Nightwatch

by Jo Leigh

  A powerful image of Rachel standing in her doorway, wearing that incredibly see-through red nightie almost made him choke on his meat loaf. Shit, was all this interest in Rachel simply because he’d seen the shape of her breasts? The way her nipples looked so dark and tempting beneath the silk? How her slender waist made him want to run his hands down the curves of her hips?

  No, even he wasn’t quite that shallow. Almost. But not quite. It was what had happened after that that had prompted his interest. When they’d talked. When she’d opened her closed emotional door that little bit. “You’re right,” he said. “You have every reason not to go with me. I was insensitive to ask. I’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t exactly frown, but her eyebrows came down just enough for two little indents to bridge the top of her nose. It made him want to take back his noble, but totally insincere words. Then she reached down beside her chair to get her purse. Once it was snugly over her shoulder, she stood and lifted her tray. “Guy?”

  “Yes?” He looked up, wishing once again she’d wear her hair down. God, he wanted to see it loose and free.

  “What time do you want to leave?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said I was debating. Not that I’d decided.”

  “And now you have?”

  She nodded, and if he had to guess, it was more to reassure herself than him. “I have. As long as you’re sure I won’t be missed here.”

  “That’s all taken care of.”

  After a big breath, she smiled. Tightly, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “Wonderful.”

  “I figure we’ll be gone three days at the most. Probably two.”

  “Good, good.”

  “So why don’t we leave tomorrow about six?”

  “In the morning?”

  “The funeral is at 9:00 a.m.”

  “Ah. Okay, I’ll be ready.”

  He stood up, his chair loud in the strangely quiet room. “It’s not going to be the easiest trip in the world.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be. But we’ll do everything we can to find DiGrasso. It seems from what Richie said that Stan’s embedded in the community. He makes his living selling drugs, which makes it difficult to relocate.”

  “God, I hope so. I’m going to find that son of a bitch. It’ll be easier if he’s not ten thousand miles away.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’d better be on my way. Six will be here before we know it.”

  He almost put his hand on her arm, but stopped himself in the nick of time. He didn’t want to scare her off. “Thanks, Rachel. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Great,” she said. With that, she turned and went to the side of the room, put her tray on the trolley and walked out, her sensible heels clicking across the tile.

  Guy went back to his dinner, although nothing appealed any longer except the pie. He dug into it, wishing it could have been a little fresher. Rachel was going with him to Los Angeles. He couldn’t decide if he was more grateful he’d have her by his side at the funeral, or that she was going to help him find Stan.

  Regardless, he had to make sure he respected her wishes, no matter what. Separate rooms. Complete discretion. He’d be nothing if not a perfect gentleman.

  But maybe, if he was very lucky, he’d get to see the other side of Rachel. The woman behind the stethoscope. And maybe, just maybe, she’d let her hair down.

  IT TOOK RACHEL four hours to pack for three days. Every outfit was debated, tried on, discarded. Of course, some of them had been retrieved, folded and put in her suitcase, but she wished like hell there was a twenty-four-hour mall nearby.

  Why it mattered what she took, she had no idea. She felt sure, in her saner moments, that Guy couldn’t have cared less about her clothes. The only thing she felt the least bit happy about was the black dress she’d wear to the funeral. It was reserved, respectful, and she liked how she felt in it. As for the rest, what did a person wear to apprehend a fugitive? A dress? Slacks?

  She ended up with work clothes. Two blazers, a cashmere sweater, three blouses, a skirt and two pairs of slacks. Once she’d decided on the clothes, she picked out the accessories.

  At eleven-thirty, she decided what she really needed was a mud mask. Then nothing would do but a bath. Finally, just before 1:00 a.m., she gave up. There was nothing more to keep her busy, nothing to keep her mind off the situation she’d gotten herself into.

  Damn that Allie. What had she been thinking? Of all people, she should know that this was not Rachel’s forte. Helping out a pal? Being there for emotional support? Please.

  Rachel was the cold fish of Courage Bay, didn’t Guy know that? Didn’t he see that she was absolutely horrible at the whole human-interaction thing except on a superficial level?

  No. She wasn’t going to go there, not again. She was taking a step outside her comfort zone. People did it all the time, and their worlds didn’t fall apart.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed. She was going to be driving for hours with Guy at the wheel. Just the two of them. Thank God they could talk shop. That would take up a whole lot of time. And then there was the whole Stan situation. Maybe if she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to say anything personal.

  Oh, Lord, he’d need her at the funeral. Really need her. He loved Heather, and was clearly devastated by her death. Rachel couldn’t possibly turn her back or even step away. Whatever his emotional state, she’d have to be right there to pick up the pieces. Say the right thing.

  Only, she didn’t know the right thing to say. She never had.

  She flopped back, her hair flying about the duvet, her arms spread like wings. This was such a huge mistake. What on earth had she been thinking?

  She’d have to tell him she couldn’t go. She’d get up, make some excuse…She could say she was coming down with a virus. That would work. He’d believe her, and even if he didn’t, so what? He wouldn’t fire her because she backed out. Then things could go back to normal. The way she liked.

  Being alone. Eating by herself. Coming home to a dark house. Spending the weekends trying to fill the hours until she could go back to work.

  Rolling over on the bed, Rachel cupped her chin in her hands. “Some wonderful life you’ve got there, Rachel. Every woman’s dream come true.”

  But no one was there to smile at her sarcasm. To understand the pain that was slightly below the surface.

  Whatever she was going to do, she had to get some sleep first. Sitting up, she closed her suitcase and put it on the floor. Then she crawled between her wonderful sheets, fluffing her pillows until they were just so. Only then did she turn off the bedside lamp.

  In the darkened room, a sliver of moonlight sneaked between her curtains to illuminate the corner of her dresser. No big deal. It wasn’t enough to keep her awake, especially at this hour. All she had to do was close her eyes, and she’d be asleep in no time.

  Fifteen minutes later, she got up, rearranged the drapes and crawled back in bed. It was totally dark. Totally right.

  And she was so sad, she wanted to cry.

  GUY WASN’T SURE she would really go the distance until her suitcase was in the back of the SUV, and she was seat-belted beside him. From the look of her, he was pretty certain he hadn’t been the only one with major doubts. But the point was, she was here, and they were off to Los Angeles.

  Him and Rachel Browne. Who’d have thunk it, as one of the E.R. nurses liked to put it. He headed toward the freeway, southbound. “How about some coffee for the road?” he asked.

  She turned to look at him for a moment. “Sure, that would be great.” Then she went back to staring out the front window.

  He wondered if it was going to be like this the whole drive down. They’d get to the funeral park in plenty of time, even if there was a lot of traffic on those L.A. freeways. He wasn’t looking forward to the end of the trip, and he’d hoped for some distraction on the way.

  But maybe Rachel was tired. Probably needed coffee as badly as he did. He spotted a fa
st-food joint and swung in. “This okay?”

  “Fine.”

  At the window, he ordered for them both. Rachel turned down his offer of food to go with their coffee. It took all of seven minutes, and they were on the road again. But it was too damn quiet. Music? No, not yet. That would be a last resort. He’d let her enjoy her coffee for a few minutes, then he’d start the ball rolling.

  He glanced at her, getting a perfect view of her profile. That strong, straight nose, her pouty lips—which, he saw, were painted casual pink, not hospital red. Her beautiful dark mane was pulled back into a tidy bun, neat and proper, and damn if he didn’t want to rip out every bobby pin and run his hands through her hair until she looked like a wild woman.

  She gasped as he swerved in his lane, not enough to get them into trouble, but enough to force his attention back to the road instead of the woman. He checked, but neither of them had spilled anything. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “How’d you sleep last night?”

  She looked at him, another quickie, before she stared back at the road. “Fine. You?”

  “Not so great. Mostly, I was worried about Heath.”

  “Oh, I didn’t even ask,” she said, this time turning toward him. “How is he?”

  “Holding his own. But if he doesn’t improve in a few days, he’s going to need a kidney transplant. Another reason to find Stan.”

  “You think he’d be willing to donate?”

  “We’d only need a small section. But then, if he’s the carrier of the genetic traits, the transplant might not work at all. The bottom line is, we need DiGrasso for tests, if nothing else. If he can’t do it, I’ll find someone. I just wish to God I had the right blood type.”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble. You don’t know that Heath will even need the operation yet.”

  “That’s true. I just want all my bases covered.”

  “With Burns as team leader, I can guarantee you that every avenue is being pursued. He’s nothing if not meticulous.”

  “Yeah. I know. But it’s not the same as taking care of things myself.”

  “What you’re doing today is important to Heath. You know that. Not only are you paying your respects to his mother, you’re finding his history. It may not be a very nice one, but it’s his, and he needs to know what he’s up against. Who else but you would do that?”

  Now it was his turn to look at Rachel. Not for long, of course; he had no desire to run into a truck. Still, he couldn’t help but stare. In her own terribly logical, Mr. Spock-like way, she’d said exactly what he needed to hear. “Hey,” he said. “You like music?”

  She eyed him warily. “What type?”

  “How about country?”

  Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “Just kidding,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t open his CD rack and see that he wasn’t in the least. “Eagles?”

  Her head tilted to the side. “Okay.”

  “Wait. Classical?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Mahler in the morning? Not a good thing.”

  He laughed. “Okay, Mahler’s out. How about jazz?”

  “Better.”

  “Grusin?”

  “Oh.”

  That was an encouraging sound. “Aha. Dave Grusin. Excellent choice, Doctor. Here, hold the wheel.”

  She yelped, but her hand grabbed the steering wheel while he flipped open his CD rack. He found the perfect tape in a second, popped it in the player, then relieved her of her duties.

  He felt her staring at him, and he knew for a fact that if he were to look at her side of the car, he’d see her openmouthed in surprise. “What?”

  “You let go.”

  “But you were right here.”

  “How do you know I can drive from the passenger seat?”

  “You can do an appendectomy with one eye closed.”

  “Which has nothing to do with it.”

  “Sure it does.”

  She didn’t say anything as “Mountain Dance” filled the car, the piano flying as high as the hazy winter clouds. When he finally gave in and looked over at her, she was staring at the road once more. But damn if there wasn’t a hint of a smile. A tiny hint, but it was there.

  Things were looking up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE COOL OF THE MORNING had just started to ease now that the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Forest Lawn was quiet, except for the birds. The perfectly manicured lawns spread in all directions, interrupted only by grave markers and the occasional statue. It was a beautiful spot for such a tragic ending.

  The service itself was graveside, with a minister attending. Only a few people, including Tammy, Heather’s father, Walter, and Tammy’s elderly aunt, stood beside the casket. Rachel wondered where Heather’s friends were. Despite the circumstance of their meeting, Rachel had seen that Heather was a lovely girl, and from her diary it was clear she was bright and could be witty. Had her relationship with Stan isolated her from all her friends?

  How had she even met that vile man? He was clearly older than her by at least ten years, and from what Rachel could determine, he was nothing more than criminal scum. But something about him must have captivated Heather, must have fit into her dreams. Was it just the freedom of being away from her parents? Had she been so unhappy in her life that she was willing to go to hell to escape?

  As the minister spoke in a southern-accented monotone, Rachel’s gaze settled on Tammy. She stood separate from both of her ex-husbands and even her aunt. Her arms were held tightly against her sides, her fingers clutching several tissues that were wet with her tears. She’d dressed with meticulous attention to detail. Her simple dress, dark gray, was on the short side for the occasion; her shoes, with their slim heels, were the same shade as the dress, although the pumps were muddied from walking across the grounds. Her mohair coat was an even darker gray that pulled the whole outfit together. A simple strand of pearls around her neck, matching pearl studs and her wedding ring completed the ensemble. Her blond hair had been pulled back in a loose chignon, and her makeup was elegant and perfect. Despite the tears, there wasn’t a smudge.

  Rachel could see what had attracted Guy. Tammy was a beautiful woman and there was something vibrant about her that grief couldn’t hide. What was more a mystery was what Tammy had seen in her first husband, Walter.

  He was a husky man, balding, and not nearly as well put together as his ex. In fact, there was a stain on his blue tie, and his navy suit was ill-fitting, the sleeves baring far too much of his cuffs. Even his shoes were old, unpolished. Rachel could see he was deeply upset, and the doctor in her worried about his coloring. It was clear he suffered from high blood pressure and didn’t take care of himself.

  She realized that Walter was staring at her and she averted her gaze, embarrassed to have been caught. She tried to listen to the minister, but the words were so generic it was painful.

  Guy hadn’t looked at anything but his stepdaughter’s casket since they’d arrived. His grief was so tangible it filled Rachel with an awful sadness. She knew he was mourning not only the loss of his stepdaughter, but also what he perceived as his failures. He hadn’t been there for Heather, had given her only a small part of himself when he’d had the opportunity to give so much more.

  She also knew he exaggerated his sins, that Heather had been grateful to him as someone who had loved her. Guy might not have been his ideal of a father, but he’d been just that to Heather.

  Rachel stepped closer to him. Not touching close, but near enough that if he wanted to, he could find her hand. What she wanted was to give him comfort, but she had no idea how.

  For so many years she had avoided just such a situation. Without her role as a doctor to protect her, she felt like a child, inexperienced and naive. Which was absurd. She was almost thirty years old, for God’s sake. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t step away from her own ego to help this man who so desperately
needed her?

  Feeling ridiculous, she put aside her own discomfort and touched his hand. He gripped her back with such intensity that it hurt. Not so much physical pain as regret that she’d left him alone for so long.

  Emboldened, she moved closer to his side. His eyes red-rimmed, he looked at her with such gratitude she felt like the most selfish person on earth. She smiled, and he managed a weak grin back before he turned to listen to the rest of the service.

  She concentrated on the feel of his hand. The strength of him. She’d watched him work magic with those hands, healing impossible cases, pulling people from the brink of death. She was struck that despite how helpless he must be feeling now, there was still such firmness in his grip, such confidence.

  As the minister began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, Guy leaned to his right, pressing against her shoulder. He was a big man, and she doubted she could support his whole weight, but that’s not what he asked of her. He simply made contact. One sorry person to another. A touch. A hand. A shoulder to lean on.

  Tears formed, and for once she didn’t try to blink them away. She let herself feel. For Heather, for Heath, and most especially for Guy.

  THE RIDE TO THE HOTEL was silent, and Guy did everything he could to erase from his mind the sight of Heather’s casket as it was lowered into the ground. So much wasted potential. A life snuffed out like a tossed match. It was more than he could bear, and Heather wasn’t even his biological child.

  But he’d loved her. In his own pathetic way, she was the closest he’d ever gotten to having a daughter. He didn’t think the opportunity would come again. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Tammy would allow him to be part of Heath’s life, but then she was going back to France. From what she’d said, she had no reason to return to America again.

  He started when he felt Rachel’s soft touch on his arm.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “We’re almost there. We’ll get you settled in before we call the hospital.”

  “Do you think we should let Richie know we’re here?”

  “Good idea.” He smiled at her, touched by the concern he saw on her face. Especially because he knew how hard this must be for her. “You’ll have to be the solo brains today, kiddo. I’m not exactly at my best.”