by Rita Herron
His methods were definitely more advanced, civilized, ingenious.
“Are you kidding? With terrorism and the situation in the Middle East, we need your techniques yesterday.”
Pride puffed up Hopkins’s chest, along with sarcasm in his response. “I’m glad to do whatever I can for my country.”
“Right.” The special agent on the other end of the line didn’t find him amusing. “Let me know if you have any problems, and we’ll take care of them.”
Hopkins chuckled. He understood the agent’s implications. Problems, as in someone snooping around. Hell, if he discovered trouble, if anyone interfered, he’d simply turn the unwanted party into a live subject for his experiment.
And he wouldn’t fail as they had with the memory transplant they’d performed on that cop Clayton Fox. No, his study of the brain exceeded their original piece of work.
And he had secret government clearance to do whatever was necessary to perfect it.
Now, all he needed was the human subjects. Willing or unwilling, it really didn’t matter….
Chapter Three
Two weeks later, Eric woke from another haunting nightmare of the explosion, his breathing erratic, his body drenched in sweat. The incessant itching from his scars was driving him crazy. Early morning sunlight flowed through the blinds, streaking the discolored flesh on his chest. He muttered an oath and forced himself to look at the puckered skin anyway. To see himself the way he knew others did, a man branded by his disfigurement, a cicatrix, like a rock standing alone on the side of a mountain.
Half an hour later, he faced Melissa. She seemed tired, too, and distracted, as if she hadn’t slept well either. But since that night by the ocean, he’d staunchly avoided any personal conversation.
Her perfect mouth parted in a smile. “Ready to get started?”
Damn. He wanted to kiss her. He grunted instead, adopting his detached persona as the heat from her fingertips began to massage the ache in his calf.
The other part of him that ached would have to continue to do so.
The past two weeks had been a series of mindless, torturous exercises and grueling physical routines that had stolen the last vestiges of his pride and reminded him that he hadn’t just lost skin and mobility in the accident, but endurance as well.
But he would walk again. He couldn’t quit, or he’d never exact his revenge.
Admittedly, seeing Melissa Fagan’s encouraging smile eased the pain.
She finished the warm-up exercises, then coached him through stretches. There were times during the sessions when he hated her. Times she pushed him to the limits. Times she forced him to continue when he wanted to succumb to the mind numbing pity and self-recrimination that snuck from the dark hiding places of his soul barking that he was a failure. That he should have died instead of that witness.
But in the black emptiness of his cabin at night, when the ceiling fan swirled lazily above him and he remembered the scent of Melissa’s silky hair, he closed his eyes and ached to feel alive. To hold her.
He jerked upright, pulling away from her. “I can take it from here.”
Her fingers paused on his upper thigh, and he gritted his teeth. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m ready for the weights.”
She nodded, her troubled gaze meeting his. But he had snapped at her enough over the last few days that she didn’t argue. She simply offered him that damn sweet smile and gestured toward another patient.
“I’ll be right over there if you need me.”
He gave a clipped nod. Hell, he did need her. But not in the way she meant.
Only he’d never be able to have her.
BY THE TIME Eric got back to his cabin, he was exhausted. He had to finish this job so he could get out of Savannah. Away from Melissa.
He pulled out his notes and reviewed them. So far, he’d met each of the men he suspected to be Hughes and photographed them with the FBI’s miniature camera, but he was still no closer to the truth than before. He’d heard hints of some secretive projects under way involving germ warfare, but he’d yet to access any specific information. Maybe the Feds had chosen the wrong guy for the job.
The phone rang. He stifled irritation as he swung his stiff body sideways to a sitting position to answer it. “Caldwell here.”
“Eric, it’s Luke Devlin.”
“Yeah?”
“I discovered some interesting things about the woman you asked me to investigate.”
Melissa? “Yeah?”
“Background is shady. She was an orphan, abandoned and left on the doorsteps of a church when she was a baby.”
Eric’s throat tightened. “Was she adopted?”
“No. Her file was dog-eared with a medical problem, some odd disorder, but the doctors couldn’t pinpoint the cause. Must have scared people away.”
Medical problem? Melissa Fagan appeared completely healthy, normal…no more, than normal. She had to be physically strong to perform her job.
“So, what happened to her?”
“Same old, same old. Apparently, she was juggled from one foster home to another, ended up in a group home outside Atlanta as a teen. Earned a scholarship and a degree, then attended PT school at Emory.”
Impressive. But those foster homes—although the system tried, Eric had witnessed horror stories of failed results and homes that never should have been recommended for the foster care program, children battered and abused and traumatized from the results of misplacements. What was Melissa’s story?
“What’s she doing here at CIRP?”
Devlin’s breath wheezed over the line, and Eric realized he was smoking. His hand automatically dropped to his bedside table, a self-deprecating chuckle following. He’d quit, not by choice, but during his hospital stay, he hadn’t been able to smoke. The first time he’d smelled a cigarette afterwards, it had triggered memories of the scent of his own flesh burning.
“Miss Fagan recently hired a private investigator. Apparently she’s trying to locate her birth parents.”
“She believes they’re here?”
“She was born in Savannah not long after the hospital was opened. In fact, shortly after Hughes came on board.”
Eric sat up straighter, his anxiety level rising a notch. Too coincidental. The research experiments with baby Simon hadn’t been the first, he was certain. One of the locals, Detective Black’s sister Denise Harley, had researched methods to enhance cognitive growth, but she’d supposedly scratched the research, afraid it would fall into the wrong hands. Had the facility conducted questionable experiments back in the eighties? And if so, could Melissa be somehow connected?
No, he was jumping to conclusions, letting his imagination run away from him because of Simon. Hundreds of babies were born each year, abandoned, adopted, all normal deliveries.
Still, as he hung up, worry assaulted him. Even if there weren’t any strange circumstances surrounding her birth, what would happen if she started asking questions?
Did her parents want to be found or would they rather their secrets be buried forever?
AFTER HER MORNING sessions, Melissa had tried to hack into the computer system again, but failed. Helen walked by the cafeteria and barely spared her a glance. So much for forging a friendship here. Melissa had definitely upset the woman that day when she’d asked about the labor and delivery wing. Helen had avoided her since.
Dreading her afternoon session with Eric, she finished her bagel, a slight headache pinching. To avoid a seizure, she seriously needed to destress, but how could she relax when questions from her past haunted her? Who was she? How sick had her mother been? Why hadn’t one of the other family members possessed the ability to love her? What kind of people were the Latones?
They’d deserted a baby…
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t find the answers in the cafeteria, so she took a pain reliever and hurried back to the rehab wing. She’d been pushing Eric hard, and he’d made great strides.
But as he
entered, she recognized anger and mounting despair in his eyes. He wasn’t recovering as quickly as he wanted. And although he kept his emotions sealed in a steel vault, they had been bottled so long she sensed the door might blow open any minute.
When that happened—and she knew it would, because every patient experienced the boiling point—she would be there to push him further. She refused to let him give up. Even if he did hate her. And lately, it appeared that way. His behavior might not have hurt so much if she hadn’t sensed heat between them that night he’d met her by the ocean. And when he’d escorted her back to her room, she’d thought he might kiss her.
But she couldn’t allow herself to get involved, especially when she needed to focus on finding out the truth about her identity.
Besides, she had never trusted enough to allow anyone close before. Not after all the times she’d been rejected. The memory of her college boyfriend’s reaction to her seizure had been burned into her brain as deeply as the physical scars on Eric’s body.
A body that, in spite of its scars was taut and muscular and undeniably attractive.
Her cheeks flared with heat at the thought of being intimate with him. He would be the first…only he didn’t seem to want her.
He rolled toward her, and she inhaled deeply to stymie her natural reaction. Fatigue shadowed his dark eyes, the remnants of lack of sleep evident in the tiny lines around his mouth.
She wondered what he’d look like if he actually smiled.
But she doubted she’d see it anytime soon.
“Afternoon, Eric.”
He simply scowled, offering no more conversation than usual.
“Have a good break?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She dragged her gaze from his face to his chart. She’d added a few more exercises to the original regimen.
He parked the chair beside the exercise equipment and flattened his hands on his thighs, beginning the sequence of warm-up exercises that had become routine for both of them. He stretched and flexed while she massaged the cramped muscle in his lower calf. His right leg seemed stronger daily, but the left one had sustained more damage and was progressing slower.
His skin felt hot to the touch, the dark hairs on his leg brushing sensitive nerve endings as she stroked and applied pressure to the muscle. He gritted his teeth, his tight jaw masking any reaction to the pain.
“How are you sleeping?” she asked as she extended his left leg and nodded for him to push against her hand.
“Fine.”
“Your eyes tell a different story.”
He jerked his head up, a haunted hollow look his only reply.
“The doctor could give you something so you can rest. To help with the nightmares.”
“Who said I have nightmares?”
She smiled, continuing her workout as she spoke. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t, not after what you’ve been through.”
He gripped the chair edge. “I’m sure they’ll fade with time.”
“Probably.” She gestured toward the bars. “But talking about them might help.”
“So you’re offering shrink services, too?”
Melissa hesitated, sensing his coiled emotions on the verge of exploding. “I’m not a shrink, just a friend.”
“Friend?” A bitter-sounding laugh rumbled from his chest. “Well, honey, I’ve been short on those lately.”
This time her head jerked up. It was the first time he’d called her anything but Miss Fagan.
As if he decided he’d made a huge faux pas, his mouth flattened into a tight line again, and he grabbed the bar to hoist himself up. Melissa reached out an arm to help him, but he pushed her hand away.
WHAT THE HELL made him say a fool thing like that to his therapist? One minute she was suggesting he needed a shrink, the next minute he’d all but flirted with her. Eric Caldwell didn’t know how to flirt anymore, or do anything but work.
Melissa Fagan felt sorry for him, nothing more.
How could she feel anything else when she saw his ugly body and touched his mangled flesh on a daily basis? When she of all people knew his limitations, that he was no longer a whole man?
As if to cement his feelings, the young candy striper watched from the corner, her gaze full of pity. Bitterness swelled inside him as he struggled to straighten his legs and put weight on them. He had to brace himself with his arms, the force causing his muscles to strain. Shoving any ideas of chitchat from his head, he ordered himself to focus. To concentrate on making his legs work the way they once had.
Until his body had forgotten.
They spent the next half hour in grueling silence, going through several reps of leg extensions and flexing exercises. Eric was tired of the tidbits of progress. He wanted to walk.
“You were in a hospital in Atlanta before this?” Melissa asked.
“Yes.”
“What brought you all the way to Savannah for therapy? Atlanta has some great facilities.”
“Yes, but the on-site living and ocean here appealed to me. Being confined to a hospital room was too suffocating.”
Melissa smiled. “I understand the feeling. I get claustrophobic myself.” She gestured for him to stop. “I think we can call it quits for today.”
Eric glared at her. “No, not yet.”
Melissa’s gaze met his. “Remember my warning about not overdoing, Eric.”
“I’m tired of this crap,” Eric growled. “I want to do more. I can do more.”
“No.”
Anger fed him as he attempted to move his foot forward, but his leg refused to budge. Steeling his rage, he stared down at the appendage, willing it to move.
“Eric, you’re exhausted, let’s rest.”
“No, damn it. I’m going to walk.” Channeling every ounce of misery into determination, he pushed his foot a fraction of an inch, but his leg cramped and his knees buckled. He tried to catch himself before he went down, but his arms were shaking from the exertion, and he wound up landing on his butt, heaving for air. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” He scraped his hands through his hair, then grabbed his leg and rubbed the knotted muscle.
Melissa knelt, her soft hand on his back, angering him more. “Come on, you need to rest.”
“Leave me alone.” All his pent-up frustration snapped, exploding in jerky movements. He felt like a failure.
Melissa eased around in front of him, cradled his calf between her hands and kneaded the muscle, applying pressure at the pinpoints of pain and smoothing them away. She had magic hands. He felt weak, relieved, indebted.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young candy striper’s sympathetic look again. Still, he was helpless to refuse Melissa’s ministrations. Worse, he despised himself for not wanting her to stop, for having to accept the role of victim when he had always been the one to lend help to the weaker.
“I might as well give up.” He dropped his head forward, unable to believe he’d finally voiced his doubts.
Melissa’s hands stilled. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, reassuring. “You will walk again, Eric, but you have to be patient.”
“Patient?”
“Yes, you can’t quit.”
“Why not? It’s been two weeks, and I still can’t slide my foot a damn inch.”
She gripped his hands in hers. “You are making progress, Eric. You can’t expect damaged muscles to work without proper rest and retraining. Recovery is hard and slow, but time does heal things.”
“How would you know?” His past with his family, the explosion, the cases with the women he’d worked with, all converged, blotting out any hope from the darkness. He felt as if he’d been thrown into a pit of endless gray and couldn’t climb out. Ever.
She dropped her hands. “You’re not the first patient I’ve worked with, nor will you be the last.”
“That’s right. I’m just a patient to you, nothing more.” He fisted his hands. “You feel sorry for me—”
“I don’t feel sorry f
or you, Eric. You’ve covered that yourself.”
He knotted his fists. Her words hit home. Still, he was helpless to react, because all those lonely mornings of waking and wanting more from her than therapy flashed into his mind. God, he yearned to have her hands all over him, massaging more than his legs…
“I also know what it’s like to overcome a physical problem,” Melissa said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
He flattened his hands in an effort to push himself up. He remembered the report from Devlin, but he couldn’t believe she had medical issues. She was too beautiful, too tough, too compassionate and strong. Her condition must have been so minor, she’d overcome it long ago. “How can you possibly understand?”
“Because I have a seizure disorder,” she said matter-of-factly.
His gaze met hers. For a brief second, he realized the pain in her confession.
“I’m not epileptic,” Melissa said. “But occasionally I have mild seizures. I take medication for them daily.” Her voice dropped to a thready whisper. “My condition has complicated my life.”
Luke had mentioned that she’d been shuffled from one home to another, never been adopted. Eric had spent his entire life helping women in need, yet now he was taking his frustrations out on her.
Good God. He was no better than his father.
Shame replaced his anger. “I’m sorry. I…”
“Now you’re feeling sorry for me.” Her quick flash of temper was real. Eric had no idea how to rectify his blunder. He’d just insulted her by doing the very thing he’d accused her of, offering her pity.
“Now, let’s get you off the floor.”
He started to apologize, but her dark look warned him to drop the subject. He gripped her arm and allowed her to help him stand.
“You want to try again?”
He nodded, more determined than ever.
The next few minutes, he forgot the darkness in his soul and his need for revenge as she murmured words of encouragement. Instead, he imagined stepping toward her, taking her in his arms and kissing those luscious pink lips. Finally, he managed to slide his foot forward a fraction of an inch.