TEMPERATURE'S RISING

by Donna Sterling

  With a sickening plunge of her heart, Callie realized this would be another showdown between Grant and Jack, and that she'd been used as a pawn again—or a trophy. Jack would find her here having a cozy breakfast with his enemy, and Grant would gloat.

  "What are you planning to do?" she demanded.

  "Offer him a settlement. If he doesn't take it, I'm ready to use the Sharon Landers case to my best advantage. I can be very creative. The jury will be ready to bury him alive."

  Callie stared at him in horror. He had overheard Frankie. And now Jack would pay the price, one way or another.

  Agnes fluttered near the solarium entrance, waving her teal-draped arms in welcoming gestures, her face beaming beneath her bright red hair, her murmurs clearly indicating her pleasure at another guest's arrival.

  She then receded from sight, and Jack appeared in the archway of the solarium, his shoulders taut, his beard-shadowed jaw hardened. He wore the same white shirt and jeans he had last night. It appeared he hadn't been to bed. She wondered why.

  His gaze went immediately to Callie, as if to make sure she was okay, as if he'd expected to find her bound and gagged.

  Despite all the reasons that had kept her from meeting him last night and the panic that had sent her packing this morning, her heart clamored as their gazes locked. She wanted to rush into his arms, kiss the tension from his face and declare herself firmly on "his side."

  Which would be tantamount to professional and emotional self-destruction. She had to leave, as soon as possible, before she threw all logical and ethical considerations to the wind.

  But Jack stood between her and the door, so she remained tensely seated. His gaze shifted from her and took in the table set for two, the flowers, the wine. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he leveled a cold, hard stare at Grant.

  "Good morning, Mr. Forrester." If not for the malice in Grant's gaze and his withholding of Jack's proper title, Callie could believe he was welcoming a friend. "Please, have a seat."

  Jack remained standing. The animosity between the two men almost crackled in the air with electric tension. Did anything matter to them more than besting the other? "What the hell do you want, Tierney?"

  "That just happens to be the theme of our little party. I'm ready to cut you a deal—to drop the lawsuit and put the whole nasty business behind us—if you're willing to accept my terms. In writing. Here and now."

  Callie's breath caught. She fervently wished that they would put "the whole nasty business" behind them. But she knew that Grant's demands would be unjust, and that Jack wouldn't consider bowing to them.

  Instead of telling Grant to go to hell, Jack surprisingly turned his gaze to her. "I want to talk to you, Callie. In private."

  Her pulse beat in her throat like the wings of a trapped dove. She couldn't talk to him in private, or she'd be lost. She'd tell him she loved him, and that she'd stand beside him forever and fight to the death for his honor.

  She had to leave. Now.

  "No, I'm sorry, Jack." She set her napkin beside her plate and forced her gaze to Grant. "As a matter of fact, I really must be going. I have a long drive to Tallahassee." She rose and strode from the table, avoiding Jack's eyes as she shouldered past him.

  His arm shot around her waist, barring her way. She looked at him with a sense of panic, ready to break from his hold and run. "I don't know what terms he's talking about," he said in a harsh undertone, "or why he thinks I'd settle." His gaze searched hers with an earnestness that brought a lump to her throat. "But I'm going to leave it up to you, Callie. You tell me what you want me to do about this damn lawsuit, and I'll do it. In writing. Here and now."

  Stunned beyond words, she stared at him. He couldn't mean it! And yet, she believed he did. He would settle with his worst enemy, despite the weakness of Grant's case, despite the damage to his own career. He'd agree to any terms. "Why?"

  "Because nothing is as important to me as you are," he heatedly whispered. "Nothing."

  The love she'd tried so hard to extinguish overflowed from her heart to fill her chest, her throat, her eyes. She had no doubt that he meant it.

  "I'm willing to drop the cash amount down to two hundred thousand," Grant coaxed, his hateful voice coming from some faraway world, "which your insurance company will gladly pay. Then, as a personal matter between us, you'll sign over the beach property at the end of the Point. And issue a public apology."

  A muscle contracted in Jack's jaw, but his gaze remained on Callie.

  "Oh, God, Jack." She didn't want him to settle at any price, but neither could she stand the thought of subjecting him to the pain of having the Sharon Landers case publicized. "There's something you need to know—"

  "What my right-hand man is trying to tell you, Forrester," Grant interrupted, "is that we're ready to use our ammunition. She supplied me with a bundle of fascinating notes, taped testimony, and photos to show you in just the right light to the jury."

  Callie sucked in an outraged breath. "My briefcase! You took it."

  "My favorite submission," Grant continued, "is her report on the Sharon Landers case. You remember—the young mother you killed on your operating table."

  Jack stiffened as if he'd been struck with a whip. Before Callie could utter a word, he swung a dazed stare to her.

  "He's lying," she whispered.

  The uncertainty in his pain-filled gaze cut deeply into her. How could he think she would betray him so callously?

  Then again, why shouldn't he think it? She'd been warning him that she intended to gather "dirt" to ruin his name. She hadn't told him she'd withdrawn from the investigation, or that she'd had a change of heart.

  Grant laughed and leaned back in his chair. "A man gets his money's worth with Callie Marshall. I've thoroughly enjoyed her services." He indulged in a sip of wine. "I'll have to keep her name in mind for the next time I want to screw somebody."

  Jack lunged across the table at him, sending dishes crashing to the floor. The wineglass flew from Grant's hold as he tipped wildly back in his chair to evade the hand that went for his throat. Jack grabbed a fistful of his shirt instead and jerked him closer.

  "No, Jack, no!" Callie hooked both arms around the one he'd drawn back for a punch. "He'll have you arrested!"

  "What the Sam Hill is going on here?" The stern voice of Sheriff Gallagher froze them all in surprise. The stalwart lawman stood frowning in the solarium's arched doorway, the morning sunlight glinting off his badge.

  Agnes hovered behind him, wide-eyed. "Oh, my. Oh, my!"

  With clear reluctance, Jack let go of his grip on Grant's shirt and lowered his fist. Callie released his arm, and Grant pushed himself up from the table where he'd been dragged across his plate.

  Flicking crumbs and mashed melon balls from his shirt, he murmured, "What took you so long, Sheriff? I told you he'd cause a disturbance. He assaulted me in my own home."

  The sheriff glowered at Grant. "There ought to be a law against baiting a man the way you bait Doc Forrester, but as far as I know, there ain't." He then turned his glare to Jack. "And you should have better sense than to let him rile you into violence."

  "He didn't hit him," Callie stated. "He just grabbed his shirt. That's all. I'm a witness."

  The sheriff surprised her with a quelling frown. "Tierney told me you suspect that Doc stole your briefcase. Do you have any grounds to support that charge?"

  Callie's mouth dropped open, and Jack leveled another stare at her. "I never suspected him!" She shot Grant a furious glare. "You must have called the sheriff before I even told you my briefcase had been stolen."

  "Check his car, Sheriff," Grant demanded. "I bet you'll find her briefcase in his car."

  "I can't search his car without probable cause."

  "Wait just a damn minute." Jack narrowed his eyes at Grant. "He's too cocksure about this to be taking a wild guess. I was out on my boat all night, which left him plenty of opportunity to plant something in my car."

  Grant snorted. "He's
already making up excuses. Sheriff, that briefcase contained material relevant to my lawsuit. If you don't search his car, I'll report you to higher authorities."

  "Report me! For what?"

  With a muttered curse, Jack brushed past Callie and the sheriff on his way to the door. "I'll search my damn car, and if I find anything that's not supposed to be there, Tierney, I'll make you sorry you ever tangled with me."

  "Sheriff, did you hear that threat?" Grant trailed after Jack. "Come along, Mother. I may need an honest witness."

  The sheriff grumbled beneath his breath, and everyone filed outside to Jack's gleaming black sports car. It took Jack less than a minute to draw out Callie's briefcase from behind the seats.

  "Aha!" Grant said, peering through the window. "I knew you'd stolen that briefcase. Sheriff, I see something else rather suspicious behind those seats, too."

  Barely sparing the briefcase a glance, Jack tossed it to Callie. The briefcase was empty. She had no doubt that Grant Tierney had taken its contents before planting it in Jack's car.

  Jack then pulled out another item from behind the seats. Rising to stand beside his car, he held up a plastic bag that contained a small vial of reddish-brown liquid. "What the hell is this, Tierney?"

  "That's a good question." Grant looked a little too smug. "Sheriff, you'd better take a closer look at whatever substance Dr. Forrester had in his car. I wouldn't doubt it's some kind of hallucinogen, like the one he injected into my mother."

  As the insinuation sank in, Jack's mouth twisted in anger and he started toward Grant.

  The sheriff laid a restraining hand on Jack's arm. "I have no right to confiscate anything from Doc unless I have reason to believe it's an illegal substance, which I don't."

  "Then my attorney will be serving you with a subpoena, Sheriff. The jury will need to know that he was caught carrying around hallucinogens in his car."

  Jack handed the bag to the sheriff. "I'd like this substance analyzed, and if it's some form of hallucinogen, I want him arrested for planting it in my car."

  "You'd better be able to prove that allegation, Forrester," Grant snarled, "since you've publicly maligned my character."

  "You boys are a pain in the butt," the sheriff muttered. With a frown, he removed the vial from the bag and held the slim, liquid-filled tube up to the sunlight. "I don't know what it could possibly be." He opened the vial. A musty fragrance wafted in the warm, noonday air.

  "I recognize that smell!" Callie declared. "Don't you, Agnes?"

  "No, she doesn't," snapped Grant. "And I think I'd better have that stuff analyzed myself." His hand shot out and snatched the open vial from the sheriff.

  "Hey!" The sheriff reached to grab it back.

  As Grant jerked the vial out of his reach, the liquid streamed out and splashed across his face. He gasped, shut his eyes, dropped the vial and frantically wiped at the reddish-brown rivulets with his hands and sleeves. The vial, meanwhile, fell into the grass.

  Cursing beneath his breath, the sheriff reached for it.

  Jack stopped him. "Scoop it up into this." He handed him the plastic bag. "Don't get the liquid on your skin. Who the hell knows what it is?"

  Squinting and blinking, Grant made a move toward the sheriff. Jack blocked his way, glowering at him, as the sheriff carefully scooped the now half-empty vial into the plastic bag.

  "I do recognize the smell," Agnes declared. "It smells exactly like my pheromone enhancer."

  "Don't say another word, Mother," Grant thundered.

  "Don't yell at her," Jack warned.

  Grant's face, which he'd dried with his shirtsleeves, was now mottled red. "I think it's time you got the hell off my property, Forrester."

  "Agnes," said Callie as the two men glared at each other, "did you use your pheromone enhancer on the Fourth of July?"

  "Ms. Marshall, if you say another word, I'll sue you along with Forrester," Grant threatened, his face now seriously splotchy and his voice sounding oddly hoarse. "I'll sue Meg, too, and her senior partners."

  "I did use it on the Fourth of July," Agnes recalled as the sheriff walked to his car with the bagged vial. "I rubbed just a little on my pulse points. I was determined to make Bob notice me at the picnic. It worked, too. Very well. Remember, Grant? I tried to get you to use some. It enhances men's pheromones as well as women's. My good friend in India made it for me during my last trip there. She used a special blend of herbs and mushrooms. But how did my pheromone enhancer get in Jack's car?"

  "My face," Grant rasped. He'd turned a peculiar shade of pale, making the splotches stand out all the more. "It's numb."

  "Oh, my!" Agnes peered at him in wide-eyed concern. "It looks like he's having an allergic reaction. He has them worse than I do." A realization hit her, and her mouth opened into an O shape. "Do you think something in the pheromone enhancer caused my allergic reaction at the picnic?"

  "I'd say that's a real good guess," Jack replied. "And if it was made with the kind of mushrooms and herbs I suspect it was, the musk probably caused your hallucinations, too. Especially if you rubbed it into your 'pulse points.'"

  Grant wheezed and clutched his chest.

  Jack took a step closer, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Is your throat closing up?" he demanded brusquely.

  Grant gasped and staggered backward, visibly straining for every breath. "Stay away!" he croaked. "Don't touch me. Mother … call … ambulance."

  Agnes cast a frightened, confused glance at Jack, who nodded his encouragement. With a little cry, she hurried up the stairway and into her house. Grant, meanwhile, clawed at his throat and broke out into a sweat. The sheriff pulled out his radio and spoke into it.

  Jack cursed and walked to his car.

  Callie hovered anxiously beside Grant as he leaned against his own car and gasped for breath. His eyes, mouth and chin had swollen to an incredible puffiness, distorting his face. "Jack," she cried, "an ambulance won't get here in time!"

  Jack was already striding back from the car with his emergency kit under one arm as he peeled away the plastic wrap from a prepackaged hypodermic syringe. "He's going into anaphylactic shock."

  Grant slumped over onto Callie, and she struggled beneath his weight. "He stopped breathing!" The sheriff hurried to her aid and lowered the unconscious man onto the concrete driveway. Thoroughly frightened, Callie knelt over him and pressed her mouth to his, administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. While she did, Jack injected medication into Grant's arm. "This might not work fast enough," he said. "Let me see if air is moving through his lungs." Callie moved aside, and Jack listened through a stethoscope to Grant's chest and throat. "Sheriff, do you have a ballpoint pen?"

  The sheriff grunted a yes and pulled one from his pocket.

  Jack directed him to take it apart and hand him the empty bottom tube. "Callie, find the alcohol swab." As he spoke in calm, authoritative tones, he reached into his emergency kit and brought out a shiny implement, which opened into a glinting knife. "Tierney, if you can hear me, try to understand what I'm saying. I'm going to open an emergency airway so you can breathe. If I don't, you'll suffocate."

  With a dull sense of horror, Callie realized that Jack meant to slice open his throat.

  "Callie," Jack murmured, his gaze intently focused on Grant, "you might not want to watch." He took the alcohol swab from her trembling fingers, cleaned off the blade, swabbed the skin near the base of Grant's throat and cut a short, vertical incision.

  As a neat, crimson line blossomed around the incision, she lifted her eyes to Jack's face—not because of the blood or the slight faintness it had caused, but because of an almost spiritual awe dawning in her.

  She'd always loved him, but she'd never seen him in quite this light before. He worked with intense concentration and smooth, precise moves, and she knew he expended the same care he would give to the most valued person in his life. Yet he was working on his enemy, a man who had scarred him, slandered him and schemed to rob him of his property and career. A man wh
o could possibly sue him for the work he now performed.

  And he did this lifesaving work on his adversary not because of some legal consequence that could be levied against him if he didn't, or because of a sense of duty, or even for Agnes's sake. He did it, Callie knew, because of an innate goodness. He would do everything he could, endure whatever he must, to prevent the death or grievous suffering of a fellow human being.

  He was a strong, bright, positive force that would illuminate any darkness. The people lucky enough to claim a place in his heart could count on him through any crisis, physical or emotional.

  How could she not love him? How could she not want him as a vital, integral part of her life?

  A siren grew steadily louder until an ambulance pulled into the driveway. Jack glanced up from his work, and his gaze collided with Callie's. He looked surprised to find her watching him—or maybe surprised at the intensity of her stare.

  A shout from the ambulance driver claimed his attention, and Jack apprised him of the situation. Callie realized that an open tube protruded from a neat, white bandage around Grant's throat. Though his face remained swollen and mottled, his chest moved rhythmically and his glazed, bloodshot eyes had opened.

  Jack had saved his life.

  Although she'd had no doubt that he would, a huge, hot ball of emotion rose in Callie's throat and made her eyes burn. Voices babbled around her as the emergency crew asked Agnes and Jack questions, the sheriff talked to his deputy who had just arrived, and Grant rasped incoherent protests to the paramedics who lifted him onto a stretcher.

  Through it all, Callie couldn't draw her gaze away from the tall, strong, golden-haired doctor at the heart of the activity. There was so much she needed to tell him. She couldn't forget the doubt in his eyes when Grant had mentioned the Sharon Landers case. She couldn't bear to have him believe for even a moment longer that she'd submitted that information.

  Jack turned to listen to something Agnes was saying, and his gaze again met Callie's. Before Callie could glean any hint of how he felt about her now, Agnes pulled him into a hearty hug.