Not smart, her brain supplied, remember Archer. And she did. She remembered Archer in all his golden, popular glory. He might not have broken her heart, but he’d certainly shattered her pride.
“Yeah, that sounds reasonable. I’ll mention it to the detectives when I see them later today.”
Nick stood and piled his dishes in the sink before he grabbed his keys off the breakfast bar. Genie wondered fleetingly why he’d left them there when there was a perfectly good key rack just inside the door. Then she sighed. It was a timely reminder of their differences. She had racks, he had piles.
Magnetic north and south. She’d do well to remember it.
“I’m going to run an errand or two, check in at the lab and speak with the detectives. You going to be okay?”
So that was it, then. Genie tried to ignore the faint sadness that trickled through her. “Sure, I’ll be fine. My car’s parked in Chinatown so I’ll catch a cab to the commuter rail.”
He paused halfway out the door. “You’re not planning on going to work today, are you?”
Though the very thought of it made her queasy, she said, “Of course I am.”
He blew out a slow breath and abandoned subtlety. “You were beat up yesterday, Genie. You’ve got stitches in your eyebrow and I can tell your head’s killing you. Can’t you take the day off?”
Sure she could, but she didn’t want to. Already the idea of taking the elevator up to their shared floor and walking past the developer room was filling Genie with prickles of dread. She knew it would only get worse the longer she stalled. Her brain might be filling the emptiness with irrelevant thoughts of Nick Wellington in her shower and annoyingly apropos mental notes, but her soul knew the truth.
A big, tough guy like Wellington might not understand, but she was scared. Deep-down, bone-thumping scared.
What if the man was still in the darkroom? What if he’d hidden in the little office closet where she kept a change of clothes? She could feel him looking over her shoulder right now, breathing on her neck; the bruises on her stomach ached when she shivered.
What if the police found him near the lab and he told them that he’d been watching her for weeks, just waiting for his chance?
Or even worse, what if they didn’t find him at all? Would she spend the rest of her life trying to remember him, jumping at every shadow that might remind her of what she couldn’t know? Or would she remember him one day, remember what he had said, what he had done.
And wish that she could forget it again.
She shivered and rubbed an absent hand across a sore spot on her neck. “I could stay home, but I don’t want to.” Her self-appointed guardian scowled and she frowned right back. “I need to walk into that lab today, Wellington. I need to prove to myself that I can go back there and function.” She paused. “Otherwise he’s taken away more than just my feeling of safety. He’s taken away the lab.”
And although Wellington would have no way of knowing it, the lab was more than just a workplace to Genie. It was her life. Her salvation.
Her world.
He sighed and nodded. When he scrubbed a hand down the golden stubble on his jaw, Genie noticed for the first time that he looked tired. Worn. And very sexy in a grumpy, I’m-wearing-yesterday’s-clothes kind of way.
“Okay,” he said, “I can understand that. But let me drive you. I’m going to swing by my place.” He named a nearby section of town, surprising her. She hadn’t realized they were almost neighbors. “Once I’ve changed, I’m going to take care of a few things, then I’ll come back here and get you. Okay?”
He nodded and scratched the stubble on his jaw, clearly satisfied with his own plan. Taking lack of disagreement for an agreement, he gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze and left. The condo seemed much bigger and emptier in his absence.
Her shoulder tingled where he had touched it.
And the silence was as loud as a thousand freezer alarms shrieking at once.
Genie shivered. She was alone. Beef Wellington and his space-hogging tendencies were gone. There was no one else here. She was alone. The shadows seemed to pulse with it.
“Get over it, Watson,” she ordered herself. “You’ve been on your own for a long time and it hasn’t hurt you yet.”
Yet, throbbed the bruises on her breasts and belly as her brave words echoed through the silent space. She shivered again, suddenly sure that there were eyes in the empty darkness of the hallway beyond the kitchen.
What if he knew where she lived?
“Prr-meow?”
Genie jumped a mile and the kitten skittered away. She forced a little laugh. That was why she kept pets, after all. For those times when the quiet was too loud.
“Meep?” Galore inquired again, and set her miniature claws in the jeans Genie had pulled on that morning, unwilling to face Nick in her robe again. He’d been in the kitchen already and had dispelled any awkwardness between them by serving her breakfast, checking her pupils, and not mentioning her nightmares or the man-size imprint on her bed.
Looking at the jeans, she muttered, “Hell with it. I’m going casual,” and slid off the bar stool, slinging the limp kitten over her shoulder where it buzzed contentedly.
She couldn’t bear the thought of her usual work clothes—professional, grown-up, boring, the kind of things she’d originally chosen to make herself seem older. Now it was a habit, though she often wished she could wear her jeans and soft cashmere turtlenecks to the lab, and dreamed of leaving her hair long, or tucking it back in a simple braid that made her look carefree.
Young.
Maybe even pretty? said a soft Georgian accent in the back of her head. Genie shook her head with a half smile. Marilynn always had been an optimist.
“Hell with it,” she muttered again. “I’m wearing jeans today. I deserve it.” She was sore and grumpy and the thought of French-twisting her hair over the bump on the back of her head was enough to make her scream. She pulled a soft bra over her head and scowled at the bruises on her arm and stomach. “Bastard.”
She was going to find out who had wrecked the developer room and she was going to make him pay. Her brain was going to help her whether it wanted to or not. She was going to figure out what had happened and why—and if she had to go right through handsome Nick Wellington and his pat-the-little-ladyon-the-head-and-leave-her-at-home-while-the-big-strong-man-talks-to-the-police attitude, then so be it.
Chapter Four
She hadn’t waited for him. Of course she hadn’t. Nick scowled as he jammed the Bronco into a miniscule space between two identical minivans on the Massachusetts Turnpike. One of the drivers swerved, honked and made a rude gesture that was immediately picked up by the toddler in the back.
Nick ignored them and took the off ramp to Boston General’s parking garage, just outside the theater district. He didn’t know why he was surprised. Any woman who skipped pain pills in favor of a few puny aspirin when she had a face full of stitches and a concussion would be unlikely to sit tamely at home waiting to be picked up.
Of course she’d called a cab.
Nick locked the Bronco and jogged down the cement staircase to exit the garage. Though the hospital had built a series of catwalks and connecting tunnels to allow its employees to move from building to building without venturing outside, Nick preferred the quarter-mile hike through Chinatown. It added an interesting variety of smells to his day.
As he walked, he pondered Genie’s defection until he had to laugh at himself. When he stopped to buy a soda from a street vendor, he finally admitted the truth.
He was disappointed, darn it.
He’d wanted to drive in with her. He wanted to be sure she was okay, wanted to walk into the lab together in case the memory came crashing back all at once. In case it didn’t. Sure, they’d never gotten along particularly well before, but there was a first for everything. Maybe this horrible incident would have a positive side. Maybe they could call a truce. Find some common ground.
Take an
other shower.
Wincing at the thought of her reaction if he ever suggested such a thing, Nick swiped his passkey for admittance into BoGen’s Genetic Research Building, stepped through the sliding door—
And froze when he saw Detective Sturgeon standing in the lobby surrounded by most of the researchers, interns and techs who worked on the thirteenth floor. Genie wasn’t among them.
Nick’s heart thundered in his ears as he crossed the lobby with quick strides. Her attacker had come back to finish the job. Watson had been hurt, raped, or worse.
“What happened?” he practically yelled.
A babble of voices erupted as, excited, each of the techs tried to answer at once. The words “spill,” “gel boxes” and “radiation safety Nazis” filtered out of the hubbub and Nick relaxed a fraction as he called the elevator.
“Jared, keep everyone down here until I call down with the all clear, okay?” The tech grimaced and nodded. The chain that dangled from his pierced nostril swung from side to side at the motion.
Then the elevator arrived and Nick took a deep breath and told himself to relax as the car began to move. Genie was fine. It was just a radioactive spill. A serious but containable lab incident that had nothing to do with the previous day’s events in the darkroom.
Or did it?
UNTIL NICK ARRIVED, Genie hadn’t known she’d been waiting for him. But when he stepped over the yellow Caution/Radioactive tape and joined her in the little room where they ran the DNA separating gels, she felt the tension drain from her in waves and had the insane urge to throw her arms around his waist and blubber while he dealt with Dixon and plied her with painkillers for her headache.
Since that probably would have horrified him, she didn’t. But she thought about it. That is, until he looked down at her, grinned and said, “Hey, baby, you new here?”
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Wellington.”
He pretended surprise, but his perfect teeth flashed. “Why, Dr. Watson. Is that you? I didn’t recognize you for a moment.”
He meant because of the big, ugly bruises on her cheek and the stitches crawling across her forehead like a mutant Gypsy moth caterpillar. Genie didn’t want to cry on him anymore—she wanted to punch him. She knew she looked terrible. He didn’t have to rub it in. He’d made it plain enough the night before that he didn’t consider her desirable. She sighed and jammed her hands into her jeans pockets. Oh, well.
Beef Wellington didn’t want her.
Big surprise.
Resisting the urge to whistle cheerfully at the mutinous look on Genie’s face, Nick asked, “What did you do, nuke the whole darn floor? That’s not like you, Dr. Watson.” He watched with feigned interest as George Dixon and his minions crawled around the room with absorbent cloths, Geiger counters and bottles of Count-Off, a nifty solution that washed away radioactive liquids. “It looks like we’re having a rad safety party.”
He kept his attention fixed on the moon-suited men because otherwise he might have swept Genie up in his arms, carried her to one of their offices—he wasn’t particular about which one—and peeled away that clinging blue top and those skintight old jeans until she was naked in his arms. Again.
Madness.
She looked great with her hair untwisted and her swervy little body showcased in tight denim and soft blue. She looked younger, and Nick took a moment to wonder how old she was. He’d always figured her to be five or six years his senior, given her conservative clothes and double degree. But looking at her now, he reconsidered.
Then he remembered a mountain of memos and a prettily decorated condo and he summoned a scowl. It didn’t matter how old she was. He hadn’t been interested yesterday, and he wasn’t interested today. One shower wasn’t enough to wash away all his good sense.
“Ahem.” An officious cough brought Nick’s attention back to the gel room.
George Dixon, dictator of the radiation safety department, stretched to his full height—still two inches shorter than a slouching Nick—and glared. “No party, Wellington. I could shut you two down for this.” He gestured around the small room. “Radioactive buffer spilled in here, contaminated towels scattered in the main room, incomplete marking of used vials, and—” He paused for emphasis before pronouncing the most dire of sins. “You’re a week behind in your wipe tests.”
Nick turned toward Genie and rolled his eyes. Their radiation use was well within acceptable bounds and Dixon knew it. He just liked to swing his… Geiger counter around.
Unfortunately, since Leo refused to listen to Nick’s repeated complaints, Dixon had the power to do exactly as he threatened—shut down both labs based on minor infractions. So Nick laid a hand on Genie’s shoulder and said, “Well, Dixon, I was on my way to do those wipe tests yesterday when, well, you know…”
Genie glared at him. She’d nagged him about those tests—an annoying and unnecessary procedure Dixon had initiated strictly to torture the labs—the middle of the previous week and Nick had promised to do them then.
However, the ploy worked. Dixon’s expression switched from righteous indignation to concern. “I heard what happened to Genie. It’s awful. Just terrible that someone could break into one of our buildings and do such a thing. Of course, I spoke to the police yesterday afternoon—somebody apparently told them of that little…misunderstanding between us a few months ago.” He reached towards Genie. “I was going to call you last night, but…”
She made a face and avoided his hand. “There was no misunderstanding, George, except maybe you not grasping the meaning of ‘stop calling me at home.’” She glanced at Nick. “By ‘misunderstanding,’ he means ‘restraining order.’ George here believes in pursuing his lady friends, whether they like it or not.”
Dixon’s response to that was muffled as he pulled his safety suit off and Nick felt a quick, predatory quiver. “Hey, Dixon—what’d you do to your head?”
The other man put a hand to the neat bandage just under the hairline by his right ear. “Racquetball. We were playing doubles and I caught a paddle in the head. Hurt like hell.” He smirked at Nick. “But don’t go getting any crazy ideas, Wellington. Like I said, I’ve already talked to the police…and given them my alibi.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, once Dixon and his cronies had pronounced the area clean, packed up and left, Genie tried to get back to work. She failed miserably. Not because she lacked motivation—with the last two days’ experiments ruined, she was desperate to get back to work before she fell horribly behind. And not because she was freaked out to be in her office. Thankfully, once she’d battled down her nerves enough to take the elevator upstairs, she’d found the rest of her return surprisingly easy.
Her head tech, Molly, and her clinical coordinator, Stephanie, had been surprised to see her, but quickly figured out that Genie’s plan was to drown her lingering fear in work. So they’d scraped together the last two weeks’ worth of developed films and dumped them on her desk. She was grateful and suddenly too busy to think about the revolving door down the hall that was still cordoned off with yellow police tape.
No, it wasn’t lack of work or lingering jitters slowing her down. It was the amateur Sherlock Holmes in her office with one perfect butt cheek hitched on her desk and a pair of muscled arms—where did a biochemist get arms like that?—crossed across his equally well-defined chest.
“You should have waited for me this morning,” he stubbornly maintained. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He waved a hand in her face and she scowled and batted it away.
“Eighteen. Lighten up, Be—uh, Nick. I’m fine.”
He didn’t seem convinced. “Well, the Dr. Watson we all know and love—” now that was a gross overstatement if ever she’d heard one or she wouldn’t have escaped her shower unmolested “—would hardly come to work in…” He glanced at her legs. “Casual clothes. Nor would she be involved in a radioactive spill that threatened both our labs.”
She’d ignore his reference to her disheveled looks, but there
was no way she was letting him get away with accusing her of carelessness. She flared, “I wouldn’t go there if I were you, Wellington. Which one of us has been responsible for the last five radioactive violations on this floor?”
Okay, so three of them had come on a single day, when Nick had made the mistake of laughing at Dixon’s very new, very expensive, very odd haircut, but who was counting?
“And besides,” she continued, “the spill was an accident.”
“Was it?” he countered. “How can you be sure?”
Genie felt an intensification of the uneasy niggling that had fluttered in her stomach ever since Molly had called her in to view the accident. “What else could it be?”
Nick shrugged. “Sabotage?” Then he snorted and shook his head. “Never mind, I must be tired because that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, does it?” But he still wished Sturgeon hadn’t left. The guy might look like a fish, but he seemed to know his stuff.
Last night the detective had suggested that the attack was random, but Nick wasn’t so sure. Sneaking into a research building and ambushing someone in a darkroom seemed like a lot of trouble to go to for a few sick jollies, particularly with Boston’s red light district, the Combat Zone, nearby.
One thing was for sure—Nick was sticking close to Genie Watson until he was positive she was safe. This time he’d be smarter. Faster. Better.
He’d protect her. And to do that, he had to figure out what was going on. And he knew right where he wanted to start—with her ex-boyfriend. He’d never liked the rad-safety geek, but the surge of anger he’d felt when Dixon reached for Genie had been totally out of proportion. His gut was telling him something.
“What happened between you and Dixon?”
Genie winced and felt a faint blush rise. “Nothing much.”
Nick nodded, clearly unconvinced. “Do you often take out restraining orders against people who don’t do anything to you?”
“No, of course not.” She paused, but when Nick raised one eyebrow and tapped the place behind his ear where Dixon’s bandage had been, she sighed and continued. “We dated. Briefly, and to my everlasting regret.” There was no need to tell Wellington she’d gone out with Dixon simply because he’d asked and she was lonely. She’d soon figured out that there were worse things than being lonely.
Dr. Bodyguard Page 5