But when he looked up, it certainly wasn’t his boss’s silhouette in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” Kate Rhodes said.
Stephen took in the soft curves and was grateful he hadn’t bothered with the outer office lights. His assistant, Kelly, always took care of them when she rolled in around eight.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she apologized. “But I was driving by, and I thought I’d stop….”
“Before daybreak?” he mumbled, still gawking like a jackass.
But her voice.
It rushed through him with a zing of both recognition and awareness. As if she belonged in his doorway before dawn. As if there were no more natural place for her.
“You were driving by….” He took a long sip of his coffee, eyeing her over the cup—willing the caffeine to sear into his cells, along with the scalding heat, and fire his brain into functioning.
“I’m getting an early start at the shelter.” She didn’t appear to have slept any better than he had. “And—”
“And you just naturally assumed the rest of Atlanta works the same god-awful hours as you?”
“I took a chance.” She smoothed a hand over her purse’s shoulder strap.
The bag was pink. Small. Trendy. Frivolous studs and rhinestones swirled all over it. Why would a no-nonsense character like Nurse Rhodes, who probably lived her life in crisply ironed scrubs or the casual jeans and T-shirt she was wearing beneath her coat this morning, decide to purchase something so feminine and…impractical?
Realizing he was still staring like an idiot, he took another gulp of coffee, set the cup aside and rose to his feet. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Stephen, have you heard from—” Neal stopped midstep beside their visitor. He automatically began rolling down the cuffs of his dress shirt. His sleeves usually made their way to his elbows approximately five minutes after the man walked through the door each morning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you—”
“Neal, this is Kate Rhodes, Dillon Digarro’s nurse—” Stephen stepped around the desk “—and the volunteer from the homeless shelter who made the 911 call. Ms. Rhodes, meet Neal Cain, the firm’s director.”
“Ma’am.” Neal inclined his head, smiling in that genuine way that Stephen still wasn’t accustomed to. Seeing a hardened ex-con like Neal blissfully hitched to a social worker who also happened to be a small-town preacher’s daughter took some getting used to.
As did the prospect of Dillon’s overprotective nurse hunting Stephen down.
“Mrs. Rhodes?” Neal asked when, moments later, Kate still hadn’t spoken.
She was looking back and forth between him and Stephen, as if she were deciding whether to run, hide or fight. The oddest protective instinct had Stephen reaching for her at the same time that she offered her hand to Neal to shake.
“Ms.,” she countered, her gaze shifting to Stephen briefly, then returning to his boss. “It’s Ms. Rhodes. I’m sorry to intrude so early in the morning, but I…I have news your client needs to be aware of, and I don’t know when you’ll hear it from the hospital.”
She fidgeted with her purse some more. Neal glanced at Stephen for an update.
“No one at the hospital is releasing information about Dillon yet.” Stephen had called from his apartment that morning, and again when he’d gotten into the office. “After yesterday, I had the distinct impression you had something to do with that, Ms. Rhodes.”
“Yes…” She hugged her arms around herself. “I thought I was doing the right thing for my patient, but…”
“Has something happened?” Stephen resisted the urge to step closer.
Several feet of solid oak flooring seemed like a sensible barrier to keep between them, after her reaction to his touch at the hospital.
“No.” Kate eased into one of his guest chairs. Neal did the same. “Dillon’s condition hasn’t changed.”
Neal’s encouraging nod was his only reaction.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Kate blurted out. “The test results won’t be released until some time this morning, and I have no idea when the police will receive them. But…” She clasped her hands in her lap. “I shouldn’t be here…I mean, I’m sure Dr. Floyd’s office will contact Mr. Digarro as soon as possible. But he’s a busy doctor, and in case you might speak with your client before…I didn’t want Manny to go another hour without hearing the results. I figured he wouldn’t want to speak with me, but I thought you’d know how to contact him, and…”
“Contact him about what?” Stephen intruded, encouraged by her rambling, even if he needed another shot of caffeine to help him keep up.
It sounded as if Manny was off the hook. But there was something in Kate’s manner that kept Stephen still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She looked from him to Neal again, evidently not finding reassurance in either of their gazes. They were lawyers, interviewing a possible witness for whomever might end up prosecuting their client. What had she expected?
She clenched her hands together.
“The test results suggest another possibility for Dillon’s symptoms, besides abuse. There’s a strong likelihood there’s a genetic cause for the bruising and malnourishment—low bone density, throwing off the child’s balance. Falls and breaks wouldn’t be uncommon.” She swallowed. “My suspicions of abuse initiated the police’s investigation. I should have waited until the tests were complete, but I didn’t. I’ve caused Mr. Digarro a lot of trouble, and I wanted him to know—” she faced Stephen fully “—I’m sorry.”
And she was.
Shadows swirled in her cool, green eyes, along with the unflinching acceptance that she’d been wrong. No excuses. Just the facts, and an honest apology.
Damn.
She’d been overzealous about protecting Dillon, but Kate Rhodes had guts. She was a warrior who fought for what she believed in.
Stephen’s kind of warrior.
He’d been raised by passive-aggressive manipulators who wouldn’t know how to take care of someone else’s needs if their silver-spooned existence depended on it. He’d chosen his path in life, and was now working beside Neal Cain in his brand of ruthless public service, in direct opposition to who his parents had wanted him to become.
It always shocked Stephen to discover in someone else the same determination to make a difference that had driven him since he was a child.
Neal cleared his throat, jerking Stephen out of his thoughts. Kate jumped, too, then looked down to fuss with the clasp of the stylish purse that no longer seemed such an odd fit for her.
The lady was a class act.
“Right.” Stephen walked back behind his desk. “So, you’re risking trouble with your job, if someone were to find out you’re leaking patient records…All so you can tell us that—”
“Is someone going to find out?” she challenged.
Stephen waited only a few seconds before shaking his head. “Not from me. All that concerns me in this matter is my client. Notifying Manny might be a bit of a chall—”
His cell phone’s ring cut him off. Prepared to send the caller to voice mail, he checked the display. But when he saw his best APD contact’s name—the officer he’d asked to keep an eye on the Digarro investigation—he answered.
“Sorry,” he said to Kate. “This will only take a minute…. What’s up?” he asked into the phone.
“The Digarro kid’s gone,” Curt Jenkins replied. “APD just got word from the hospital. A nurse checked on him an hour ago. When she brought in his morning meds, he wasn’t there. His clothes are gone, too. A janitor on the first floor saw someone who might have matched the father’s description carrying a little boy out a side door.”
“Anything else?” Stephen made sure his tone didn’t change. But Neal shifted forward in his chair.
“Nothing yet,” Jenkins replied. “I’m heading over to the hospital to interview staff. Just called the shelter the father was staying at. No one’s seen him in days. We�
��ll do some poking around, but I doubt anyone’s going to give the family up. The homeless community’s pretty tight-knit. I’ll let you know if I find out anything more.”
“Thanks.” Stephen disconnected the call. A negligible shake of his head told Neal they’d go over the details later. “Where were we?”
He returned his attention to the woman who was now standing across from him.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Kate’s cool gaze dared Stephen to lie to her.
He had a feeling she’d know the second he did.
“How dangerous is this genetic condition you think might be causing Dillon’s problems?” he asked.
She blinked.
“If his liver and spleen are as compromised as we suspect, he’ll get sicker without treatment. Worst case, he’ll need enzyme replacement therapy. Maybe bone marrow transplant, but we can’t be sure. Not without ruling out a lot of other things, including cancer. Why?”
“Because Dillon just disappeared, and I haven’t been able to reach Manny for nearly twenty-four hours.”
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” Dillon’s father promised in Spanish.
Dillon clutched his toy car close. They used English everywhere, except when it was just them. Spanish meant they were alone.
It meant they were safe.
Dillon’s arm throbbed and his chest hurt, but so what? He’d ignored it when his papa had carried him down the stairs at the hospital to keep them out of sight. He could ignore it some more.
The cab ride to wherever they were going was taking forever, even though Papa kept saying they were almost there. Dillon’s first cab ride. A real cab!
But secretly, Dillon wanted his comfortable hospital bed back.
Soft sheets. Nice nurses who smiled and brought him juice. The cab jolted over a bump in the road, and he choked back a groan.
It hurt everywhere, but he and Papa were together again. That’s what mattered.
“Thank you for my car,” he said. It was too expensive. The cab ride was, too, but he loved them both.
He shifted against the cracked seat.
“You okay?” Papa asked, and Dillon nodded a quick yes.
His father was always asking that. He was always worried. They couldn’t afford doctors in this country, because they’d left all their money and who they really were behind. But Dillon had had lots of doctors back home.
He might be ten, but he wasn’t a baby.
Something was wrong. The tests the American hospital had done felt different. Papa sneaking him from the hospital wasn’t right. Spending money on the toy and the cab ride…and just going to a different part of town instead of leaving Atlanta for good—none of it felt right.
They had to keep moving. Dillon wasn’t a baby about that most of all. When they stopped moving, Papa was in danger.
His father kissed the top of his head and rubbed the shoulder that Dillon hadn’t landed on when he’d tripped down the stairs. The cab jerked to a stop that made Dillon gasp.
“It’s going to be okay,” Papa promised, the same as always.
Dillon tried hard to believe him.
No one had seen them leaving the hospital. No one would know where they were going next. And Dillon would be more careful. No more accidents. He’d keep moving, no matter how much it hurt.
He was going to get better. He was going to forget about home and the soft sheets at the hospital and Nurse Kate. He was going to be okay, so Papa wouldn’t be in danger.
He clutched his new car closer and squeezed his father’s fingers tighter, as the cab shot through the next intersection on its way to somewhere new.
MARTIN RHODES reached for the answering machine’s delete button. The aluminum crutch propped beneath his right elbow and hand slipped under his weight.
He lurched toward the floor but caught himself on the edge of his kitchen table, jarring it against the wall and sending everything on top scattering. The answering machine hit the tile.
Lissa Carter’s endless message kept playing.
“I know you’re there, Martin.” Months ago, the upset in her normally sunny voice had shifted to something very much like defeat.
Defeat mixed with Lissa’s sweet Southern accent made Martin feel like an asshole.
She sounded closer to giving up than he’d ever heard her, which should have been a relief, after six months of him asking her to do just that. Except he hated what this was doing to the strength and confidence that made her so special.
He straightened, his left arm braced against the table, the right against the crutch that was supposed to keep him on his feet, since his right leg still refused to do its share of the work. Easing into a chair, he kicked at the answering machine, dragging it back with his toe. When it was close enough, he bent and picked it up.
Pain screamed down his back. He gritted his teeth against the reminder that he hadn’t yet done his daily stretching exercises.
“You’ve probably been there every time I’ve called.” Lissa sighed. He could hear her girls playing in the background. Something clattered, and he could picture her fussing with dishes at the sink, or cooking something at the stove. “Not picking up the phone won’t stop me from calling. Pretending you don’t care whether or not someone’s in your life might have worked with your sister, but I’m not giving up that easy.”
Easy?
Watching Kate walk away ten years ago—doing nothing to stop her—was the biggest regret of Martin’s life. It had been the catalyst for him ditching the good-ol’-boy bachelor he’d been, and ultimately falling for Lissa Carter.
He’d needed something real again. Something to believe in and hold on to. Smart and funny and loving, Lissa had been perfect, just as long as his past stayed neatly tucked away where it belonged.
But flat on his back after the shooting, strapped to a bed and unable to move and in excruciating pain, he hadn’t been able to keep the shadows away. And despite the “miraculous” improvements he’d made in rehab, he hadn’t been able to look at Lissa and keep pretending he could be what she needed. Lissa had to—she had to—stop fighting for them.
A them that hadn’t really existed in the first place.
“The girls were asking about you last night,” she said as the message rambled on. Tears roughened her words. “Callie mentioned you in her prayers, like she always does. Then she wanted to know about your legs—if they were getting better—because she knew how much you liked to play tag. She was wondering if we could drive up there and take you to the park to play this weekend.”
Martin stared down at the answering machine, at the legs it rested against. The small-town gang shoot-out that had culminated in his injuries had been a tactical victory for the Oakwood sheriff’s department. Rival gangs in the area were under control now. The surrounding counties were less at the mercy of random violence fueled by the drugs being run up and down the east coast, from Florida to New York and beyond. A part of Martin was proud to have been there, to have most likely saved the life of his best friend—his chief, Tony Rivers—by taking a bullet while covering Tony’s back. Just not the part that couldn’t feel half of what he was supposed to from the waist down—the part that still couldn’t be near the amazing woman he loved, and the ready-made family he’d dreamed of sharing with her.
“If you want to tell yourself you don’t need us, Martin, then you go on ahead.” Lissa didn’t get bitchy when she was angry. She turned annoyingly logical and direct. Cool as a spring breeze.
“Hide there in your new job and lick your wounds,” she baited him. “Try to forget the good things you’re throwing away here, if that’s what you need to do. But what about what the rest of us need? I know you’re feeling like shit about how you’re behaving. Your heart’s made of mush, tough guy. You can’t keep this up forever, and I have no intention of sugar-coating it for you. The girls miss you. I miss you. Tony’s tearing himself up because he couldn’t help get through to you. The whole freaking town asks about you everywhere I go. You�
�re needed here, and you’re hanging us all out to dry.”
She took a deep breath. A sniffle made its way across the line. Then she cleared her throat.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Don’t answer. Let’s see how well you ignore me once I stop playing by your rules. I’ve left you alone. I’ve given you time, and waited for you to work through everything. I’m done waiting. Let’s see you pretend you don’t want me when I’m only a few feet away, instead of halfway across the state!”
She hung up with a clamor.
Damn it!
So he hadn’t heard wrong the first three times he’d played the message.
A few feet away…
Martin’s finger hovered over the play button again, his mushy heart clenching at the pain and desperation he’d heard in Lissa’s voice.
She couldn’t be seriously thinking about coming to Atlanta.
Cursing, he fumbled for the portable phone that had skidded to the far side of the table. His fingers were shaking so badly, he almost dropped the thing. He misdialed her number twice.
Yeah, he was a tough guy, all right.
When the phone rang before he could try again, he thumbed it on without bothering to look at the display. Then he hesitated, not sure if he could actually go through with answering.
Only one person called him at his apartment. Work had his cell number.
He made himself lift the receiver.
“Lissa, honey, you’ve got to stop this.” Her name rolling off his tongue felt so good. “You can’t come up here and—”
“Martin, it’s me,” a different feminine voice said.
This one was clipped yet warm—the paradox a perfect description of the woman it belonged to. The only woman on the planet he was less ready to talk to than Lissa Carter.
“I need your help,” his sister said.
Katie.
Someone who—just like him—refused to let herself need anyone anymore.
CHAPTER FOUR
“IT’S MY FAULT they’re running, Martin.” Kate kept her voice down and her back to the activity bustling around the pediatric floor nurses’ station. “I need to know what APD has on the Digarros, so I can help find them. But the officers here aren’t telling me anything.”
Because of a Boy Page 3