Covert M.D.

by Jessica Andersen

  “Nadia.” His voice seemed to caress the word, bringing back memories best left unremembered.

  She stopped and glanced back, steeling herself against the sight of him, strong and virile, an image that could have stepped out of her aching, mindless dreams.

  Or her nightmares.

  “I prefer to be called Nia now. Nadia is a child’s name, and I’m not a child anymore.” She lifted her chin, daring him to comment. “We have a meeting with the heads of the Transplant Department at 9:00 a.m. sharp—don’t be late.”

  This time she didn’t look back, not even when he called her name. They had three hours until the meeting. She’d need every minute of that to prepare herself for the case.

  And to armor herself against the disturbing presence of Rathe McKay.

  BY NINE THAT MORNING, Rathe was back to walking upright as he stalked through Boston General, but his temper hadn’t mellowed much.

  It was temper, he assured himself. Temper that had his blood surging through his veins with a tricky tingling sensation. Temper that had him feeling more alive, more engaged than he had in months or maybe longer.

  Temper.

  What was Wainwright thinking, partnering him with a woman trainee? He didn’t work with women. And even if he did, Nadia French was the last girl he’d choose.

  Rathe shook his head, annoyed. No, that wasn’t right. This was about her being a woman, not about her being Tony’s daughter or about a mistake he’d once made in an airport hotel.

  His refusal to work with the opposite gender was based on logic and experience. Period. There was nothing personal about it, and nothing personal between him and Nadia.

  Sure, his first glimpse of her had been a kick in the gut, a surge of warmth and energy, but that was only basic man-woman biology. His yang approving of her yin. Nothing personal.

  Her thick, dark hair was shorter than he remembered. In fact, she was shorter than he remembered, as though his mind had decided her scrappy personality couldn’t fit inside such a tiny shell. He’d remembered her eyes right, though. Dark brown, swirling with darker prom ises, they used to look at him with adoration, as though he was the hero he’d once thought himself.

  Now they shone with anger. That was personal. And it was unacceptable in a partner.

  Already five minutes late for the briefing, Rathe ducked into a windowed alcove and punched his superior’s number into his mid-wave cell phone, a high-tech HFH toy certified safe for use in hospitals. When Jack Wainwright answered, Rathe wasted no time with pleasantries. “I want her off the case. Now.”

  There was a rumble of amusement. Jack had trained Rathe himself, back before a stray bullet had landed the older man behind a desk. There was respect between the two but little reverence. “McKay. I didn’t expect to hear from you until at least nine-fifteen. The meeting can’t have even started yet.”

  “It hasn’t. I met my partner in the laundry room at 2:00 a.m. this morning. She was getting a jump on the case. She doesn’t seem to get that investigators never, ever go Lone Ranger.” It was HFH policy, and might be enough to convince Jack to pull her off the job.

  “You were there, too, so don’t pretend you give a damn about policy.” Jack’s shrug carried down the line. “I know you don’t work with women, McKay, but it’s not like you two are in the middle of a war zone. It’s a bit of petty drug trafficking at a well-funded urban hospital. Enjoy it.”

  Rathe gritted his teeth, knowing the cushy assignment was Jack’s way of saying he thought Rathe needed a break from the real action. “She’s a liability.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s a transplant specialist, she’s fearless, and she was requested by name.” Jack’s voice hardened into a direct order. “Use her. Teach her. This is what the next generation of HFH investigators looks like, McKay. Get used to it.”

  The phone went dead in Rathe’s hand, and he scowled.

  Enjoy it. Get used to it. Jack’s words replayed in his mind as he jogged up the stairs to the sixth floor, which housed the Transplant Unit.

  Fine. They thought he was burned out? He’d show them. He’d make this the fastest, cleanest investigation they’d ever seen. And he’d do it handicapped with a female partner.

  He hit the top of the stairs, and an echo of heat reminded him that it wasn’t that simple.

  His partner was Nadia French. Nia. Tony’s daughter.

  Rathe had wanted to see his old friend one last time, had ached to apologize, to forgive and be forgiven and to hold Nadia when her father died.

  But sometimes a man had to break a promise to keep a promise. And so he had stayed away.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the doors into the office of the director of transplant medicine.

  “You’re late.” From her chair on the visitor’s side of the lake-size desk, Nia frowned at him. “I’ve already told Dr. Talbot about the men with the suspicious laundry hamper, and the van with the—”

  “I’ll take it from here,” he interrupted. “Try to remember that I hold seniority on this case.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, sir, Dr. McKay, sir.”

  Rathe ignored her and held out a hand to the older of the two men in the room, a distinguished, white-haired gentleman sporting a bow tie and elegant, steel-rimmed glasses. “I’m Rathe McKay.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. McKay. Your reputation as the medical community’s answer to Indiana Jones precedes you.” The older man’s handshake was firm. “Michael Talbot. And this,” the director of transplant gestured to his companion, a handsome, well-groomed man, “is my assistant director, Logan Hart.”

  The assistant director nodded but didn’t offer a hand. In his early thirties, Hart exuded breeding and education from the ends of his professionally sculpted hair to the tips of his tasseled black leather shoes. He looked a far cry from Rathe, who’d gone from the foster-care system straight to a combined undergraduate/medical degree on an HFH scholarship.

  And where had that thought come from, Rathe wondered. He was the man he’d become, not the boy he’d been.

  Frowning, he took the visitor’s chair beside Nia and focused his attention on the men. “My superior has been in direct contact with your administration. I expect you to grant me all of the necessary access and let me run my own investigation. In exchange I’ll provide you a written report of my findings once a week. Is that clear?”

  There was dead silence in the office as the balance of power shifted neatly into Rathe’s hands—which had been his intention. He needed to take control of the situation right away.

  When he was in charge, nobody made mistakes. Everyone lived.

  But he could feel Nia fuming at his casual dismissal of what she’d seen in the loading area. The aggravation poured off her in waves. He could smell it coming from her skin, like the memory of—

  Like the memory of a mistake. A betrayal.

  A lost opportunity.

  “Gentlemen?” Rathe forced his voice to sound level when it would have—what? Cracked? Faltered? Impossible—he was a grown man. Things like that didn’t happen to him. That was for kids such as Nia. “Do we have an agreement?”

  Logan Hart, who looked like a kid himself, frowned, but his boss, Talbot, smiled with a glint of respect in his eyes. He held out his hand a second time, this time in affirmation. “We have an agreement, Dr. McKay. We would be fools not to take advantage of your expertise.”

  In his peripheral vision, Rathe saw Nia curl her lip. Surprisingly, he had to fight a kink of amusement.

  But this was no laughing matter. It was an investigation, and if her little stunt down in the subbasement was any indication, she was going to be a hell of a lot of work to baby-sit while he went about his business.

  The director leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Basically we’re stumped. Transplant patients who would’ve survived a year ago are dying, and there are gaps in our supplies that suggest theft, but nobody’s seen anything.” He spread his hands. “I bro
ught this to the head administrator’s attention, and he called you.”

  “What sorts of supplies?” Rathe asked.

  At the same time Nia said, “Are there connections among the dead patients?”

  Logan Hart grinned at her, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Good question. They’re all rare type.”

  Rathe shrugged. “If they’re rare tissue type, then they probably waited longest for their transplants and had the worst prognoses. You may just be seeing a blip. Let’s focus on the supplies to start with. What’s been disappearing?”

  Nia frowned but didn’t argue.

  Talbot pushed a bulging envelope across the desk. “There’s a list in here, along with your ID badges and supporting information. Jack Wainwright picked your cover stories. I hope you’ll find them acceptable.”

  Rathe could have sworn Talbot was laughing at him but wasn’t sure why. He opened the envelope, shook out its contents and glanced at Nia’s information before passing it to her. She would be posing as a transplant specialist visiting the hospital to observe Boston General’s procedures, and give a short lecture series. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to dissemble much to maintain her cover, which was good. She didn’t have the experience he did at sliding into new roles. Chameleonlike, he could assume any cover, pass himself off easily as any of a number of people, such as…Rathe glanced at his packet.

  “A janitor? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Nia lifted a hand to stifle a snicker. When Rathe glared at her, she managed to straighten her face before she said, “It’s perfect. You’re working the night shift, so you’ll be able to watch the loading docks and see what comes and goes. So far, that’s our best lead….”

  She was right, damn it. But Rathe also knew she was thinking that working the day shift, when he was off, would give her time to do some digging on her own. To prove herself.

  He knew, because he’d once been like that himself. He’d learned his lesson the hardest way possible, and he’d be damned if he’d let Tony French’s daughter find herself in the same situation.

  So he nodded. “You’re right. Working the night shift will give me plenty of time to help you with your end of things.”

  She scowled back. “You’ll need to sleep sometime, McKay.”

  “Not necessarily.” He scooped their IDs into the envelope. “I don’t sleep much.” He nodded to the transplant doctors, who were following the exchange with rapt attention. “Gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

  Rathe didn’t miss the frown Nia directed at him, nor did he miss noticing how Logan Hart held her hand a moment longer than necessary when they shook.

  Kids will be kids, Rathe told himself fiercely, and the words echoed in the voice of Nia’s father. Though Rathe had shrugged off his experiences as an on-loan medic in the war-torn country where the two had met over a transfusion, the place had marked Tony. Not long after, Tony had retired from the Army to hunker down in the suburbs with his wife and daughter while he waited for the nightmares to fade.

  Rathe hoped they had in the end.

  Trying to ignore the tug he felt in his gut when Nia laughed at something Logan Hart said, Rathe spun on his heel and left the office. He never should have come back to the States.

  At least when he was abroad, it was easier to forget that he’d slept with his best friend’s daughter.

  He stalked down the hall, away from the woman and the memories. But he didn’t go far. He had a feeling she was going to find every possible opportunity to place herself in danger during this assignment.

  Hell, it’s what he would do in her situation.

  EIGHT HOURS LATER, still annoyed that Rathe hadn’t waited around after their meeting so they could plan their case and divvy up the responsibilities, Nia stalked to the garage where she’d parked her car. She couldn’t wait to get back to the swanky apartment building that had been donated to Boston General for use by visiting scientists and patients’ families.

  She’d spent the day going over the notes and familiarizing herself with the setup. Slick and well organized, Boston General’s Transplant Department boasted twenty beds and enough high-tech gadgets to satisfy even Nia—especially since she had designed a few of them herself during her two years in grad school.

  “Brilliant,” they had called her, when in reality she had simply been bored. Bored by the classwork, by her fellow students, and by the city itself. She had longed for faraway places that could be reached only by over grown paths, for adventures like the stories her father had told her. Stories with titles like, “The Time Rathe Was Adopted by Cannibals” or “The Time Rathe Saved the Congo.”

  Those stories had stopped the day she announced to her parents that she wanted to join HFH when she grew up. Come to think of it, so had Rathe’s visits, for the most part.

  In the damp garage, Nia missed the car door lock and dropped her keys to the pavement beside her silver Jetta. She bent and retrieved them, and was surprised to find her throat tight with the memory.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she murmured as she unlocked the car and slipped inside its interior, which smelled of leather and hospital disinfectant. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for me.”

  But her father’s plans and hers had diverged a long time ago, even before he got sick.

  She backed the Jetta out of her hospital parking slot and drove the vehicle out of the garage, shielding her eyes against the reflected glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror. “Geez,” she muttered over the classic rock on the radio, “I know it gets dark early this time of year, but are the high beams really necessary?”

  The headlights followed her out of the garage and down Washington Street, where she merged slowly with the rest of the “rush” hour traffic.

  It wasn’t until a mile and three lane shifts later that Nia realized the high beams were still just a few cars behind her.

  She was being followed.

  “Nonsense,” she told herself as nerves prickled in her stomach. “The whole apartment building is owned by the hospital. They’re simply going the same place you are.”

  But that didn’t stop her left eye from twitching, as it had the night before when she’d seen the two white-coated men pushing a laundry hamper out of the Transplant Department. And it didn’t stop her heart from picking up a beat in fear.

  She gripped the leather steering wheel tightly as traffic pushed her toward the entrance to the apartment building’s parking garage. Should she drive by and see what Mr. High Beams would do? Or should she park and make a run for it?

  What would Rathe do in this situation?

  “Argh!” She slapped the steering wheel in frustration and turned into the garage. She had purged that silly, teenage question from her head years ago, along with the crush she’d had on her father’s dashing friend. Or so she’d thought. But there it was, reminding her of the man she’d loved at twenty-one and hated not long after.

  Mr. High Beams didn’t follow her into the garage, and Nia felt faintly ashamed for jumping at shadows. A good investigator needed to be tougher than that.

  She parked, climbed out of the Jetta, slung her purse and soft-sided briefcase over her shoulder and tried to stop herself from hurrying to the elevators.

  A voice spoke out of the shadows. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Two

  Nia gasped and jolted, though the quick thunder of her heart identified Rathe before he stepped out into the light. She took an involuntary step back, snagged her foot on a crack and stumbled.

  He caught her before she fell, one strong hand grabbing her arm, the other curving around her waist and sending a lightning bolt of sensation through her chest.

  “Let me go!” She struggled to get away, not from him, but from the effect he had on her.

  He released her quickly, though kept a hand up to make sure she was steady. A shadow moved across his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Nadia.”

  Nadia.

  It was the name her father had given her, the n
ame he’d called her until the day he died. The memory of it brought a phantom ache to the scar beside her navel, and the threat of tears to her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temples, where the first tendrils of a headache had gathered. It was late, that was all. She wasn’t usually this vulnerable to memories.

  “Go away, Rathe.” Her quiet voice held the accumulated stress of the day.

  Of all the times she’d imagined their reunion…

  “We have things to discuss.” He stood between her and the elevator, though she sensed he wouldn’t stop her from boarding. No, he would just ride up with her, which could not be allowed. He’d had his chance to be a part of her life, a part of her family, and he’d turned it down without even a reply, just a packet of letters marked Return To Sender.

  She shook her head, feeling the echoes of old sorrow, newer frustration. This would never work. There was no way she and Rathe could function together as a team. “We could’ve talked anytime today, you didn’t need to follow me home. Right now I’m tired and I have a full day of surgery to observe tomorrow, so I’m going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  She moved to brush past him, but he caught her arm and waited until she looked up at him. “Nadia. Nia. I didn’t follow you. Talbot told me where you were billeted, so I waited here for you.” He paused a beat. “Why? Did someone follow you?” When she didn’t answer right away, he shook her. “Nia! Were you followed?”

  She thought of the high beams behind her, the feeling of creeping malevolence they’d given her and the relief she’d felt when she turned into the garage and they moved on by. “No, of course not.”

  “You always were a lousy liar. Damn it! This is all because of that crazy stunt you pulled in the laundry area.” Looking suddenly tired, he released her arm, stepped forward and stabbed the elevator call button. “Come on. We need to set some ground rules. If you keep this up you’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Why are you being like this?” Nia’s voice rose as her frustration moved to the fore. She was tired and confused, and though his presence complicated everything, she wasn’t going to bow out of her first official investigation simply because he wanted her to. “Why are you set on running me off this case? Is it personal? Is it because we were lovers? If so—” she dredged up the words she’d said so many times in the fantasies where he’d come back and begged for another chance “—you’re the one who walked, McKay, not me.”