GUILTY SECRETS

by Virginia Kantra

  "—is an issue," Joe interrupted wearily. "Not a hook. Nobody wants to read about issues. Nobody cares."

  "I care," she insisted.

  "Yeah, well, that's what sets you apart from ninety-nine percent of the Examiner's target market."

  Nell bit her lip. "I don't know anything about writing, but it seems to me you're going about this the wrong way."

  "You think?"

  She ignored his sarcasm. "Maybe instead of trying to come up with something that would appeal to some nameless, faceless majority of readers, you should figure out what gets you excited about your story. What makes you care?"

  He was so not going there. "You mean, besides the fact that if I miss my deadline my editor's going to be really pissed?"

  Nell's earnest gaze never wavered. "Yes. Besides that."

  Joe shook his head. He couldn't do what she was asking. He couldn't be the man she wanted or the reporter this story deserved.

  "You've got the wrong guy, sweetheart. I don't do caring."

  "I don't accept that. You cared about Laila."

  "That was different," he objected automatically.

  "Different, how?"

  "Different different." The words burst out of him. "The kid needed help. For God's sake, you don't ignore a woman who's having a baby on the street."

  And that was it, Joe realized. There was his hook. All the things that had compelled him to get involved with the young Muslim woman would sway his readers, too. Laila's labor and delivery had everything that made a great news story: personal drama, political relevance, urgency, action, even a happy ending.

  Would she agree to let him take her picture for the paper?

  Nell sat watching him, her smile suspiciously smug. "No, you don't, do you?"

  She undid her seat belt. Leaning forward, she kissed him warmly, briefly on the mouth.

  "Good luck working on your story," she said, and let herself out of his car.

  Joe watched as his chance for sexual release went up the walk with quick, determined strides.

  Good luck working on your story?

  He didn't want to work on his story, damn it. He wanted Nell.

  He watched her unlock the door to her apartment building and close it firmly behind her.

  On the other hand, he supposed he could work on the story. He sure as hell didn't have anything better to do with his night. Not anymore.

  Nell was disgruntled.

  Not because she expected Joe Reilly to call, she assured herself as she wrote out a prescription for Stanley Vacek in Exam Five. It wasn't as if they were seeing each other. Participating in a messy birth and sharing a few relatively innocent kisses in the front seat of his Range Rover did not constitute a commitment. Or even a date.

  He didn't owe her anything. She didn't expect anything. If you expected things from people, they only let you down. Nell had learned early in life that if she wanted cupcakes for the class on her birthday, she'd better bake them herself. If she wanted flowers on her anniversary, she'd better buy them herself. And if she wanted soft, searing kisses from a man who made her pulse pound…

  Scowling, she added a beta-blocker to Mr. Vacek's thiazide-typed diuretic and clipped both prescriptions to the top of his chart.

  Face it. Joe hadn't called in four days. Obviously the kisses that left her distracted and hungry for more hadn't had the same effect on him. From the easy way he'd invited himself up to her apartment, she 'suspected he probably kissed women all the time. Women who didn't end their evenings together by wishing him luck with his work while they—the women—went to bed alone.

  Nell delivered the prescriptions to Mr. Vacek in Exam Five along with a recipe for vegetable soup.

  Vacek scowled at her like an unhappy garden gnome. "I don't cook."

  "It wouldn't hurt you to learn," Nell said. He needed something to occupy his time besides visits to the clinic. "And it would help if you added some vegetables to your diet."

  He sniffed, but he took the recipe.

  Nell went out to the flow board by the nurses' station to check on her next appointment. Taped to the wall was the front page of yesterday's Life section.

  Delivering Hope on the North Side, the headline read. The byline read, Joe Reilly.

  Nell had read the story the day before, but she paused anyway to enjoy the photo. Right there above the fold, a smiling Laila Massoud cradled her baby to her breast.

  "Looking good," Billie said on her way to draw labs from the diabetic in Exam Four.

  Nell wasn't sure if the other nurse was referring to Laila or the clinic, but she nodded in agreement. "Donations should go up."

  The piece was a sensitive chronicle of the day-to-day hopes and struggles of student Arif and his non-English-speaking wife in the wake of 9/11. The two had married over their families' objections and moved to Chicago a year ago. Joe had used the birth of their daughter as a touching symbol of the new life the young couple longed for. It wasn't the PR piece Nell had sought, but there was a nice plug for the Ark Street Free Clinic in the sidebar. Joe had done a good job.

  And she would tell him so if she ever heard from him again.

  Billie still lingered, her usually cheerful face troubled.

  Nell dragged her mind from Joe Reilly's kisses, his article and his silence and asked, "Is anything wrong?"

  "It's Trevor," said Billie. "He's having another episode."

  In sickle-cell patients, defective blood cells could block the blood vessels, causing bouts of pain that might last for days. Or weeks.

  "Poor kid. I'm sorry," Nell said. "What does Dr. Jim say?"

  "What can he say? He told him to drink a lot of water, stay warm and avoid getting tired." Billie snorted. "Like the boy can get tired when he can't even get out of bed."

  Nell winced in sympathy. "Did you ask about putting him on hydroxyurea? It's not a cure, but—"

  Billie shook her head. "He's too young. All we can do is treat the pain."

  Suspicion twinged like the ache from a sore tooth. Could Billie be behind the pharmacy thefts?

  You got a problem with personal use, Tom Dietz had said. Somebody with access.

  Nell's chest felt tight. Not Billie. If Billie were using, Nell would know. There were signs, symptoms… But what if Billie were taking the drugs for her nephew?

  She didn't have the code to the narcotics closet. But she had handled the pharmacy keys. She could have seen Nell enter the code.

  Nell couldn't believe the other nurse would violate everything—the law, her training and their friendship—to steal from the clinic. She didn't want to believe it. Since her mother died and her husband dumped her, her clinic co-workers were the only family she had.

  But then, two years ago, Nell hadn't wanted to believe Richard could betray her, either, and her willful blindness then had almost destroyed them both.

  She forced herself to breathe. "So, have you … Is Trevor getting enough medication?"

  Billie shrugged. "What's enough? He's trying those pain management techniques, the imaging and stuff, but it's hard. He's only nine years old."

  "His mother could help him," Nell said, amazed at how natural she sounded.

  "Crystal has to work. The only one who can keep an eye on Trev during the day is that lame-ass boyfriend of hers."

  That wasn't good. Complications could develop rapidly with sickle cell. Patients' families had to know what symptoms to watch for and how to respond to them.

  Maybe it was in Trevor's best interests if Nell took a look at his chart.

  And maybe Nell was a lying, scheming, mistrustful bitch who wanted to check the boy's pain treatment plan to see if his aunt Billie had any motive to steal.

  "I could take a look at his chart," Nell said. "Maybe offer a second opinion."

  "Sure," Billie said slowly. "That would be … great."

  Yeah, great, Nell thought as Billie disappeared into Exam Four with her plastic-wrapped syringes. She stared blindly at the photo of mother and child taped to the wall
. She was already in trouble with the state Nursing Board. The last thing she needed was to discover a nurse she'd hired, a friend, was skimming Schedule Two drugs from the pharmacy.

  Not to mention that if Fletcher discovered her reviewing the boy's chart, he'd have every right to complain she was overstepping her authority with his patient.

  "You know they named her after you," Joe said behind her. "The baby. They named her Elena."

  Nell's heart thumped. She turned.

  And there he was, standing in the aisle in front of the nurses' station with his thumbs in his belt loops and a gleam in his eye, lean and tough and hot. She was so glad to see him it made her cross.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to see you," he said, just the way she'd hoped he would four days ago when he brought Laila to the clinic to have her baby.

  Four days ago.

  Four days.

  Without a phone call.

  She lifted her chin. "Why? You finished your story."

  Joe nodded, still with that unsettling glint in his eyes. "That's why."

  "I don't understand," Nell said.

  "You mean you don't remember." He took a step closer, taking up more space and more oxygen than a man his size had a right to. "I told you that first night at Flynn's. Once I file the story, I don't have any rules against taking you to bed."

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Nell was wound as tight as an Ace bandage, nearly breathless with distress. She couldn't deal with Joe Reilly's particular brand of shark charm right now.

  She eyed him warily. "Don't tell me that line has ever actually worked on anyone."

  Joe grinned at her, hot and male and so irresistibly sexy she wanted to slug him. "There's always a first time."

  Oh, great. Her world was falling apart, and he was doing Sexual Banter. Banter was interesting, banter was fine when you had the energy, but just this once Nell wished she could fall for a guy who expressed himself by grunting comfort or buying flowers. Roses would be nice. Red ones. Something predictable, something she could count on.

  She pulled herself together. "This isn't a first time for either one of us. And there's no way I'd have sex with you as a reward for some four-inch sidebar in the paper."

  Joe looked wounded. "I didn't think size mattered to you."

  Lucy Morales dropped her pen and bent to pick it up, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

  Nell was too tired for this. But she rallied like the fighter she was. "It's not the size, Reilly. It's what you do with it."

  His eyes sharpened. His face sobered. "You didn't like the story?"

  Tired or not, worried or not, she couldn't let him think for one minute that his words hadn't touched her.

  "I loved it," she said honestly. "You made me cry."

  He continued to study her, his hands in his pockets. "Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. But thanks."

  His continued attention made her uncomfortable. "What did your editor think?"

  "He was okay with it."

  Nell sighed. The clinic was as crowded as Wrigley Field on an August afternoon. The waiting room was full, the exam rooms were loaded, she had a probable respiratory infection on deck and a return patient with diabetes in the dugout. Someone close to her was stealing drugs from the clinic pharmacy, and she'd just pretended concern for a sick child so she could pin a motive on her best friend.

  She was as exhausted and empty as a used syringe. The last thing she needed was to take on responsibility for Joe or his story or his future.

  But she couldn't let it go.

  "Just okay?"

  "More than okay," Joe admitted. "Health care's hot right now. He wants me to do some kind of series on medical insurance."

  "That's exciting," Nell said. Except you'd never guess it from Joe's stolid face. "Isn't it?"

  "Yeah. Exciting. You give me the statistics, I'll give you a story."

  That was what she wanted, wasn't it? A well-researched feature to drum up donations. But…

  "It's not about statistics," Nell objected. "My patients aren't numbers. They're people. That's your story."

  "Real life-or-death stuff." His tone was dry.

  Nell looked him in the eye. He was so not getting away with that. "It is for them."

  "Right. Everybody has a story. That doesn't make it news."

  "But…" She couldn't reconcile this Joe with the man who had coached Laila through her daughter's birth, the reporter who had conveyed her story with such insight and compassion. "You wrote about the Massouds."

  "And it ended up on the front page of the Life section."

  She was genuinely bewildered. "What's the matter with that?"

  "It would never run on page one. The rule of journalism is, if it bleeds, it leads."

  His attitude was pissing her off. "And that's important to you? Being on page one."

  His blue eyes blazed. And then his heavy lids dropped over them, and he shrugged. "Yeah. At least it used to be."

  "Then I guess you'll have to do a good enough job with this series to compel your editor to run your story on the front page. Maybe I can find someone who's bleeding for you."

  "Damn it, Dolan." Joe sounded more weary than angry. "Don't you ever give up?"

  His question shook loose a swarm of memories, already buzzing and crawling in the wake of the pharmacy thefts. Memories of being a teenager coming home from school to deal with the morning's dishes and the evening's meal and her mother's increasingly fragile health. Memories of being a young wife coming home from a full day of work to a week's worth of laundry and a month's worth of bills and an increasingly demanding and critical husband.

  "Sometimes I want to." The confession popped out. She could tell her admission surprised him. Well, it surprised her, too. She raised her chin. "But it's not usually an option."

  She was like the grandfather clock in his parents' dining room, Joe thought. That pale, beautiful face hid the ticking brain inside and a bundle of nerves wound tight.

  He felt an almost irresistible urge to comfort her and shoved his hands deep in his pockets so he wouldn't do something stupid with them, like pat her on the back or pull her close. He didn't want to comfort her.

  In fact, he thought, trying to work up some indignation with the idea, Nell Dolan was one of the most uncomfortable people he had ever known. Talking with her was like walking on a leg that had fallen asleep. One minute he was nice and numb, not feeling much of anything, and then she came along pushing and prodding, forcing him to life, making him prickle with returning sensation. The woman was a pain.

  But Joe had to admit he was kind of relieved to know he had some feeling left after all.

  "You want a story?" he asked. "I'll write a story that will impress your pants off. But you have to cooperate."

  The chin went up another notch. "By taking off my pants?"

  Joe grinned. "That would be a bonus," he said. "Actually, I was angling for access to some information, maybe the chance to talk with some of your volunteers."

  She hesitated. "I can give you names. I can't guarantee they'll talk to you."

  He shrugged. "It's a place to start."

  And he wanted a start, he realized. His career might be at a standstill, his ankle was a dead end, but he wanted another start with her.

  "And I want you to clear discussions with my staff through me," Nell added.

  Joe raised his eyebrows. "You protecting somebody, Dolan?"

  She went white, then red. "From you? Now, why would I feel the need to do that?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," Joe said frankly.

  But if he thought he could tempt her into confiding in him, he'd underestimated her.

  Nell shuffled through the folders on the counter with the authority of a Las Vegas dealer before she selected one and attempted to step around him. "Maybe you make me nervous."

  He didn't budge. "I know how to change that."

  "You're leaving?"r />
  He grinned down at her, enjoying the frosty note in her voice and the smell of her hair. "Not a chance. Have dinner with me."

  She clutched her folder tighter. "Like that worked before."

  "This time will be different," he promised rashly.

  Would it? Why did he want it to be?

  Because she was different, he thought. Or he was.

  "Different, how?"

  "Trust me."

  Her eyes searched his. "I can't," she said finally. "I have plans tonight."

  He wasn't exactly in a position to object to her seeing other guys. That didn't mean he had to like it. "I'll make you a deal. I'll agree to check with you before I interview anyone if you agree to dinner."

  "When? I told you, I have—"

  "Sunday," Joe said desperately. This was such a bad idea. Except his mother would be thrilled. But maybe the visit would get her off his back. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, lull Nell to the point that he could talk her into bed and convince his family he was finding his feet again.

  His family.

  His mother would exclaim. His father would sit silently and watch her over his Guinness. And his brothers… His brothers would have a field day if he showed up for Sunday dinner with blond, Irish Catholic nurse Nell Dolan by his side.

  Nell's brow pleated. "I guess Sunday would work. What time?"

  He would just have to kill them, Joe thought, resigned.

  "Five o'clock," he said. "I'll pick you up."

  He was feeling pretty good as he walked away.

  So of course whatever gods had it in for him only let him get halfway to the door before he heard Nell ask, "Are you all right?"

  Hell.

  Joe pivoted, careful to keep his weight on his right leg. "Yeah, fine."

  "Because you're limping again."

  "I overdid it the other day."

  And hadn't been able to walk without crutches for almost two. Despite the stirrup brace he'd strapped on before leaving the house this morning, his bones ground together. He could almost feel the screws working loose as his ankle became more and more deformed.

  "Guess I should ice my ankle when I get home," he said easily.