by Bonnie Vanak
The houses here were definitely more expensive than her rental.
He pulled into a curved driveway before a turquoise two-story house with a metal roof. Keys jingled in his hand as he stared at the house before them. “She wanted to keep the baby and so did I. We liked each other, and I thought marriage wouldn’t be a big deal. But I needed a more stable job with good benefits, so I joined the agency, trained at Quantico. By the time Kasey was born, I was a field agent specializing in abductions and child trafficking.”
A sinking feeling began in her stomach. “Did Kasey die in the car crash?”
He refused to meet her gaze. “Ten days later, in the hospital. She never awoke from the coma.”
Belle felt a sickening jolt. Losing a child had to the worst thing a parent ever suffered. “I’m so sorry.”
His mouth compressed. “The doctors said the same thing. I didn’t believe them. They weren’t really sorry.”
No wonder he disliked her on first sight. He probably blamed the medical profession for losing his daughter.
She had no words of real comfort, only that platitude of sympathy. Belle turned to him. “I can’t imagine the pain you suffered, losing your daughter. And your wife. I won’t even pretend to try. I used to try to make sense of tragedy and gave up. All I can do as a doctor is try my best to save those who can be saved. Sometimes, as hard as it is to accept, it’s not enough.”
Knuckles whitened as he clenched his keys. “The doctors who treated her could have done more to save her.”
“Like you can with all the children you try to save?”
Kyle turned, scowling. “What the hell do you mean?”
“You’re an FBI agent. You’re a professional who does all he can to bring children home to their families. Not every case you solve has a good ending.”
For a moment he sat there, his body tense. Then his broad shoulders relaxed a little. “You make a good point. C’mon. Let’s take care of your injury.”
She sensed there would be no further conversation about the matter, and was glad to drop it. Her head already pounded.
She got an impression of cool white marble tile, and an expansive living-and-dining area. The kitchen, immediately to the right, was modern and gleaming, with stainless steel appliances, an island with four bar stools and light granite counters.
Photos of sailboats decorated the walls. Belle swept an appreciative eye over the interior and the white sectional sofa overlooking the water and a pool in back. Yet for all the tasteful interior decorating, the house had the feeling of a designer showpiece.
Not a real home.
“Very nice.”
He shrugged. “It’s not mine. Belongs to a friend who uses it two weeks out of the year. I’m rarely here, anyway.”
No wonder it lacked personality, especially his. Belle suspected Kyle was the kind of man who kept his professional life neat and clean, and kicked off his leather loafers while at home.
“Go into the guest bathroom. Second door on the right. Be there in a minute. Have to lock up my gun.”
She found her way there, a long, elegant bathroom with a door leading to the pool. More white cabinets, gleaming counters and stainless steel. She pulled out a bamboo stool from the shower and sat.
Kyle came into the bathroom, rummaged through a bottom cabinet.
Gray trousers stretched tight over his butt. Terrific butt, too, all taut muscle and round. Admiring the scenery, she startled when he straightened and turned. A blush suffused her cheeks. He noticed, gave a crooked grin.
“Checking me out, Doc?”
Belle shrugged. “If the view is perfect, why not?”
Now it was Kyle’s turn for his cheeks to turn ruddy. He set a bottle of peroxide and a first-aid kit down on the counter. “Can’t believe you called my ass perfect.”
“Don’t get a big head over it, cowboy agent.” Belle winced as he dabbed liquid on her wound.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m trying to go easy.”
“S’okay.” He had big hands, but he was gentle as he cleansed the laceration. Strength in those hands, but he knew how and when to wield it.
Bet he’d be great in bed with those hands.
Another flush ignited her cheeks.
Kyle applied antibiotic cream and a small bandage. “You okay, Doc? You’re flushing.”
“Fine,” she said tersely.
He left and returned with a glass of water and handed it to her, along with two painkillers. Belle shook her head. “I don’t take pills.”
“Sorry, I’m fresh out of morphine.”
At her raised brows, he flashed a brief smile. “Joke. It’s just aspirin.”
Fine. She did need something, even if pride prohibited her.
Kyle squatted before her, his blue gaze intense. “Feel up to going over details of what you remember from the other girls who went missing?”
“Of course. Anything to help.”
They went into the living area in the back. Kyle loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.
“I wondered when you would unwind. Do you ever take off the suit jacket?”
“Only when I get shot.”
Belle rolled her eyes as he grinned. Then he shrugged out of his jacket, draped it neatly over a dining room chair. She sat on the sectional as he grabbed a pen and pad.
“Let’s start with the medical file first. What do you remember?” he asked.
Belle went over to him. “No, first I want to see your arm. The one with the bullet wound.”
Stiffening, he snorted. “It’s fine. Didn’t even need stitches.”
“I’m a doctor,” she said serenely. “I want to see for myself. Call it a free house call.”
Grumbling, he tossed the pad and pen aside, removed his tie and took off his starched white shirt. Belle’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she forgot she was a medical professional as her hormones kicked into stride.
It was challenging to be professional and objective when faced with all that tanned, smooth skin and muscles.
Kyle Anderson had a fine physique, trim and athletic. A sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest. His arms were muscled, but not bulging. He had the tone of a runner, not a weight lifter.
She inched closer to him on the sofa, breathing in the delicious spice of his cologne. Belle lifted the bandage and studied the wound, her pulse racing. Not from the injury, but his nearness.
“What does it feel like to get shot?”
“I didn’t even know I’d been hit. Not this time. Too much adrenaline. The other two times it was like getting smacked with a hot iron. Hurts like a bitch, but when you’re in the middle of gunfire, you kick into survival mode. The pain starts later, when everything calms down.”
“It’s the body’s way of compensating, to keep you alive.”
Her gaze swept over his body. Two other scars dented his skin. One round and small on his collarbone, the other lower, ragged and large.
She gently probed the scars. “More bullet wounds?”
Kyle glanced down at her hand. “Large one was a bullet. Other one was when some perp stabbed me with an ice pick.”
Belle touched the larger injury, the puckered pink flesh on his shoulder. “And this?”
“Shootout on a drug case.”
“Looks like it hurt. A lot.”
“The psychological trauma is worse. I kept thinking that I couldn’t leave my partner, had to stay there and give him cover. Roarke told me later that I never even said anything, even blinked. He hadn’t seen it since he saw a buddy shot in Afghanistan.”
“Roarke served? Army?”
“Navy SEAL.”
She lifted the bandage on his arm. The ugly ridge marching through his tanned arm had turned pink, but looked healthy. No infection.
“Healing nice
ly. The ER doc did a good job.”
Kyle’s gaze locked to hers. “You have a nice touch, Doc.”
Unable to resist, she slid her fingers up and down his biceps. “You’re young and strong and have a good immune system. There should be no lasting effects.”
“Maybe not from the bullet graze, but my heart is racing pretty damn hard right now,” he said softly. “Has a habit of doing that when you’re around. Gets worse when you touch me.”
“I like touching you,” she whispered.
Sparks sizzled between them, a natural chemistry her brain recognized as purely sexual. She tried to remember it was biology. Science.
Her body nudged her closer. Go for it.
Belle moistened her lips as he stared at her mouth. He wanted it as badly as she did. One kiss. What could happen?
Plenty.
Then Kyle’s gaze flicked away and he reached for his shirt.
“The girls,” he said in a ragged voice. “Tell me what you know.”
Work. Belle retreated a safe few feet away and closed her eyes. But as she recalled the details, disappointment filled her.
She hadn’t been this attracted to a man in a long time. But Kyle Anderson, as rugged and charming as he was, wasn’t here for socializing.
Neither was she.
Chapter 11
Ninety minutes later, feeling as if her brain had been wrung dry, Belle was ready for food. The bright blue sky turned leaden with sunset, and her stomach grumbled, reminding her she’d forgotten to eat lunch.
Kyle shut his notebook. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Now what?” She sipped the water he’d fetched for her.
He scanned the notes. “I’ll type up my report, send this in.”
“Anything useful?”
Hope faded as he shook his head. “Afraid not. Looks like standard medical information, childhood colds, immunizations. Nothing unusual.”
He tapped the pen against the pad. “We haven’t been able to get ahold of Dr. Patterson.”
Mike had not returned to the clinic since Anna’s disappearance. But he texted Clint, her brother and his employer, to tell him he was taking vacation time. The clinic had been closed since Anna’s disappearance.
“He took an extended vacation.” Belle shrugged. “He’s entitled to it.”
“Fine. But we need to question him, and he seems to be out of reach.”
Surprise filled her. “Did you try his cell?”
Even if Mike was out of the country, he always answered his cell phone. Like her, he had an international calling plan.
“Voice mail.” Kyle looked thoughtful. “Either he’s loath to talk to us, or he’s out of reach if he’s traveling. Any idea where he headed?”
“He usually likes warmth this time of year.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked dryly. “We’ll find a way to touch base with him.”
“Why?”
“Routine.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “We questioned everyone who works at the clinic, except him. And he’s the chief physician, the one person who should know everything that happens at that place.”
“I can try to reach him for you.”
“Promise?”
Belle hesitated. “I will call him later.”
Kyle smiled at her and a tingle rushed down her spine. When he lost the serious look, the man was downright devastating.
“What should I do next?”
“Feel like grabbing a bite?”
“Definitely. I’m starved. What do you have?”
Those lean cheeks grew ruddy again. “Not much, I’m afraid, except for old cans of Spam left over from last hurricane season. Pickings here are slim.”
“Spam in a can or on a computer isn’t my favorite,” she said lightly. “Know a good place that has fajitas? I have a craving for sizzling food.”
Kyle flashed his charming grin. “As long as you don’t mind hockey games.”
“Not at all.”
The sports bar he selected was crowded. Wide-screen televisions blared basketball and hockey games. Kyle slid into a wood booth and she sat across from him.
She liked a well-dressed man, and Kyle Anderson definitely dressed well. But here in this casual atmosphere, Belle wondered what he’d look like in shorts and a T-shirt.
Or better yet, nothing at all. The upper half of him certainly looked yummy.
When the waiter came over, she ordered the chicken fajitas and white wine. Kyle ordered a draft domestic beer, an appetizer of fried pickles and the grilled chicken dinner. Belle raised her brows.
“Fried pickles? I can hear your arteries hardening already.”
“I don’t always eat like this, but man, their fried pickles are sinful. You have to try them. Or don’t you like anything sinful?”
In his deep, sultry voice, Kyle made sinful sound absolutely...sinfully tempting. She leaned on the table. “Like your fried pickles, the occasional indulgence never hurt me.”
“Interesting,” he murmured. “I know a few things that are much more pleasurable than eating fried pickles.”
It felt wonderfully freeing and enjoyable, flirting like this in a crowded restaurant. The gleam in his blue eyes, the way he caressed her with his gaze made her feel fully feminine and aware for the first time in months. Work and volunteering and worry about her future had consumed her.
Belle drew in a sharp breath. “It feels wrong, being here, when Anna is still missing.”
Kyle reached out, rested his hand atop hers. “Stop blaming yourself for eating a meal. One thing I’ve learned on the job, Doc, is you have to take a break once in a while and indulge in self-care or you’ll burn out.”
The waiter brought their drinks. Kyle didn’t even look up, or reach for his beer, only continued holding her hand. It felt wonderful and calming, and yet not calming. Her body hummed with happiness.
Anticipation.
Fascinating how holding hands with a man made her heart beat faster than some men did when they were engaged in much more physical contact.
Although intense and dedicated, Kyle wasn’t demanding. Belle had met other men who were high-maintenance and pressured her before she was ready.
She liked his sense of humor, and the way his face lit up when he smiled.
And he smelled wonderful, like a day at the beach.
Although she considered herself independent and didn’t need a man’s protection, his chivalrous attitude proved endearing. But most of all, it felt good to have a guy treat her with respect, as an equal and still show the same interest in her she felt for him.
Belle squeezed his fingers. “You have a nice touch, Kyle.”
With his other hand, he picked up a pickle slice, dipped it into sauce and held it to her mouth. “One slice. Once you try it, you’ll never forget it.”
Her mouth parted and his eyes darkened as he slid the pickle slice past her lips. Belle chewed, swallowed and licked her mouth.
“Anything else you suggest I try?”
It might have gone further, except a loud “Kyle, what are you doing here?” interrupted them. He slid his hand away, scowled at Roarke, who sauntered up to the booth.
“Unlike you, I’m not pretending I’m on vacation,” he told him. “What the hell is that?”
Roarke looked down. “Clothing.”
Belle suppressed a laugh. Kyle’s partner wore a bright red-and-yellow Hawaiian-print shirt, black shorts and sandals.
“And here I thought you only ordered takeout.” Roarke slid into the booth next to him. “Then again, even workaholics have to eat.”
Kyle glowered at his partner. “You look like a beach bum.”
“And you look like a fed. Once a fed, always one.” Roarke helped himself to a fried pickle. “Hey, these are pretty good.”
Belle slid the
dish closer to him. “Help yourself.”
“You have a habit of showing up in all the wrong places at all the wrong times,” he said, eyeing his partner.
Roarke nodded at Kyle. “He’s always this grumpy when he’s hangry.”
Belle smiled, but she also felt a stab of disappointment at his partner showing up. She’d been looking forward to dinner alone with Kyle. Dinner and something else?
If it went further, she definitely would not be disappointed.
Roarke was cute. Quite cute. With his dark hair and fascinating green eyes, he could even be considered devastating. But he didn’t interest her.
Kyle did.
“I’m always grumpy when you’re around,” Kyle muttered.
“People who complain all the time are sexually frustrated. They should be making love instead of griping,” Roarke said in Spanish, grinning at a scowling Kyle.
Belle bit back a laugh.
“Sex is your answer to everything,” he muttered in the same language.
“Not everything. More people should make love. So much better than taking out your frustrations on your work partner.”
“I take my frustration out in the gym when I kickbox. Want me to take it out on your face?” Kyle offered.
Roarke’s grin widened. “You’d be better off, and much happier, my friend, in bed with a pretty woman. And if you’re too sour to seize the opportunity, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
He glanced at Belle as he continued speaking in Spanish. Belle bit her lip.
“Stay away from her,” Kyle growled.
Enough. “I can stand up for myself,” she told Kyle in English.
As his brow wrinkled, she added sweetly in Spanish, “Speaking in another language to exclude an English speaker is considered rude.”
His jaw dropped. “I didn’t know...”
“That I’m fluent in Spanish?” She folded her hands primly on the table. “Did you think that because I went to finishing school, maybe I wouldn’t want to learn the same language many of the clinic patients speak?”
Roarke laughed again. “I knew I liked you, Dr. Belle North.”
But her attention riveted to Kyle. “You kickbox for fun? Or to work out?”
“Both. Ever tried it?”