An Unsuspecting Heart

by Linda Turner

Sam snorted, mockery glinting in his eyes. "Yeah, right. At the time. I didn't know Gallegos was the roller. I can just hear your reaction if I'd have hit you with the story that a nameless businessman was backing the Barracudas and shipping in coke from Colombia. Admit it, Cooper, you'd have laughed in my face."

  The sudden screech of a chair being abruptly pushed back cut off the agent before he could even begin to find an answer. Ryan jumped to his feet, his fists clenched, and glared at both men, fury burning in his eyes. "Stop it! My sister could be lying in there dying! Why aren't you out catching the men who did this to her?"

  John Cooper recognized the desperation driving the younger man and knew any sympathy he could offer would be coldly rejected. Ryan wanted answers, and he was damn well determined to get them, if the angle of his jaw was anything to go by. "We already have men in the swamp," he replied quietly. "If Gallegos and Cantu are still in there, we'll find them."

  "And if they're not?" he countered.

  "They won't get far," the agent assured him. "They know their whole operation has gone up in smoke and they're going to be running for cover. We've got every escape route blocked and men at their homes. The minute they crawl out from under a rock, we've got them. It's only a matter of time."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Cooper left to join the search for Gallegos, leaving the three men staring at the clock on the wall. With painstaking slowness, its hands crept toward two a.m. Sam downed the coffee Austin pressed on him without tasting it and felt his control slipping. Damn it, what was taking so long? How long did it take to remove a bullet, anyway? She should have been in the recovery room hours ago.

  Unless something had gone wrong.

  Sweat broke out on his brow at the thought. No! She was going to be fine. He had to believe that or he'd go out of his mind. Determinedly, he latched onto the hundred and one memories he had collected of her over the last few days. Her teasing smile, her dancing eyes, the softness of her skin. Last night at this time, he'd been holding her, loving her. Dear God, he loved her! And he didn't even know how or when it had begun. Yesterday? Last week? Last year? It seemed as if he'd been moving toward loving her since the first day they'd covered the same story all those years ago. He'd looked up and there she'd been, looking as if she'd blow away in a good, stiff wind, digging out a story with all the ruthless determination that had rivaled his own. He'd started to fall then, and hadn't even realized it. He'd wasted years. All that time that he'd been competing with her, liking her, he could have been loving her. How could he have been so blind?

  And now there was a very good chance he was losing her—forever.

  Suddenly he knew he couldn't sit there any longer. Bolting to his feet, he headed for the door. At Ryan's alarmed expression, he said, "I've got to stretch my legs. I'm just going to walk down the hall a ways."

  But he never got the chance. The doctor suddenly appeared in the doorway on silent feet and tiredly removed the green surgical cap from his head. Sam's blood froze in his veins. But before he could scream the denial gathering in his throat, a weary smile broke over the older man's face. "Why the long faces?" he said huskily. "She's going to make it."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^

  The light that crept in through the tilted blinds was soft and misty and tinted with the first faint violet shadows of a new day. Soundlessly the dawn slipped through the darkness, gentling it, dissolving it so slowly that it was some time before Katie realized that the room she slept in was not her own. More asleep than awake, she lay unmoving and let her eyes drift from the stark white walls to the equally white sheet that covered her to the metal railings that were pulled up into place on either side of her, caging her in the bed. A hospital, she realized dully, a frown creasing her brow. What was she doing in a hospital?

  She shifted slightly, trying to remember, when her eyes suddenly landed on a man uncomfortably sprawled in the chair next to her bed, sound asleep. The morning light was behind him, throwing his face into shadows and highlighting the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders. Recognition stirred, pulling at her despite her best efforts to dismiss it. The light was playing tricks with her mind, she told herself, swallowing a sob. It had to be. The man at her side looked like…

  Sam.

  Images swamped her then, rolling over her with all the force of a tidal wave pounding the beach. Regaining consciousness in the shed with Grant, the wild run through the swamps, the man in the cabin calling him Sam, the hail of bullets striking the cabin … striking her.

  Oh, God! She moved her fingers under the sheet to her side and felt the rough thickness of a bandage through the thin material of the hospital gown she wore. It was true, she thought numbly, squeezing her eyes shut. Her imagination wasn't getting the best of her. Sam was alive.

  And for the last four months, he had deliberately let her and everyone else think he was dead.

  The hurt hit her first, staggering her like a blow to her heart, but it was the anger that followed that she thankfully latched onto. Hot and seething, she let it pulse through her, energizing her, blocking out the pain. She'd grieved for him, damn him, ached for the loss of a man she could have loved … did love, she reminded herself, cursing the sudden tears that stung her eyes. And while she'd been falling in love with Grant Elliot, Sam Bradford had been busy making a fool of her. How he must have laughed!

  Bitterness nearly choked her. She opened her eyes to glare at Sam and found him watching her tensely. Silence throbbed in the air like a heartbeat. For a long, endless moment, she couldn't bring herself to do anything but stare at him. The last few hours hadn't been easy for him. Whatever sleep he'd been able to catch obviously hadn't brought him any peace. His gaunt face was ravaged, etched with deep lines that hadn't been there the day before, his blue eyes tired but intense as they locked with hers.

  A thousand questions flitted through her mind, but she could manage only one. "Why?"

  The single, husky word was more of an accusation than a question, but Sam didn't even flinch. Ryan and Austin had left the hospital once she'd come safely through the surgery, but Sam had stayed by her side, watching her, wondering how the hell he was going to make her understand. He'd fallen asleep without coming up with anything but the truth. He'd thought it would be enough, but now, seeing the pain that hid behind the anger in her eyes, he wasn't so sure.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he stood only inches away from her, wanting to touch her, to hold her and reassure himself that she was all right, but he knew that was the last thing she wanted from him now. Resisting the temptation, he pivoted sharply away from her and strode to the window to stare blindly out at the new day. Coldly and deliberately, he forced himself to go back to the night that had irrevocably changed his face … and his life … forever.

  "The night I supposedly 'died,' I was following Cantu; but somehow I slipped up and he realized I was on to him," he said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. "After that, it was a battle of survival."

  He told her everything then, leaving out nothing. The endless hours he'd struggled through the swamp toward Austin's cabin without even knowing if he was going in the right direction, the day he'd stepped out of the hospital with a stranger's face, reading of his own death in the papers.

  "I was stuck," he concluded flatly. "As long as Cantu and the roller were on the loose, I couldn't safely return to my own life. But I didn't have the proof I needed to expose them. That left me with only one choice. I had to come back and get it. As somebody else."

  "And you let everyone think you were dead. Tell me something," she demanded coldly. "Did you ever stop to think who you might be hurting with that little charade."

  "I have no family. Only friends."

  Well, that certainly told her where she stood with him, she thought dully. All the time that she'd been so attracted to him, he'd only thought of her as a friend. "Why me?" she whispered. "Why did you come to me?"

  He turned from the window and
trapped her eyes with his, making no attempt to soften the bluntness of his answer. "Because you're a damn good investigative reporter, and you could help me find Leo again. I knew he wouldn't talk to a stranger named Grant Elliot, but Katie MacDonald was another matter. You were trusted in the barrio."

  He'd used her, she thought. She'd wanted the truth, but dear God, did it have to hurt so much? Pushing herself up straighter in bed, she struggled for sarcasm as she replied, "Well, I'm glad to know I could be of service. Was that the limit of my assets, or were there more?"

  He would have given anything to spare her this, but she had to hear it all. There had been secrets between them for too long. "I didn't know the roller's identity then, but I had narrowed it down to several men in Miami society. You knew them all."

  "How convenient," she said stiffly. "You could use my contacts, my investigative skills, me. The only thing missing was trust. You just didn't trust me enough to tell me who you were, did you? What's the matter, Sam? Were you afraid I'd run to the Examiner with the story and scoop you?"

  "No, damn it!" He swore, shoving his fingers through his hair. "It wasn't a question of trust," he growled. "Don't you see I couldn't take the chance? The men I suspected were like family to you and I had nothing to back up my suspicions. For all I knew, you could have laughed in my face and gone straight to them with the story. Then where would I have been?" he demanded. "Dead, that's where."

  "So when were you going to tell me who you were? Or were you going to let me read about it in the paper?"

  His eyes narrowed at her silky tone. "I was waiting until we were positive of the roller's identity."

  "Then why didn't you tell me your identity the night of the party when we overheard Gallegos in the garage?" she shot back.

  It was a question he'd been expecting, dreading. He shifted uncomfortably. "After everything that happened, I couldn't find the words. You'd told Grant Elliot so much about how you felt about Sam Bradford, I just couldn't tell you that we were the same man."

  A hot flush of mortification fired her pale cheeks. The things she'd told him! If she'd have had the strength, she'd have walked out on him then and there. Instead, she glared at him and struck out with the only weapons she had—words. "I know you, Sam Bradford, arid you'd do anything for a story," she said scathingly. "You could have gone to the police, but you created this whole charade so you could be the one to expose Gallegos. My God, you even changed your voice and wrote yourself a letter to trick me into believing you!"

  "My vocal cords were permanently bruised when that log hit me," he defended himself hotly. "And as for that letter, that was part of one I'd written to Austin—"

  But Katie had heard enough. The anger drained out of her abruptly, leaving her so exhausted her bones ached. "Just forget it," she said wearily as she collapsed against the pillow. "You went to a lot of trouble to get the story, so if you're worried that I'm going to steal your thunder, you can relax. It's all yours. I hope you enjoy all the headlines you're going to get."

  "Damn it, Katie, I wasn't after headlines—"

  "Tell that to someone who doesn't know you," she said quietly. "This time you hit a real bonanza. Not only will you be able to expose Gallegos's double life, but Sam Bradford is coming back from the dead. If that's not Pulitzer material, I don't know what is. Congratulations."

  He didn't deny wanting the famous prize, knowing she'd never believe him. "Katie, sweetheart, if you'd just listen—"

  "Don't call me sweetheart!" she cried, blinking back stupid, weak tears. Dashing them away, she glared at him. "It's over, all right? Just leave. Please! I've heard all I want to hear."

  "Damn it, you haven't heard it all! I love you! Can't you understand that?"

  Whatever reaction he'd expected from her, it wasn't the one he got: a patent look of disbelief. He swore, wanting to shake her, to kiss her until she had no choice but to believe him. "If I hadn't been falling in love with you, I could have told you and not given a damn about what you thought of me! But I knew you'd be hurt and angry, and I couldn't just blurt it out."

  If the pain of betrayal hadn't been clawing at her, she might have been able to believe him. But she couldn't get past the fact that she'd given him her heart and gotten nothing in return. She closed her eyes, wanting, needing, to be alone. "You can't love me if you can't trust me, and nothing you can say is going to change that. Could you go now, Sam? I'm awfully tired."

  His heart told him to stay, to keep talking until he convinced her that he'd made the only choices he could. But his eyes told him she was too hurt, too weak from the ordeal she'd been through, to listen. "All right," he said grimly. "But we're not through with this conversation." Without another word, he walked out.

  * * *

  The city room was blessedly normal. Phones rang shrilly, typewriters and computers clattered, and general madness prevailed. Amid shouts and curses and muffled exclamations of disgust, stories were pounded out with a single-mindedness that made no allowances for distractions. Outside, a summer shower suddenly poured down and lightning streaked across the sky, but no one even noticed. Deadline was fifteen minutes away.

  Katie sat at her desk and drew it all in with a desperation that bordered on panic. It had been five days since the shooting, five days since her life had turned upside down. In all that time, she'd told herself if she could just get back to work, everything would return to the way it had been before Sam had barged back into her life as Grant Elliot. So she'd left the hospital just as soon as she'd had the strength, ignoring both her doctor's objections and her boss's disapproval, to return to the paper.

  This was what she needed, she thought in relief. The sights and sounds and smells of work. She'd had too much time to think in the hospital, too many memories to deal with at home. Everywhere she'd looked; she'd seen Grant—Sam, she ruthlessly reminded herself—until she'd been ready to scream with frustration. The paper was the last refuge she'd had left.

  But even here, there was no escape from him or the story. Five days ago the news had hit the streets on the front page of the Tribune. The day after that the grainy but effective pictures Katie had taken at the refinery came out in the Examiner. The guns that Gallegos had traded to the Colombians had been stolen by Cantu from a local arms company that very night. The city was still abuzz with the scandal and Sam's shocking return. While she'd been on the operating table, the FBI had been busy running down Gallegos and Cantu and had managed to apprehend both men before they could get out of the country. The charges against them ran from gun running and drug smuggling to murder and tax evasion. They were expected to spend years behind bars. Gallegos, to no one's surprise, had denied all charges and refused to speak to anyone but his attorney. Cantu, however, was not so particular and abandoned the sinking ship like a rat, telling everything he knew, including the names of the cops Gallegos had paid to look the other way. One of them was the same officer who had arrested Ryan. An internal investigation of the police department had already started, and no one knew how high the repercussions would be felt.

  Oscar Quinn suddenly appeared in the doorway, dragging her thoughts back to her surroundings. "Gentleman Jim's struck again," he announced over the noise of the city room. "Thompson Savings on Brickell Avenue. Somebody get over there. They think they may have a suspect."

  Katie was pulling her purse out of her bottom desk drawer before the words were even out of his mouth. Rising quickly, she headed toward the door. "I'll go."

  "Hold it!"

  Every conversation, every sound, every movement, ceased at the thunderous roar. Katie, stopping dead in her tracks, turned to find herself caught in the snare of the city editor's scowling stare. She frowned back. "What's the problem?"

  "In my office, MacDonald," he retorted, and waited for her to precede him.

  Fifteen more seconds and she would have been gone, she thought in disgust. Sighing, she strode into his office and took up an impatient stance before his cluttered desk. "Is this something that can wait, Osc
ar? I really need to be going—"

  He shut the door firmly behind him and rested against it. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. Now if that's—"

  He shot her a hard look that refused to accept evasion. "I want the truth, Katie."

  She'd been shrugging off her co-workers' concern ever since she'd stepped into the building, but she couldn't shrug off Oscar's. The gruff man didn't often show his softer side, and she was touched that he cared. "I'm fine," she said sincerely, then had to laugh when he ran a skeptical eye over her slim figure. "All right, I'm not back to full steam yet," she admitted. "And my side is still tender, but that's to be expected. I'm perfectly capable of working. I need to work. It helps."

  Unconvinced, he stared at her for a long time, weighing her frightening frailty against the fire of determination burning in her eyes. If he tried to send her home, he knew she'd only find a way to get around the order. "Stubborn woman," he grumbled. "If you won't take it easy for yourself, would you do it for me? I lost half my hair when I heard you'd been shot!"

  Katie looked pointedly at his bald head and couldn't help but laugh. "You're not putting the blame for that on me!"

  "Get out of here," he growled, grinning as he jerked open the door to his office. "And try to stay out of the way of any more bullets, okay? I can't afford to lose my best reporter."

  "And I was beginning to think you cared," she quipped teasingly, and hurried out of his office before he could change his mind.

  * * *

  Thompson Savings was humming with the nervous excitement that always followed a robbery. Police cars were drawn up close to the entrance at odd angles, their light bars flashing, while the nearby Minicam trucks from several local television stations testified to the growing infamy of Gentleman Jim.

  Quickly finding a parking space in the bank lot, Katie hurried inside, where bank employees and customers stood around in clusters, looking as if they didn't know what to do next. Pulling her notepad from her purse, she went to work.