by Dee Davis
“Then I’ll be there to help you.” Danny’s troubled gaze met his. “Look, one way or the other, we’ll find a way to make it all right. I swear it.”
Tears pricked the back of John’s eyes. He was so fucking emotional these days. He tried to smile, certain that it was, at best, lopsided. “I hope so, Danny. I really hope so.”
His brother’s smile was artificially bright. “All right, then, what do you say we start by getting you dressed.”
“I think a suit might be overkill for a casual afternoon of recovery.” The voice was decidedly feminine, deep and smoky. Like aged whiskey, it washed over him, deceptively smooth, ending with a swift kick. He liked it.
A lot.
He swung around, curious to see the woman behind the words. He wasn’t disappointed.
She stood in the doorway, dressed in faded green scrubs, the cotton hugging every sweet curve. Neither tall nor short, she simply was. Inhabiting space as if it belonged to her.
A single braid hung casually over her shoulder, her hair brown with golden highlights. Sun-kissed was the word that popped into his head. He smiled at the imagery, wondering if he’d lost his mind, and then ruefully accepted the fact that, regardless of the situation, he was no longer playing with a full deck. Still, he was in the game, and that had to count for something.
“So you guys want to quit staring, or shall I give you a runway turn?” She smiled slowly, green eyes sparkling, and stepped into the room, breaking the spell.
He shot a glance at his brother, whose eyes were also riveted on the new arrival, his smile predatory. Jealousy surged through John, surprising him with its force. Yet another emotion out of control. Hell, he didn’t even know the woman. He pulled to his feet again, fighting to keep his balance. His leg was much better, but standing required his full attention, distraction almost certainly spelling disaster.
And this woman was definitely a distraction.
She moved before he had a chance to think about her intent, steadying him with gentle hands, the soft smell of her surrounding him with tantalizing hints of vanilla.
He reached up with his good hand, planning to push her back, to protect his space, but she’d already moved, standing again in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame.
“Who the hell are you?” His words came out sharper than he’d intended. The woman’s scrubs marked her as a hospital employee. A nurse of some kind, no doubt. He shouldn’t have snapped, but he wasn’t a man who liked to be coddled and he was more than capable of standing on his own two feet.
“Apparently your dresser.” She held up a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. “Can you lift your arm?”
Shooting her what he hoped was an indignant look, he slowly raised his arm, stopping when it reached shoulder height, the effort costing him more than he wanted to admit. “How’s this?”
“It’s a good start. Can you get it any higher?” She watched him dispassionately, but he could see a spark of something in her eyes. Pity or maybe compassion. It didn’t really matter. Either sentiment was abhorrent. And he wasn’t about to tolerate it from a stranger— hospital staff or no.
He let his arm drop. “I don’t see that it matters.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t—to me. But I’d think sometime in your life you’d like to be able to pull something off the top shelf, or hang the star on the Christmas tree.”
He studied her through narrowed eyes, responding to the challenge in her voice. “And you care about this because . . .”
She smiled, the gesture changing her from formidable to impish in an instant. “I get paid if you touch the stars.”
There was a world of meaning in her words, but only in John’s imagination.
“Does that go for me, too?” Danny’s tone was a cross between wistful and wolfish.
John shook his head, pulling himself back to reality. The woman was a witch. He’d completely forgotten his brother was in the room.
“Only if you’ve suffered major head trauma.” Her gaze brushed over Danny, dismissing him. “I’m John’s physical therapist.”
Nonplussed by the brush-off, Danny grinned. “Hey, I’m the patient’s brother. Surely that gives me the right for consults or something.”
John took a hesitant step forward, pleased when his right foot obeyed. “You have a name?” His voice was still brusque. A combination of irritation and embarrassment.
“My name is Kathleen.” Her words tickled his ear, and he realized she’d moved again, this time flanking his bad side. “Kathleen Cavanaugh.”
“Irish?” The word popped from his mouth before he had time to think about it.
“Boston Irish.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and his heart rate ratcheted up a notch.
“That explains the accent.” Danny moved to his other side, and together they helped him toward the bathroom.
“Take these.” She handed him the sweats when they reached the door. “You ought to be able to get them on yourself.”
His eyes met hers, and it felt as if they were locked together in a world all their own, the soft intake of her breath assuring him that he wasn’t alone in the feeling. “And if I can’t manage?”
Her smile was slow and sure. “Then I’ll just have to come in and help you.”
She’d lost her freaking mind. Katie stared at the closed bathroom door, trying to ignore Danny Brighton’s blatant stare. It bored into her back. But he wasn’t the source of her discomfort.
No, indeed. It was much worse than that. She was having less than pure thoughts about Jonathan Brighton. And she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him like that. Heavens, she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him at all.
She was a professional. And this was a routine situation. All she had to do was observe the man, and based on what she saw make recommendations to her superiors. Simple as that.
The door opened and he stepped out of the bathroom, every muscle outlined by the T-shirt she’d provided. His dark hair curled against the neckline, his face shadowed with the hint of a beard.
He looked unkempt. And dangerous. A far cry from the button-down workaholic she’d been briefed about. This was a man with an edge.
And she’d always liked men who walked the line.
“You’re staring.” His tone was mild, but the current running between them was reflected in his eyes.
“I wasn’t actually. I was just thinking about where we ought to begin.”
“On the bed?” His smile sent shivers trailing down her back.
She swallowed, struggling for composure. “I beg your pardon?”
Danny laughed behind her, a hint of something protective in his voice. “I think he means that he needs to sit down.”
She pulled her mind out of the gutter and focused on the man in front of her. Really focused. He was holding himself together by sheer willpower, but a sheen of sweat glazed his face, and his jaw was twitching with the effort to look at ease.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. What was I thinking?” Five minutes and she’d compromised his health. Her training had been rushed, but it had been thorough. She wasn’t here to hurt him. On the contrary, she needed Mr. Brighton fully operational. Again her overeager mind flooded her brain with vivid images having nothing to do with her job or Jonathan Brighton’s recovery.
Danny joined her, and they helped Jonathan to the bed. He sat down with a sigh. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Getting dressed never used to be an all-day affair. Although this getup,” he gestured to the faded sweats, “beats the hell out of that.” He tipped his head toward the suit, shooting her a grateful smile.
“I thought Jonathan already had a therapist.”
Katie regretfully pulled her attention away from Jonathan, turning to face Danny’s skeptical gaze. “He does. Or rather, he did. Linda Osborne was his PT here at the rehab clinic, but now that he’s being released, he needs someone at home. Someone to watch over him, to work with him to continue to improve his mobility.”
“An
d that would be you.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. This time there was no hint of playfulness. Danny Brighton was all business. And the business was protecting his brother. For all their physical differences—the one dark as sin and the other almost angelic— the brothers obviously had a deep bond. And right now Danny Brighton was assessing her.
“Exactly. Linda doesn’t do home care.” She met his gaze square on, unflinching. “I do.”
“And you’re good at what you do?”
“So I’ve been told.” She fought to keep her tone level. She’d never responded well to unspoken threats. And there was no question that Jonathan’s brother was baiting her.
“Give the woman a break, Danny. She’s just trying to do her job.” Jonathan’s voice was laced with laughter, but there was an underlying note of authority.
Danny studied her for a moment longer, then relaxed. “I’m sure you can understand my concern, Ms. Cavanaugh. My brother has been through quite an ordeal. And I just want to be certain that he has the best of everything.”
“What he means, Kathleen,” the name tumbled off his lips like warm wine, caressing her from the inside out, “is that he likes to think he’s running the show. And you were a curve he hadn’t expected.” He smiled at his brother, then returned his attention to her. “I assume you were assigned by my doctor?”
“Your insurance company actually.” She shrugged, leaning over him to straighten his pillow. “Your doctor orders in-home care, but your insurance company is responsible for assigning someone.”
“I see.” He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So you’re with me for the duration.”
“Duration?” She straightened, trying to read the sub-text of his words.
“Yeah. I need to know that whoever I’m working with will be around to see things through to the end.”
“You mean a full recovery.” He was testing her again, but she wasn’t exactly sure how.
He shrugged. “Or as full a recovery as I’m likely to get.”
“You get what you work for, Mr. Brighton.”
“John.” He smiled again, the tension dissipating with the gesture. “And I always work for what I want, Ms. Cavanaugh. Always.”
“Now, there’s an understatement.” Danny’s words were mumbled, but there was a wealth of information in his tone.
“Looks like I’ll fit in just fine, then. I expect my patients to work hard. But I assure you, in the end it’s more than worth the effort.” She shot a look at first one brother and then the other, noting again the contrast between them.
Women were more likely to respond to Danny’s pretty-boy looks than to John’s dark mystery. There was something off-putting about the older Brighton boy. Something that she had absolutely no intention of investigating. She was here to do a job.
Period.
“So where do we start?” John’s question pulled her out of her musings.
“I’d think the first thing to do is get you home.” Danny’s voice was proprietary again.
“Sounds like a plan.” John’s smile included her as well as his brother, and warmed her all the way to her toes. “I suppose I have to wait for a wheelchair?”
It was Katie’s turn to smile. “Actually, if you’re up to it, you can walk. Since this is rehab, and not a hospital per se, we like for our patients to feel like they’re leaving in better shape than they’ve arrived. I’d say you’ve earned the right to walk out of here.” She was babbling. But it was better than letting her mind wander free. “Of course, if you’d rather have the wheelchair . . .” She trailed off, already certain of his response.
She wasn’t disappointed. He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Not on your life. They wheeled me in here. They’re sure as hell not wheeling me out.” To illustrate his point he pushed himself off of the bed, wincing with the effort. Without thinking, she slid an arm around his waist, feeling his muscles bunch in rebuff.
“I can do it myself.” His words vibrated through her, his body warm against hers.
“I know you can.” She tightened her grip, steadying him. “But sometimes it’s all right to ask for a little help.” She told herself that she needed to gain his confidence, and prove to him she knew what she was doing, but the truth was, she just wanted to touch him.
And the thought scared her to death.
“Thank goodness I caught you before you left.” A redheaded whirlwind blew into the room, almost upsetting their forward progress in the process. “I tried the phone, but they said you’d been discharged.” The woman stopped, eyes narrowing at the sight of Katie. “Who’re you?”
John took a deliberate step closer, his arm tightening around her, his eyes bright with mischief. “This is Kathleen Cavanaugh, Flo. She’s coming to live with me.”
The woman’s eyebrows disappeared into the tumble of hair as she glared up at John. “I hardly think now is the time—” She cut herself off, her face flaming. “Oh. You’re with the hospital.” John and Danny’s laughter provided a backdrop for the woman’s obvious embarrassment. “I’m sorry.” Her face was as red as her hair. “I sometimes don’t stop to think.”
“It’s okay,” Katie reassured the older woman, pulling away from John. “I can see where you’d get the wrong idea.” She shot a look at the Brighton brothers, her narrow-eyed gaze ending on John.
He shrugged, grinning. There was something a little wicked about Jonathan Brighton. Which of course was an understatement. The thought made her sober.
“I’m Florence Tedesky. Flo to my friends.” The older woman held out her hand. “I have the misfortune of working for these brats.” Her tone of voice belied her words. It was obvious there was shared affection among the three of them.
“More like we work for you,” Danny said. “Flo worked for our father for years. And when he died, she sort of adopted us.”
“The truth is, I wasn’t ready to hang up the towel, and John was kind enough to let me come to work at Guardian.” Flo shot a grateful look at John.
“She’s pulling your leg. I had to beg her to help me out. Flo has more business sense in her little finger than Danny and I have put together.”
“Speak for yourself, bro,” Danny said, pretending to be wounded.
“Come on, boys, you’re confusing Kathleen.” Flo smiled fondly at the two men, and then turned her attention to Katie. “You’ll have to keep an eye out for these two. But I expect you’ve already figured that out.”
Katie nodded, her mind spinning. With every revelation it seemed that Jonathan Brighton moved farther away from the profile she’d been given. “If I hadn’t, I have now.”
“So what brought you over here like a house on fire?” John asked. “I gather it wasn’t concern for me.”
“Oh my, no.” Flo immediately brought her hand to her mouth. “That didn’t come out right, surely. What I meant to say was that I got a phone call from the police.”
The lighthearted air evaporated in an instant, both brothers’ attention immediately on the redhead.
“They found Derek Miller.” Flo drew in a breath, her eyes darkening with concern. “He’s dead.”
Chapter 2
Eric D’Angelo stared at the open police file on his desk, hoping for divine revelation. But of course nothing came. Not a damn thing.
“I thought the FBI was handling the Miller case?” Tony Haskins popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk, letting go with a satisfied belch. Etiquette wasn’t exactly his strong point. But then, that wasn’t a quality Eric valued in a partner. And as partners went, Tony was the best.
“Not officially. At least not yet.” He turned the page, skimming the contents of the medical examiner’s preliminary report.
“But you said they were at the scene. Fucking Edmund Roswell was there. You know that’s gotta mean something big.”
D’Angelo nodded. “Probably. But until I hear otherwise—officially—I’m going to keep investigating the case.”
D’Angelo shrugged. “If it hadn’t been for the drought, he’d probably still be missing. There was a preliminary investigation, but when they came up cold, it was shoved to a back burner. A guy like Miller’s not exactly a priority.”
“Looks to me like a deal gone south. Based on his drug record, I’d say it’s a miracle he stayed alive this long.”
“Yeah, but he only took one shot to the head, clean as a whistle.”
“So, what, you’re thinking a hit?” Tony frowned.
“I’m not thinking anything, except that the whole thing feels off somehow. I mean, if this is about drugs, then why aren’t we dealing with DEA?”
“So what did Roswell say?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Just that Miller had been in touch. Something heavy hanging on his heart.”
“But before he can talk,” Haskins shaped his fingers like a gun, “boom.”
“Exactly.”
“Still could have been drugs. Maybe something involving the border. That’d bring in the Feds.”
“It’s a possibility. Although I still think it’s odd that two FBI guys show up at the scene almost before the body is out of the water. It’s almost like they knew.”
Tony shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re wired into dispatch, they’re listening in everywhere else. It’s like fucking Big Brother.” Tony wasn’t a fan of the FBI, particularly Edmund Roswell.
Roswell was the antithesis of the stereotype of an agent. Paunchy and balding, the man had seen better days, but he was still a mean son of a bitch, and when he was on a case, he’d use anything and everything, legal and otherwise, to solve it. Eric kind of admired the old bastard, although he shared Tony’s dislike of the man.
“Well, they can listen in all they want, but until we hear otherwise, the case stays in homicide.”