by Tamara Hogan
He slipped it back into his front pants pocket, then headed home, toward the darkening sky.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Mila sent yet another document to the print queue, she tried not to stare at Jack Kirkland, who her boss had escorted to her office not ten minutes ago. On the credenza behind her, the printer hummed, spitting out confidential documents Kirkland would take with him when he left.
Why the interest in the hospital’s data management policies, processes, and procedures? What was he looking for?
She glanced at her second screen, at the work his arrival had interrupted. Unencrypted data scrolled by, faster than the eye could read. She bit back a sigh. So much work was piling up, and now Kirkland was here, asking such odd questions. “What’s this in relation to?” she asked again. Just before leaving them, Kate had murmured that this request for information had come from the top. “The very top.” They were to give Jack Kirkland their full, complete cooperation.
“I’m gathering some background information.”
Was he here as an Underworld Council member or as the managing partner of Sebastiani Security?
“Next on the list is the hospital’s data protection policy,” he said.
He had a list? She glanced at the screen. Damn it, how long was this going to take?
She retrieved the document and sent it to the printer, trying not to look at Kirkland. Tall, blond, and handsome, wearing an impeccably tailored navy business suit that would send her mother into paroxysms of designer delight, he dwarfed her visitor chair, yet didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable. Nope, she was the one who felt uncomfortable, as if she was being audited or deposed.
Well, he was a lawyer. Maybe it was just his way.
Long minutes passed as Kirkland asked questions about data security, backups, offsite storage procedures…all topics with which she was intimately familiar. Relaxing slightly, she answered, happy to see that Kate no longer paced the hallway outside her office. But the sense of relaxation didn’t last long, because he then segued into perplexing questions about paper, printers, and postal procedures. Snail mail? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually mailed something, either at work or at home. And now he needed a handwriting sample? Her lips started to tingle. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“It’s just procedure.” His voice was as smooth as buttercream frosting.
“Whose procedure?”
He didn’t respond. Crinkles fanned from the corners of his eyes—evidence that he smiled, at least occasionally—but he wasn’t smiling now. No, right now he looked as serious as a server crash.
Okay, a handwriting sample. She reached for a small notepad and pen. “Are these okay?”
“Perfect.”
Trying to ignore the tingle spreading to the skin around her mouth, she thought for a moment, then wrote, “I, Lyudmila Stanton, provide this handwriting sample at Jack Kirkland’s request, in the spirit of cooperation, and without benefit of legal representation.” She scrawled her signature, added the date and time, then handed him the paper.
As he read, a ghost of a smile appeared. “You are your father’s daughter.” He dropped the paper in the cardboard box sitting beside the chair. The box could hold a lot of documents, a lot of paper. That was its job, to hold reams and reams of paper.
“Mr. Kirkland, I’m very confused,” she blurted. The tingling was creeping up to her cheekbones, a progression she recognized all too well. Dread rose like water in a leaky boat. “If you could tell me more about your case, your area of concern, I might be able to provide more helpful information.” And I can get you out of here before I faint. The full glass of blood, sitting next to her monitor, mocked her. She’d poured it, then forgotten all about it.
Big mistake.
“You’ve been very helpful, thank you.” He crossed his legs, settling more comfortably into her guest chair. “As I’m sure you can understand, our case files are confidential.”
A couple of black pinpricks wandered into her peripheral vision. She reached for the glass of blood, taking a stingy sip. When she set the glass down, he was looking at her second screen, at the river of characters streaming against the black background.
Her pulse jumped.
“Your boss mentioned that you have an affinity for data, Ms. Stanton.”
It was a generous description, and only partially accurate. She loved to manipulate data. To control it, to impose a sense of order and structure. To mold, massage, and manage, twisting and tweaking, until the data complied, and became information—information someone could actually use. She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “In this job, an affinity definitely helps.”
“Yes. About your job.” He pulled a small, wire-bound notebook and pen from his suit pocket. “Could you describe, at a high level, what your job responsibilities entail?”
As she talked, he took quick, sparing notes, and asked very few questions. “Am I correct that your job duties require you to access patient data?”
She took a breath, trying to slow her jack-hammering pulse. “Yes, but I’m bound by the hospital’s confidentiality procedures, and by the terms of a non-disclosure agreement. I take those commitments very seriously.”
“I’ll need a copy of your NDA.”
Of course you do. She found it, fired it off to the printer, and turned back to him. “In addition to our confidential data handling procedures, access to this floor—to this office—is badge-controlled.” She indicated the badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “And there are security cameras at the entrances, at the end of the hallway.” Heat rushed to her cheeks. If anyone pulled the video files, they’d see her kissing Dom—and not just a goodbye peck on the cheek, either.
Was that what all this was about? Annoyance spurted. Okay, public displays of affection at work might be less-than-professional, but sending Jack Kirkland to question her about an ill-advised smooch in the hallway was a serious case of overkill. She’d kissed Dom at the end of the hall, when no one else was there, and well away from her work—
The scrolling on her screen stopped. No crash; the cursor blinked serenely at the command line prompt. “Huh,” she said, pleasantly surprised.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
Kirkland gestured to the monitor, where the tail end of the program’s run was still visible on the screen.
Where unencrypted patient data was still visible on the screen.
With a couple of quick keyboard taps, she cleared the screen, wiping the tiny characters away. “Test results,” she chirped. Under her desk, her foot started shaking.
Kirkland didn’t seem to notice. He nodded, then continued with his questions.
Her stomach lurched at the narrow miss. He either hadn’t recognized what he’d seen, or hadn’t been able to read her screen.
“Next, I need a blank piece of your printer paper.”
“What?”
“Just a sample for our records.”
In her world, there was no ‘just’ about it—samples were statistically significant, and records were sacrosanct. Tightening her numb lips, she swung her desk chair around. As she reached for the printer, a sudden wave of déjà vu struck: Dom, interrupting her at work. Dom, swinging her away from the monitor so she faced him. Nibbling on her neck for long, delicious minutes…while Bailey Brown’s unencrypted patient data burned into the screen behind her.
This was about Bailey Brown.
Dom, what have you done?
Her hands shook as she handed Kirkland the piece of paper.
What have you done, and how long have you been using me? More black dots filled her peripheral vision.
“Are you okay, Ms. Stanton?”
“Just a little lightheaded.” Blinking, she glanced at the glass of blood. “I think I waited too long to feed.”
“And I’ve taken up quite enough of your time.” Rising, he shook her hand, then picked up the box. “Thank you so much for your assistance. Bailey Brown ma
y contact you with more detailed technical questions.”
And would probably uncover evidence that her own patient data had been breached. Awesome. Just fantastic. She made herself stand. Made herself nod.
“There’s no need to walk me out.”
Yeah, right. She was going to follow company policy to the letter.
After escorting him to the security door, she returned to her office and collapsed into her desk chair. She grabbed the glass of blood and gulped it half down, shaking with weakness. With hunger. With an anger that threatened to… “Damn you, Dom.” She set the glass down. Picked up her cell phone.
Dialed Dom.
Waited.
Crap, voice mail. “Dominic.” A long pause. “We need to talk. Call me as soon as you can.” She hung up without saying goodbye. She’d say goodbye to his face, when she ended this...this…whatever this was.
Or wasn’t.
Her desk blurred, then came back into focus again. The blackness encroached, the numb, familiar chill. “Ah, shit,” she whispered.
She’d waited too long. The blood wasn’t enough.
What to do?
Wyland. Wyland had office hours today. If he was in the building, he’d be able to help—quickly and discreetly, without half the damn ER storming in with gurney wheels rattling.
Her desk phone was miles away, and her hand weighed a hundred pounds, but she finally managed to punch the speaker phone button, then hit Wyland’s autodial number. As the phone rang, she lowered herself to the thin, rough carpet. If she fainted again, it was better that she already be sitting on the floor. This time, there’d be no falling, no hitting her head on the desk as she went down. No staples, no blood to clean off the floor… Damn it, his voice mail. “Wyland?” she said, squinting against the dimming light. The dark, narrow tunnel was collapsing, dirt crumbling in around the edges. “Wyland…”
She tipped. Fell in.
The hole swallowed her up, and then there was nothing.
Wyland turned away from his office window, with its stingy view of the setting sun, and glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Tia was two floors down, in Neurology. She’d agreed to a consult to ease his mind, but he’d expected her back half an hour ago. “So much for easing my mind,” he muttered, ignoring his ringing desk phone. She was supposed to call his cell when her appointment was over so he could escort her back to his office. The phone in his pants pocket was stubbornly silent.
Worry took root. Had Rothenberger found something after all?
No. Tia was fine; he’d feel it if she wasn’t, but… When she’d told him she loved him, she’d given him the right to feel anxious about her. They’d given those rights to each other, in a dark garage, on the hood of his Porsche.
On the hood of his Porsche.
So much for romance.
But Tia hadn’t seemed to need romance, or courtly manners. After giggling at the impression her sweaty arse had left on his car, she’d hurried them back into their clothes, and they’d run, hand in hand, to his bedroom. Thankfully Thane had left them a fruit and cheese platter, because they hadn’t come up for air until sunrise this morning, when he’d had to leave her, sleeping and fragrant and rumpled, to meet with Elliott. After that, he’d come to the hospital.
Thank the universe he’d finished rounds before Tia had started dreaming, filling his head with dark, erotic images.
Focus had been impossible.
He paced his office like a caged lion. Since what had happened in the garage—since she’d nearly thralled him—their mental bond had grown immeasurably stronger. Since they’d admitted their love for each other, he felt…alive, like a creature of flesh and blood and testosterone, for the first time in over a century. But this feral possessiveness, this raw, urgent need, was damned inconvenient.
Where the hell are you? he asked her.
I’m right down the hall.
You said you’d call first. Not only had she not called, she’d somehow gotten past Aleta at the front desk.
I’m perfectly safe. No one followed me.
“Bloody hell.” When he yanked his office door open, she was standing there. In her bright pink cigarette pants and black sleeveless blouse, carrying a sweater, that heavy purse, and wearing a wildly patterned scarf as a headband, she reminded him of a young Sophia Loren. Lust coiled, raw and inappropriate. He pulled her inside and closed the door. “You were supposed to call me.” Her mind was an open book—she was relaxed, comfortable, happy to see him—but that didn’t stop him from raking her up and down with his gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Perfectly fine. Sorry it took so long.” Rising on tiptoes, she kissed him—a quick, artless kiss meant to reassure, not arouse—then stepped into his embrace. “Dr. Rothenberger was running late. Why are doctors’ schedules always so backed up?”
He wrapped his arms around her, drawing in the scent of spring lilacs. “Sometimes a patient needs more time than we allocate.” Her bruises were completely gone, her burns were healed, and the scar on her temple was healing well. The bump on the bridge of her nose was permanent, a reminder of how quickly something so precious could change forever.
“Having a doctor in the household has obviously spoiled me rotten.”
“I live to serve,” he said lightly, running a fingertip over her silver hoop earring. If he had anything to say about it, she’d stay spoiled for the rest of her days. “Did Rothenberger find anything?”
“Nope.” Drawing back slightly, she threw the sweater toward the couch. The purse followed, landing somewhere with a thunk. “I am, in her words, ‘disgustingly healthy.’” Sliding her arms around his waist again, she pressed her lush frame against his. “I listed you as my primary care physician on the intake form,” she said. “That means you’ll get a copy of her report, right?”
Something inside him softened to putty. As the referring physician, he’d get a copy anyway, but… “You listed a hematologist as your primary?”
“I listed you as my primary. You just happen to be a hematologist.”
It was…another declaration of love.
“Yes. It is,” she whispered against his lips.
He glanced at the closed door, then back at her. “What you do to me,” he muttered. “I’m all hormones and gonads.”
Her gust of laughter jiggled into him. “Join the club.”
Concern, laughter, edgy desire, love… yes, it swirled from her, into him, and back again. Swirled between them, a beguiling, sultry whirl he wanted to ride all the way down.
She captured his mouth in a silky kiss, then backed away, leaning against the door. Across the room, his desk phone rang again, but its soft, insistent chirp was drowned out by the scrape of metal against metal.
Tia had locked the office door.
“Wyland.” Her voice, her glittering gaze, could lure ships to the bloody rocks.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever made love in this office? On that chair, or on that table?” Her whispered words slammed into him. “Or over there, on that uncomfortable-looking couch?”
“Of course not.” And now, thanks to her, he’d never get the idea out of his mind.
“Or maybe right here? Up against this door?”
Forget the furniture; he’d never be able to reach for the bloody doorknob again without seeing her, leaning against the door, calling to him like a siren from the shore—
“Wyland? Are you in there?” The doorknob rattled. “Why is your door locked?”
“Bloody hell.” If he didn’t answer the door, Aleta would call Security. “One moment,” he called, hustling Tia to the couch.
“Who’s that?” she asked, taking a seat.
He straightened his crooked tie. “Our office manager.”
“That formidable woman guarding the front desk? Faerie, right?”
“Yes.” And whether due to her age or her personality, Aleta didn’t kowtow to his title—a fact he usually appreciated, but tonight would no doubt regret. What w
ould she think about finding him and Tia behind a locked door?
What would she think of Tia?
“Wyland? You might want to put on your suit coat.”
He followed her gaze to the front of his pants. “Shit.” Aleta had seen it all, but she didn’t need to see…that. On his way to the door, he grabbed his suit coat from the clothes tree, then jammed his arms into the sleeves. After a quick glance down, he opened the door.
“Finally,” Aleta said, exasperated. He was glad for the suit coat, because she gave him a careful look up and down as she walked into his office—some feat, being she barely cleared five feet tall. “I thought you were going to make me stand there all night long— Oh.” She stopped short when she saw Tia sitting on the black leather couch, looking like an exotic hothouse bloom that had somehow been transplanted into their sterile midst. Her gaze flicked to floor, to Tia’s sweater and purse, then back to him. “Please introduce us.”
“Of course. This is my…” He reached for the right words, but came up empty. “This is Tia.”
Tia rose from the couch, her green-nailed hand extended. “Tia Quinn. Nice to meet you.”
Aleta didn’t respond, but took Tia’s hand in hers. Held it. Gazing at each other, the women took each other’s measure using some form of alchemic feminine communion he didn’t understand. “Nice to meet you, too,” Aleta finally said. “Very nice indeed.”
He released a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.
“But if you’re quite through distracting the doctor—” Aleta handed him half a dozen slips of yellow paper “—he has some phone calls to return.”
“I guess that’s my cue to leave.” Tia scooped her sweater and purse up from the floor, slung the purse strap over her shoulder, then gave him a sweet peck on the lips. “See you at home,” she murmured. “Very nice to meet you, Aleta.”
Aleta didn’t respond. She seemed distracted, deep in thought.
“Aleta?”