by C. J. Lyons
Hell, this was bad. Very bad.
He nuzzled her from behind, his arousal evident, matching her own. “My God,” he breathed into her ear as his arms wrapped around her. “Just the scent of you makes me hard.” He reached past her and turned the burner off. “Breakfast can wait.”
Something in his voice added an edge to his usual playful banter. She turned to him, the heat from the stove at her back, and pressed both palms against his chest. “What’s going on?”
“I brought some things with me.” He stared down at her, his hazel eyes not blinking. “To stay the night. A few nights. Many nights.”
Lydia met his gaze, keeping her face and voice calm. Her legs felt unsteady, as if his innocent-sounding words had triggered an avalanche beneath her feet. “We said we’d go slow.”
He kept his hands on her shoulders, propelling her away from the hot stove and into the dining room. “Lydia, we’ve been together almost every day, made love in every way possible. I’d say the only slow thing about this is the commute from my place.”
She balked as he waltzed her toward the stairs. “No. Trey. I’m just—I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Make a long-term commitment? Risk hurting me? Hurting yourself?” He lowered his forehead until it touched hers, until his face was the center of her vision. “Because you know by now I’d never hurt you, right?”
Silent, she nodded, her gaze locked onto his. Her heartbeat tumbled, then slowed. “It’s just that … you know nothing about me. I need …”
She straightened her posture, pulling away from him. When she glanced around, her house seemed large and empty, so much so that she suddenly felt dwarfed. Trey stood in the center of her barren dining room, the rosy dawn glow of light streaming around him, and it felt like he anchored the house. Like he anchored her.
He cupped her chin in his palm and raised it. “I don’t need to know anything more than I already do, Lydia. Everything I need to know, I knew from the moment I met you.” He flattened his other hand against his heart. “I knew it here.”
Lydia felt her toes curl, knew she was ready to bolt. No. This was her house, her home; she’d come too far and worked too hard to run away.
Forcing a plastic smile onto her face, she stood on tiptoe to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re such a romantic. I’m going to finish breakfast.”
She stepped past him, aiming for the kitchen and the sanctuary of a few seconds to rally her thoughts, secure her feelings.
Trey wasn’t so easily dismissed. He took her arm, twirling her up against the wall, and before she could resist, he kissed her with an intensity that rocked her to her core.
Their tongues tangled as passion fired every nerve ending in her body. She reached one arm around his neck, dragging him down to her even as he was lifting her up to meet him. Their bodies pressed together, urgency communicated flesh against flesh.
Within seconds she had stripped him of his shirt, her fingers kneading the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen, taunting him as they moved lower to unfasten his belt. He groaned, his own hands busy sliding her T-shirt over her head.
She sighed, her breath rippling the hair on his chest. “Well. I guess if you put it that way, then you can stay.”
His chuckle vibrated through her. “In the bed. Upstairs. Together.”
“Upstairs. Together. In the bed.”
“All night.”
“All night.” She raised her chin, met his gaze. “For as many nights as you want.”
JERRY WASN’T HOME WHEN GINA GOT TO HIS apartment. He was still interviewing witnesses and untangling the events of the night—events that she had only heard tantalizing bits of, so she was counting on him to tell her everything when he finally did get home.
She used the time to take a shower and gargled and brushed her teeth three times, trying to expunge the taste of booze and vomit.
Remembering the look he’d given her before leaving her at Lydia’s—a look of pride, certain that she had the skills to save Michael—she lay down in his too-small bed. No silk or Egyptian cotton here, just sheets from Wal-Mart, the scent of musk and man and sweat, and a lumpy mattress. It felt like coming home.
She inhaled deeply, drawing his scent into her, filling herself with him. Tears slipped past her defenses, and she pounded her fist into the pillow. What would he say when he learned she had told Michael where to find Lydia?
Jerry’s key turned in the front door. She wiped her face dry and pretended to sleep. He said nothing as he entered, simply stripped naked in the dimly lit room and slipped in behind her, easing his arms around her, one arm under her body and one over the top of it. He hugged her hard. His heartbeat raced through her before finally it steadied and slowed to normal.
She relented and opened her eyes, turning her head to glance over her shoulder at him. “Hi there, stranger.”
He nuzzled her neck, burying his face in her hair. “Hi.”
Gina pushed him away, guilt not allowing her to continue the charade. How could she when Michael and Pete would be telling the police the truth—it might be mere hours before Jerry knew her part in last night’s events.
“You going to tell me what happened? I heard bits and pieces while we were getting Michael up to the OR.” He acted normal, not at all like he was upset with her. So he hadn’t heard yet.
“Thanks for saving him—can’t wait to see the DA kick his ass.”
Whoa. There was more of that fierceness. As if he read her thoughts, he turned her to him and kissed her thoroughly.
When she pressed him for more details, he grunted, obviously a bit distracted as his fingers traced patterns over her breasts. “Damn Internet. Lydia’s complete phone book listing and a Google map with directions to her place were on his cell phone.”
Relief washing over her, she played dumb as he told her the rest of the story about Michael’s attack on Lydia—hoping that no one remembered their drinking together at Diggers—and was honestly surprised when she heard Lydia had had a kid in the house with her. What the hell had she been doing with a kid? Then he told her about Amanda.
Gina rolled all the way over now, facing him. Jesus. She hadn’t even known Amanda was sick, much less in the hospital. And it was hard to believe that sweet little Amanda had faced down a killer.
“So everyone’s okay?”
“All except a janitor who got shot. But he’ll make it.” He yawned, not bothering to hide it. “God, what a day.”
She traced his jaw with her fingertip. Dark shadows weighted his eyes, and his muscles were knotted beneath her touch. She’d never seen him this tired. “You need to get some sleep.”
He pulled her tight, so tight she had to fight to fill her lungs. “I need you.”
“Jerry—” He tickled the spot below her ear, and laughter broke past her barriers. “Now, don’t go starting something you can’t finish. Shouldn’t you get some rest?”
“Plenty of time for rest later. Right now, you’re all I need.”
She couldn’t stop the smile that filled her with warmth as if Jerry had lit a beacon within her. A beacon no one except him could ever see. She kissed his forehead and stroked her nails down his spine.
“Saw you on the news. With the guy who jumped from the bridge. You’re quite the hero—again,” he murmured as she felt the tension seep away from his muscles. “And the way you handled Kazmierko—it’s not often I get to see you in command mode like that. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”
Yes, he had. He was the only person who ever had. And it was a lie. She was no hero. It was just a farce Pete Sandusky had created, yet another role for Gina to play. Perfect daughter, perfect doctor, perfect hero.
Her stomach clenched with guilt. She would let him and the rest of the city believe the lies because they felt so good. All her life she’d dreamed of being the hero, being the person who people turned to, who could solve all their problems.
But she knew the truth, no matter how deep she tried to bury it. Sh
e was a coward, she wasn’t anything like she imagined she was; she was a liar, a fake, a cheat.
Jerry could never ever know. She’d lose him if he did. No one could ever know.
Gina swallowed the truth and forced her smile even wider as she placed one palm over his heart and took his mouth in hers. The kiss made her dizzy as she tried hard to make up for her deception, to give him everything she had to give.
He returned her passion, then pulled back, looking down at her with a crooked, tired smile as he stroked a thumb along her jawline. “Marry me, Gina. Let me come home to this every day, let me take care of you, let me make you happy. Say yes and marry me.”
And Gina knew that she could give him more—less than what he deserved, but it was all she had to offer. Her heart began to beat so fast she thought she might be stroking out, but no, you didn’t feel this light and fluttery and happy if you were having a stroke. This was something else, like the feeling you had standing at the edge of the high dive, getting ready to jump into the deep end, no safety net, no one to catch you.
“Yes.” The word emerged a high-pitched squeak. She swallowed and tried again. “Yes. I’ll marry you, Jerry.”
AFTER TWO HYPERBARIC TREATMENTS AND FINISHING the mercury chelation therapy, Amanda was almost back to normal, although her left leg was still weak. And, best of all, Tracey had responded as well—she was awake and talking.
Lucas had stayed with Amanda throughout the lengthy hyperbaric sessions, even suffering her mother’s inquisition.
“You’ll need one or two more treatments,” he said as she came out of the chamber and he checked her reflexes. “But I think we beat this.”
Her heart sped up at his use of the plural pronoun. He helped her up from the stretcher and steered her toward a wheelchair.
“No wheelchair,” she said. “I’ll walk. You said the more I used my muscles the faster the proteins would be dissolved, right?”
“Right, but I was thinking physical therapy.”
“No better therapy than walking. Give me that cane.” She balanced on the tripod cane, then took off, feeling like a toddler taking her first steps as she hobbled down the hallway. He followed a step behind, waiting to catch her if she fell.
“Sure you don’t want to take the elevator?” Lucas asked when she walked past the elevators toward the stairwell.
He had shoved his hands deep into his pockets and seemed to be forcing himself not to help her. She was quite proud of the progress she was making.
“No. I like the stairs.”
She reached the door a moment before he did and opened it with her free hand, balancing with the cane. He gave her a slanted look but proceeded through the door. She closed it behind her and listened. They were alone—no sounds of footsteps or voices. “There’s something I wanted to tell you, and this is more private.”
He visibly gulped and backed up against the wall. Before she could say anything, the shrill tones of “Dixie” rang out from her bathrobe pocket. Amanda ignored it.
“Don’t you need to get that?” he asked. “It’s your mother, isn’t it?”
“Mama can take care of herself.”
She flicked the phone off and focused on him. She took a step toward him, her cane rapping on the concrete floor. Now they were only inches apart. Still he kept his hands in his pockets. Fine, she could make the first move. “I wanted to talk to you about the academic code of ethics.”
He started, his eyes wide. She grazed her hand against his forearm. For once, he didn’t flinch at her touch—but neither did he reciprocate.
“The code of ethics?” he asked, his voice choked.
“Yes.” Her voice was firm, confident. She smiled as a flush swirled through her—she felt confident. No matter his response, she knew how she felt and what she wanted—and if he said no, that was all right; at least she would’ve made her desires clear.
“I did my research. Did you know that there are no restrictions against a student becoming involved with a faculty member as long as the faculty member isn’t in the position of grading the student or giving them a recommendation or evaluation?”
He shifted his weight as she slid her palm from his arm to press against his chest. “No, I didn’t.”
Finally his hands came free from the lab coat, but instead of touching her, he let them hang by his sides.
“It’s true.”
“But I am grading you.” His face was tilted down so that she was looking directly up at him. “And I’m your doctor.”
“Not anymore. I’m finishing my rotation with Dr. Hansen, down in the clinic.” She pressed up, using the cane for leverage to make herself tall enough to reach, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Plus, you’re fired. Ken Rosen will be my doctor.”
“I’m fired?” he murmured, their lips almost touching.
“You’re fired.” She kissed him again, harder this time, thrilled with the sense of power, of taking control. “Effective now. No more excuses.”
In answer, his arms circled her waist and he pulled her tight against him, sinking into the embrace, supporting her. It was a few moments before they parted again and she felt dizzy, as if she’d been dreaming. But it wasn’t a dream; it was real.
“Did I ever tell you that you’re a damn fine researcher?” he asked.
“I’m pretty good at other things besides research,” she assured him, wondering at this saucy girl who seemed to be inhabiting her body. “If you give me a chance, I’ll show you.”
Before he could respond, she gave him a sneak preview, hijacking his mouth and his full attention.
Keep reading for a preview of the next thrilling novel
in the Angels of Mercy series
URGENT CARE
Available April 2013 from InterMix
Thursday, 6:42 A.M.
Nora Halloran hurried through the hospital’s parking garage, shoulders back, pepper spray clenched in shaking hands. She struggled to control her fear, lock it away, but the more she denied it, the worse it got.
Every morning for two years, she’d fought her panic, battling fear to work her shift as a charge nurse in the ER. It was her daily, dreaded ritual. A battle she never lost.
She couldn’t lose. Her patients depended on her—and she needed them as much as they needed her.
On high alert, Nora scanned the shadows. No one. Not many cars in the employee garage this early. Fewer places someone could hide.
She entered the stairwell, heart stuttering in time with her steps. Twelve down, three steps around the landing, twelve more. She counted the familiar cadence, holding her breath as long as possible as she sprinted for the door.
One of the lights on the final landing was burned out. Can’t stop. She raced through the darkness. Slamming through the exit, gulping in the frigid December air, she propelled herself outside.
Her feet hit the sidewalk. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her posture, mastering her stride and with it, her emotions.
Tomorrow she’d do better. Tomorrow would be different.
The sun streaking the eastern horizon surprised her, a slit of gold-rimmed crimson, blinding in intensity as it reflected from the pavement slick with melted frost. She’d sat in her car, psyching herself up for the walk, long enough for the morning light to edge through the indigo darkness.
Despite the fact that it meant she was running late, Nora welcomed the light. As she walked beside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the cemetery across from the Angels of Mercy Medical Center, a splash of unnatural color caught her eye.
It was inside the cemetery fence, filtered through a snaggle of barren forsythia. Too large to be trash blown in through the fence, too gaudy to be a memorial. Nora stopped, grabbed the fence post, and stepped up onto the lowest rung, trying to make sense of the bright splashes crowding the shadows.
Pushing aside the forsythia branches, she could finally see where the color originated. The marble statue
of a weeping angel had been defiled by vile, hateful curses streaked across it in neon spray paint.
Face down in the frost-speckled grass below the angel lay a naked woman, more graffiti scrawled across the body.
Primal instincts screamed at Nora to run. To hide. Save herself.
Shoving her fear aside, she grabbed her cell phone and sprinted toward the cemetery entrance, wishing for longer legs as she ran. She didn’t bother calling 911, not with Pittsburgh’s busiest trauma center right across the street.
“Angels of Mercy, Emergency Department,” came the clerk’s chipper voice.
“Jason, it’s Nora. There’s a woman down in the cemetery. Get me a trauma team over here, fast.”
“Hang on, here’s Dr. Fiore.”
Nora raced into the cemetery, crossing over graves, the slick grass threatening to send her sprawling. Her bag smacked against her hip as she dodged headstones. Her breath came in short bursts, fogging the air.
No other sounds disturbed the cemetary’s peace. Long shadows stretched across the grass, but they couldn’t obscure the freshly painted graffiti that stood out sharply from the somber grays and whites surrounding the woman’s body.
Nora reached her just as Lydia Fiore, the ER attending, came on the line. “What’s up?”
“There’s a woman down. In the cemetery. Unconscious.” Nora’s voice sounded surprisingly normal, but after all, she was a charge nurse and this was what she did best—taking control of chaos, including the chaos of her own emotions.
She knelt in the grass, snow melting into her jeans. Yanking her gloves off, she felt the woman’s pulse. Not all of the color came from spray paint, she realized. “Bleeding—looks like she was stabbed. She’s breathing on her own, but her pulse is fast, poor capillary refill.”