.

  That, of course, was the most important thing—putting an end to their personal contact.

  Tossing her briefcase aside and kicking off her high-heeled shoes, she fell wearily across the canopied bed and thought about Jack's impending visit. She would greet him at the front door of the inn, exchange car keys and bid him a firm farewell. Maybe then her precarious emotional state would return to normal and she could do her job without all these bothersome qualms.

  She certainly wouldn't pay his "unpaid balance" of a kiss. The very thought of it, though, sent blood rushing to her head. She knew he hadn't meant the quick, casual kind of kiss he'd given her at Gloria's. Oh, no … not Jack. He meant one of those long, hot, intricate kisses that had stirred her so deeply.

  He knew it would lead to another. And another… Callie closed her eyes, lounged against the bed pillows and savored the memory of his kisses. She'd never felt such intoxicating passion burn in her blood; passion that transformed her into a purely sensual being; passion that demanded she disregard everything and make love to him.

  Exhaling a long, heated breath, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling overly warm and somewhat dizzy with sensual longing. She, the "queen of cool," who rarely dated a man long enough to become physically intimate, couldn't believe she was lying here, reliving a man's kisses. Wanting to taste his mouth again and incite the power of his muscled body.

  She released her two-fisted grip of the bedspread, sat up and raked shaky fingers through her hair. She couldn't allow herself to think about Jack Forrester with such physical yearning.

  He'd collected that last quick kiss without her approval or any regard for privacy. If she met him at the main entrance of the inn tonight, would he try the same? She'd be on her guard this time, and she'd set him straight. There could be nothing personal between them.

  As she waited for his visit, she organized her notes and ironed her clothes, listening the entire time for the telephone. Ten o'clock came and went. She turned on the television and tried to watch it. Her attention continually strayed.

  A fee of two kisses. How preposterous! And devious. Was he thinking about the "unpaid balance" even half as much she was?
>
  Eleven o'clock ticked by.

  Maybe another emergency had kept him later than he'd expected. Or maybe he'd found something else he'd rather do with his Friday night. She tried not to think about what that "something else" might entail.

  With whom, she wondered, had he planned to catch a ride home? The hospital was an hour drive from the Point, with only wilderness, marshland and highway in between. Who would drive him all that way, late at night, after work? Knowing Jack, a beautiful young woman would. He was probably with her now.

  He might be paying her a fee for the ride … in kisses.

  Not that Callie cared. She didn't!

  She clicked off the television and paced across the room. He could spend all night, every night, with dozens of beautiful women, like the ones who posed in the beach photo with him. She merely wanted her car back, she sullenly told herself.

  The clock struck midnight. Then half-past twelve.

  She gritted her teeth. He'd promised to come to her this evening, and he'd broken that promise. It felt rather good to be angry with him; to resurrect the old feelings of being abandoned while he busied himself with other pursuits. She'd almost forgotten how unreliable the man could be.

  Her growing anger at him lessened the confusion that had plagued her all evening. Of course she wanted nothing personal to do with him. Of course her career was more important than any sappy emotional concerns. Of course she'd never, ever, become sexually involved with Jack Forrester.

  Tomorrow at the picnic, she'd interview everyone who could possibly further her case. She'd follow up on leads, keep her appointment Tuesday with the hospital staff, then head back to Tallahassee. No qualms, no regrets.

  She bathed, brushed her teeth, changed into her camisole nightie and headed for bed. As she reached to draw down the bedcovers, a sudden noise stopped her. It sounded like something small and hard hitting the window.

  The sound came again, and Callie moved toward the closed French doors that led to a private balcony. As she peered cautiously out into the moonlit darkness, a small, hard object struck the glass. A pebble.

  She suddenly understood.

  When they'd been kids, Jack had thrown pebbles at her bedroom window late at night. She'd sneaked out of the house and they'd gone on nocturnal adventures—gigging flounders in the sand, gathering scallops on the spits, fishing off private piers.

  In later years, he'd thrown pebbles at Meg's window. Callie had lain awake, listening to Meg sneak out of the house, wondering what adventures Jack and she would share. She'd doubted they would gig for flounders.

  She'd been angry back then, she now realized with surprise. Angry and hurt that Jack had chosen Meg.

  The realization seemed nothing short of a revelation. For so long, she'd believed her own version of the truth—that she was angry at Jack for hurting Meg. Although it was true, she realized now that she'd also been angry before then.

  He'd been Callie's friend, and as they'd blossomed into teens, she'd wanted him to kiss her, to want her as more than a pal. He hadn't. He'd wanted her older, prettier sister.

  The truth about her anger embarrassed Callie. No wonder she'd buried it beneath a more acceptable truth. More alarming was that, after all these years, she hadn't forgiven him.

  Had he kissed Meg in the same passionate way that he'd kissed Callie today? Had he whispered nonsensical but stirring comments that had made her feel she was the only girl in the world for him? If so, she couldn't blame Meg for believing he would be there when she needed him.

  He'd let her down, though, and moved on to the next girl.

  Another pebble bounced off the window, jarring Callie solidly into the present.

  Don't open those French doors, she warned herself, dazed by her own emotional reaction to a drama played out years ago. Don't step out onto that balcony. He'd come too late to conduct any civil form of business. The exchange of cars could take place in the morning.

  A soft, birdlike whistle sounded through the September night. Another signal they'd used as kids, to clue each other in on a hiding place.

  Callie bit the inside of her cheek and folded her arms around her bare shoulders and satiny camisole. She would not open those doors. Not in a million years.

  She knew the business he'd come to conduct. He'd be asking her to pay that "unpaid balance." He'd be wanting to kiss her.

  The warmth stirred low in her stomach.

  Another signal reached her ears—the one he'd worked so hard to perfect. Though he'd meant it as an exotic birdcall, it had always sounded more like a wounded chimpanzee to Callie.

  A reluctant smile pulled at her mouth. He'd have everyone at the inn peering over the balconies in alarm if he kept that up. Surely he had to realize it.

  The chimpanzee call came again. Callie rolled her eyes. The man was shameless and brazen, and endlessly annoying.

  She unlocked the French doors to tell him so.

  * * *

  6

  « ^ »

  "Shhhh! Go away," Callie whispered, opening the doors only wide enough to stick her head through. "You'll have everyone running out here to see where the chimpanzee noises are coming from."

  "Chimpanzee?" His soft, deep voice wafted from somewhere below the small, private balcony. "Now that's hitting below the belt. Don't you know a jungle bird when you hear one?"

  She bit her lip to stifle a laugh. She certainly didn't want to encourage him. "Has anyone ever told you you're annoying?"

  "Yeah. A friend of mine named Callie Marshall. Know her?"

  An unexpected feeling of loss settled into her stomach. I used to know her. Needing to change the subject, she demanded, "How did you find out which room was mine?"

  "I asked Dee's boys yesterday."

  Callie rolled her eyes. "Go away, Jack."

  "Come down, Cal. I brought your car."

  "We can exchange cars in the morning."

  "I'll need mine tonight, in case I'm called out on an emergency. And I'm sorry I got here so late. The only ride I could find was with old Walt, in hospital maintenance. His shift didn't end until eleven. Besides, I stopped to hose off your car after I hauled it out of the mud. Didn't think you'd want to drive it the way it was."

  Gratitude, guilt and a host of emotions too jumbled to name drew her hesitantly onto the balcony where she searched the moonlit darkness below, feeling the need to at least make eye contact with him. She'd obviously wronged him with her suspicions earlier. He'd not only kept his promise, but he'd gone out of his way to help her even more than she'd expected, after a long shift at the hospital, yet. She leaned her forearms on the sturdy wooden rail. "Thank you for bringing my car. You didn't have to hose it off."

  "I wanted to." He stepped back to where they could see each other more clearly.

  Her heart missed a beat at the sight of him. He looked so tall and manly, his shoulders broad and strong, his stance wide legged, his face etched in shadows. His hair glinted the very color of moonlight, and his whisper took on an alluring gruffness in the summer-soft night. "We need to exchange car keys. Come down, Cal."

  She swallowed, knowing he wanted more than just his key. She was terribly tempted. "You can toss my key up to me, and I'll drop yours down to you."

  "It's too dark. It'll get lost in the grass."

  "Then you'll have to wait until morning."

  "I have a better idea."

  She watched as he picked up a garden bench and carried it to somewhere below the balcony. "Are you going to stand on the bench for me to hand you the key?" Vague disappointment tempered her relief that the dilemma had been solved. "Jack?"

  A moment went by. She heard a dull thud, a muffled curse and a scrape that could be boots scuffling against the brick building.

  "You're not trying to climb up here, are you?" she guessed, growing apprehensive. "You'd better not." A cry of dismay escaped her when his hands gripped the bottom of the balcony rail and the shaggy golden top of his head came into view.

  "You're crazy," sh
e whispered fiercely, hovering over him as he climbed. "Someone will see you and call the police. You'll fall and break your neck. You'll … oh, my…" Her heart thudded with anxiety as she backed away and he hoisted himself over the rail.

  He settled solidly onto his booted feet beside her, then beamed a crooked smile. "Didn't think I could do it, did you?" His cocky satisfaction over the silly stunt brought back vivid memories.

  She wanted to choke him for scaring her. "You could have stood on the bench and reached for the key. I would have handed it to you."

  "Gee." He tilted his head and dazzled her with a breath-stealing smile. "I hadn't thought of that."

  She almost snorted. "Do you realize how much trouble you'd be in right now if I called the police?"

  He leaned negligently against the rail. Wearing a black T-shirt and tight black jeans, his gilded hair tousled around his ruggedly attractive face, he looked like her fantasy version of a cat burglar. "Go ahead. Report me."

  "I might do that."

  His amber gaze wandered in leisurely paths over her face and hair. She drank in the masculine beauty of his face, dappled in moonlight and shadow. The sweet, heady scent of lotus blossoms and wild Bermuda grass wafted to her on the sultry night breeze, intoxicating her a little. Frogs and crickets thrummed loud and steady, like the blood drumming in her ears. The sea, with its ageless song and tidal pull, filled her with an odd sense of destiny.

  The smile gradually faded from his eyes as his gaze left her face and absorbed the rest of her.

  She felt his warm perusal touch her everywhere, as bold and lingering as a caress. Crossing her arms over her breasts to stop the silent seduction, she wrapped her fingers around her bare upper arms. The satin camisole, barely covering the matching briefs, left her daringly exposed. The spaghetti straps had slipped from her shoulders, and other than a lacy trim around the panties' edges, her legs and thighs were entirely bare. No worse than a bathing suit, she told herself. Yet, the exposure stirred her blood with a heady sense of power.

  His stare returned to hers with vital new heat. "When did you get so damn beautiful?"