Harlequin Romantic Suspense January 2021

by Marie Ferrarella, Regan Black, Karen Whiddon

  Noah was thankful, at least, that the room where he was currently undergoing treatment appeared to be clean and professional. Soft green walls. The smell of ammonia and various medical accoutrements arranged in tidy place. No visible sign of dirt or corruption. It was more like a homebased hospital room than anything else.

  The man working on him appeared no less business-like, either. He’d donned a lab coat then both washed his hands and covered them in rubber gloves before getting near Noah’s foot. With a calm, perfectly cultivated bedside manner, he’d explained that he was going to need to cut through the laces of Noah’s boot before being able to see what was going on, and he’d also asked permission before jabbing him with a shot of lidocaine. His subsequent motions were quick and sure. And from all of that, Noah deduced that the man must be a real medical professional rather than some de-licensed hack, like he would’ve expected.

  Not exactly complete peace of mind, Noah said to himself, but I’ll take it.

  The only problem—aside from all the obvious wrongness—was that being able to breathe also meant being able to think. Which meant that his mind automatically went to Elle. In fact, his brain didn’t even bother trying to skip around her. It simply dived right in, sifting through the divulgences Trey Charger had offered up.

  Divulgences? They weren’t just divulgences. It was cold, hard proof in video form, he reminded himself. Elle lied to you.

  He tried to focus on that. To use it as a shield against the ache he felt when he thought of her. It was hard. Not just because he didn’t want to face the truth about her, but because trying not to think of her somehow only intensified his short-term memory. His senses were full of Elle. Her scent. Her voice. Her touch. He was well aware that it was over-the-top. She had no right to be laying so much claim to him. After all, he really didn’t know her. How could he, after so short a time? Even if the video hadn’t proved as much, there were other things to consider. Like the fact that the intimacy between them could’ve been as fake as her story. Something nagged at him anyway. Maybe it was just that Charger wanted him to be aware of Elle’s past. His whole song-and-dance routine was intended to keep Noah away. To make him feel angry and betrayed. Why? Noah supposed it could just be because of the promise the other man had made to Elle. It was a simple enough explanation. So how come he felt like it didn’t quite fit?

  Wishful thinking, Loblaw. It’s as straightforward as that. You were all set to start falling in love with her, and then you found out she was a murderer.

  The thought was so startling that Noah jerked to a sitting position without even realizing it. The bald head at his feet bobbed up, and the glasses-clad man cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m just going to need you to relax for a couple more minutes, here.”

  Noah muttered his own apology, then lay back again, trying to divert his mind once more. Because people didn’t start falling in love in hours. They didn’t even consider it in the offhanded way that Noah’s conscience had just done. That was pure insanity. And even if it weren’t, it didn’t matter anymore anyway. His role in Elle’s life was over.

  He cleared his throat and tried a new distraction tactic—addressing the man who was taking care of his wound.

  “Gotta admit, Doc,” he said. “You don’t seem like the pay-for-play type.”

  “And you don’t seem like the usual type that Mr. Charger sends my way,” the other man replied mildly. “Aside from the GSW and the blood, of course.”

  “What? Am I too clean-cut for maximum thug-ness?”

  “No. You’re plenty scruffy enough. But you’re also capable of forming a complete sentence without dropping an f-bomb, you’re not calling me names, and you’re not demanding stronger drugs. So…”

  Noah let himself chuckle. “Yeah, well. Maybe ‘Mr. Charger’ isn’t usually responsible for the bullet in question.”

  The doctor paused in his work and lifted his eyes. “I would guess not. No offense to Mr. Charger, but I suspect that the people he takes down are usually intended to stay that way.” He lowered his gaze again. “And actually, you’re quite lucky, sir.”

  “Noah.”

  The doctor’s attention came up once more, surprise and caution mingling on his face. “Names aren’t necessary.”

  Noah shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide. My last name’s Loblaw, while I’m at it.”

  “In that case…” The man stood, snapped the glove off his right hand, then extended his palm. “I’m Ford McMillan. And yes, I’m a real doctor. I do most of my work out of Van General.”

  Noah clasped the other man’s fingers and shook firmly. “That’s incredibly reassuring.”

  “It’s equally nice to have someone in here who isn’t going to steal my narcotics.” He took off the other glove and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “You want the good news now?”

  “Please.”

  “Your boot took the brunt of the bullet.”

  “Felt like it hurt a hell of a lot more than a graze.”

  Dr. McMillan nodded. “That’d be because of the burn.”

  “The burn?” Noah echoed.

  “The bullet went through the topside of your boot just past your pinky toe. Then it got lodged in the sole. Here. Let me show you.”

  He turned around for a second, then spun back with the boot in his hands. Noah winced at the footgear’s state. As the doctor had said, he’d cut open the lace in order to remove it. The side where the bullet had entered was charred and shredded, and the inside—which had once been off-white—was darkened with dried blood. Nothing about it looked “lucky.”

  As if Dr. McMillan could read Noah’s mind, he spoke up right then. “Just think. That could’ve been your foot.”

  Noah sighed. “Yeah, man. You’re right.”

  The doctor offered a smile and set down the boot. “As it stands, you’re just going to be mighty sore. It was partially cauterized already, but I made sure it was cleaned up, slathered it with some strong topical stuff and bandaged it as well.”

  “Thanks, doctor. What do I owe you for all that?”

  “Nothing. You came in as a referral.”

  “There’s no chance that I’m letting Trey Charger pick up my tab for a coffee, let alone for a visit to a doctor.”

  The other man’s lips curved. “No sweeter words have ever been spoken. So I’ll tell you what, Noah Loblaw. This one’s on me, rather than on him. I’ll even toss in a bottle of good old-fashioned penicillin tabs and a couple of pain pills. The ones from my secret stash upstairs, strictly no placebos. Maybe a pair of size twelve work boots? Never worn.”

  Noah nodded. He was grateful, and he wanted to be relieved. Except he honestly wasn’t sure what came next. Hell. He didn’t even know where to go next. He couldn’t head back to the hotel where he and Elle had been staying. It was assumable that Charger’s thugs would do a cleanup mission, but Noah didn’t want to risk any staff recognizing him and asking questions. Even going home seemed like a bad idea. It had lost its anonymity.

  And Elle?

  Noah raked a hand over his hair. Was he supposed to go to her? Demand an explanation, then get one that he might not even want to hear? Or simply walk away? Neither seemed like a solution. The former could get her and her kid killed. The latter left her stuck with the man who’d pushed her into murder. Neither seemed like an ideal cure for the sharp throb that pulsed unpleasantly through his veins. The doctor’s light touch alerted Noah to the fact that he’d been sitting and staring at nothing for a little too long.

  “Look,” said the other man. “I’m normally in a hurry to get guys out of here, and they’re not usually interested in staying. But if you want to stick around…”

  Noah shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just…” He trailed off as something caught his eye—a framed photograph, sitting on the tiny desk in the corner. It was of a bea
utiful woman with a swaddled bundle in her arms, and he couldn’t look away.

  Dr. McMillan followed the direction of his stare, then cleared his throat. “My wife and son. The day we brought him home from the hospital. Connor’s eighteen now—almost nineteen, really.”

  Noah’s eyes stayed fixed on the photograph, trying to figure out what it was that had made him want to fixate on it. He was only half listening as the doctor explained that his family had moved down south years earlier. He wife was American, and they both felt it was safer for them to be as far away from Trey Charger as possible. Especially knowing that Charger had been banned from crossing the Canada–US border.

  “I’ll get down there one day,” the other man said, his voice full of undisguised wistfulness. “Hopefully before my son has a baby of his own.”

  Then it finally struck Noah. A baby. Elle had taken Katie as an infant. The video evidence had shown it. And he was sure that she’d said something about the kid being six, and that she’d been taking care of her on her own for that same number of years. But she’d also said Charger was the kind of man who locked a little girl in a closet. Who taught her a lesson. There was no way she’d been talking about a baby. If that had been the case, she would’ve stated it outright, further illustrating the darkness of Charger’s character.

  What did that mean?

  “Has Trey Charger ever mentioned a wife?” Noah blurted, cutting the other man off, midsentence.

  Dr. McMillan’s puzzlement was evident in his frown. “A wife?”

  Noah couldn’t have explained the question if he tried. Maybe it was the fuzziness of the recently administered drugs and the leftover shock of being shot, or maybe it was just that his brain hadn’t managed to catch up to his mouth yet. Either way, he gave his head a little shake. Something was just out of mental reach—something he damn well needed to figure out.

  “A wife,” he repeated a little more firmly. “Or a long-term girlfriend? Maybe the mother of his child?”

  The doctor frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a word about a wife, but one thing I am certain of is that Mr. Charger lost his daughter years ago.”

  “Yes,” Noah replied softly, his mind churning in what seemed like a useless, hamster wheel of a way.

  “Aside from the obvious…is something wrong?”

  “No, I—You know what? Can I take you up on the boots and stuff? I’d like to make a call.”

  “You need to borrow a phone?”

  Noah patted his pocket, relieved to find that his cell hadn’t been taken. “I’m good.”

  Dr. McMillan nodded. “All right. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Noah waited until the other man had slipped out a door across the room, then dragged his phone free and dialed without looking. Halfway through the second ring, his sister’s familiar voice answered.

  “This is Norah,” she said.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t know it was me,” he replied.

  “You know I don’t believe in that twin sense garbage.”

  “So you didn’t know?”

  Her sigh carried through clearly. “Fine. I did. But I don’t have to like it. And for the record, I also don’t like knowing that you’re about to ask me for help.”

  Noah couldn’t help but smile. “It’s a good kind of help, though.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “It is when I’m giving you a chance to prove that you’re smarter than I am.”

  His sister sighed again. “Your attempt at flattery will get you nowhere. And are you seriously calling me from Vancouver?”

  “Are you seriously pinging the location of my phone?” he countered.

  “Not you, personally.”

  “Oh, I see. You stalk every caller.”

  “Job hazard,” Norah said easily. “But really, little bro? You come into Van the one weekend I’m away?”

  “Sorry,” he replied. “Are you at least somewhere hot and tropical?”

  She snorted. “Hardly. I’m staying at this place called Wavers Hollow. Gingerbread cabin. I kid you not. That’s what it’s called. And the town has a population of about fourteen, I swear.”

  Noah’s smile widened to a grin. “Sorry. Again.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I buy either of those apologies,” said his sister. “You take peculiar pleasure in harassing me. So. Go ahead. Get it over with and hit me with whatever favor you need.”

  His amusement at the familiar banter faded quickly as he launched into a summary of the last twelve or so hours. He went into as much detail as he could in as few words as possible. The only things he left out were the more intimate details and his own, overblown feelings about Elle. His sister picked up on the omitted facts anyway.

  “You like this woman,” she said as soon as he was done.

  “I barely know her,” he responded.

  “Yet you suspended all your dumb rules. You have a perfectly acceptable reason for walking away. Or for contacting some real police. And instead, you’re calling me and asking what you should do.”

  Noah didn’t bother to argue with her; he was never very good at lying to his sister.

  “I’m not asking you what to do,” he grumbled instead. “I’m asking you what I’m missing.”

  “Amounts to the same thing,” Norah told. “But since it means you’ll have to concede that I am, in fact, the smarter sibling, I’ll tell you. What’s the first thing you normally do when a client tries to hire you?”

  “Asking me a question and telling me the answer are two very different things, sweet sister.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He started to close his eyes to think about what she’d asked, then realized he didn’t really need to think about it at all. Mentally kicking himself, he nearly jumped off the hospital bed. He didn’t need to tell Norah that he’d figured it out, either.

  “See?” she said. “I’m totally brilliant.”

  “Love you, Norah.”

  “I’ll take that as agreement. Let me know when to expect the engagement announcement.”

  Unsurprisingly, she didn’t give him a chance to respond. The line went dead in Noah’s hands. That was fine with him, though. He was already sliding down the mattress, hobbling toward the door where the doctor had disappeared and calling up to ask if the other man had a computer he could borrow.

  * * *

  Elle was wasting time. A fairly loud voice in her head kept telling her so. And she knew she should listen. Figure out just what she needed to do in order to escape the current situation. Or to be more accurate, she should figure out what she needed to do in order to save Katie. But every time she turned a look toward the girl’s face—now restful in sleep once more—a different voice piped up in Elle’s head. One that whispered to spend as much time with Katie as possible, because who knew how long they had. She actually hated that second voice. But that didn’t mean she could completely block it out. Because what if it was right? So she’d heeded it for a while. Stolen long moments of cuddling. Of hair smoothing. Of whispering endearments. And admittedly crying a little.

  But now Elle was pacing the length of the room, over and over, trying not to think about the war going on in her psyche. Trying to redirect her brain back to a workable solution. Except the space where she moved was, all on its own, an unpleasant reminder of the way her and Trey’s pasts were linked together. Because it had been her room. And not much had changed in the last almost-decade. Her feet hit the same hardwood floors. The same board squeaked beside the same ornate dresser. Even the same midnight blue curtains hung over the panes of glass. Elle knew every inch of it. But it wasn’t a good kind of familiarity. This was the same place where she’d lain awake at night, stared up at the ceiling and hoped that Trey would forget she was there. The bed where Katie was sprawled out, starfish style, was the exact spot where Elle had been sitting wh
en he busted in—reeking of rum, and too pleased with himself to be anything but full of bad news—and informed her of his plans for her future.

  Elle shivered, thinking about it now. The only good thing about being in the room was that Detective Stanley had left Katie and her alone. The smallest of mercies. And before she knew it, she’d stopped again, her eyes hanging on Katie’s dark locks, her mind silently counting the rhythmic rises and falls of her little chest. Her life was wrapped up in that small body, her heart tethered to it, too. Elle loved her so much that she’d give up anything to keep her safe. If she needed any proof of that, all she had to do was take a look at the last few hours. Let her mind brush over Noah Loblaw.

  God, how she hoped he was okay. She’d done everything she could to protect him, too. Right that second, though, in the quiet and the dark, she wished she hadn’t made so sure that he wouldn’t come after her. But she had. She’d made Trey promise to let him go, and out of necessity she’d demanded that he do it in a way that would keep Noah out of her life for good. She wasn’t certain what Trey would choose; she just knew he wouldn’t hold back. A threat. A piece of blackmail. An irreparable rift. It was what Elle needed. What she’d asked for. Yet she still would’ve given almost anything to be able to ask for Noah’s help. To throw herself into his arms and immerse herself in his scent and the safety of his presence and the feeling of finally coming home when she’d been homeless for so long.

  And there it was. What she’d given up. Something—someone—she’d barely had a chance to really get to experience, yet which—who—she was so very sure was meant to end.

  She closed her eyes, trying to brush off the very recent memory. But it backfired. Noah’s stubble-dotted face and too-long hair leaped right to the front of her mind. For a second, the image was so powerful that she could almost smell him for real. Then the windowpane rattled with a sudden gust of wind, and Noah was swept away once more. The only problem was that Elle wasn’t relieved. She was just sad.