by Lyz Kelley
Liam raised a hand to stop him mid-sentence. An orthopedic surgeon passed them in the hall. Liam took a half step closer for privacy. “When a baby comes into NICU, how do you assess the situation? Not every wound is visible. What do you do?”
“Are you saying I’m supposed to diagnose McKenzie?” He laughed. “You’re a man. You should know there’s no figuring out women.”
“My sister doesn’t need a diagnosis.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me what she needs.” The solemn look on Liam’s face made him question his assumptions.
“I can’t tell you what she needs. If I knew, I’d trade all I have to get it for her. What she needs is more than I can give.”
The conference room door opened, and the board secretary looked up and down the hall, and then beckoned to Liam.
“Sometimes, Doctor,” Liam said as he stepped back toward the meeting room, “saving a person’s life doesn’t begin and end with a scalpel. Sometimes it’s about listening and gathering facts. You care about her. That’s clear. But do you care enough to discover the facts?”
Liam gave him a brusque nod and meaningful stare, brows raised, before disappearing into the boardroom.
Garrett had replayed last night’s incident over and over in his head until three a.m., when he fell into a restless sleep. Liam’s somewhat mysterious remarks resonated, connected, and reconnected, but nothing concrete emerged.
Saving a life.
Discover the facts.
He turned toward his office, a place to return phone calls, complete paperwork, and spend the least amount of time possible. Carver was right. It was time to dig up some answers…and the planned phone call home slid lower and lower on his priority list.
With each step, he recalled how McKenzie had fit in his arms, her floral fragrance, and her green eyes full of wonder. He’d assured himself in the early morning hours that his recent lack of intimate experience hadn’t caused her reaction. The UCLA female intern—when was it?—five years ago had enjoyed their sexual relationship before she packed her bags for a Boston residency position. Together they’d made an adequate stress relief team, and he mourned her leaving, but he’d certainly never felt the exuberant adrenaline rush he experienced every time he was with Mac.
McKenzie was a birthday cake full of sweetness and surprises. She tied him up in knots, somehow making a perfect bow out of the mess. Even though he’d sworn off women so he could focus on his career, he still couldn’t quite ignore her beckoning call.
Rounding his desk, he slid into his ergonomically correct chair and moved a stack of papers aside to type his computer password. He typed ‘McKenzie Carver’ into the search field and hit enter. The Google results filled the screen. He scrolled past the first few lines of fashion news, charity notices, and business articles, sure what he needed wouldn’t be easy to find. At the bottom of the first page, an old news article caught his attention. Clicking on the link, he scrolled through the information, and then surfed from one site to another until a clearer and more thorough picture formed in his head.
Ah, shit, Mac. No. His heart ached for her.
The web blurbs conveyed what Liam and Abby had not. Garrett stared at the screen. Disgust, loathing, contempt pooled in his mouth—a bitter taste he wanted to spit out. He’d taken an oath to save lives, but the picture of the man staring back at him from the mug shot didn’t look worthy of saving. The man had better not come into New York General, even for a paper cut.
Liam’s words thumped him in the chest. Get the facts.
Damn.
He’d missed every clue, misinterpreted every action, and let his stupid adolescent insecurities get in the way.
Regret tightened the rope around his throat. Why hadn’t he seen the signs? He’d been trained to watch for symptoms—to search for inconsistencies. He never thought…not her.
Just like his sister. He hadn’t been available to prevent what happened, but he’d learned how to help battle trauma monsters that crept out at night and sabotaged every positive thought and action.
Examining the last entry, he glanced up when his office door opened.
Nurse Bernard, occupied with studying files, moved toward his in-basket, unaware of his presence until she was inches from the desk. He swallowed to clear his throat and his regrets.
“Holy ducks, you scared the poop out of me.”
“Obviously.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Are you okay? Sure I shouldn’t get an ED tech in here?”
“Don’t worry, Doc, it would take a lot more than your shining personality to harden my arteries.”
“I’m sure it would. Since you’re here, have you seen Ms. Carver today?”
“Last I checked, it wasn’t in my job description to track down your fiancée.”
“She’s…” He uncrossed his arms and tipped his chair forward. “Fiancée. Right.”
“As soon as McKenzie told me about your engagement, I realized I’d have to play along. But engaged or not, that girl likes you. And you like her. What’s it gonna take for that testosterone of yours to kick in?”
A contemplative buzzing sensation continued several seconds before he squashed the idea of intimacy with the sexy woman like a bug. “For the record, she’s a friend. I respect her.”
“Uh huh.”
He calculated the odds of Mac ever allowing him to touch her again before he spotted a file in Beth’s hands. Trying to avoid yanking the entire pile out of her arms, he sat back in his chair. “Is that the inventory analysis and audit report I asked for last week?”
“How would I know?”
His left brow arched, waving the BS flag. “The way you were studying the executive summary when you walked in here, I figured you’d have the page memorized.”
“You know, sometimes you remind me of a cow’s udder. All full of yourself.”
He worked to stifle a laugh while the nurse plunked the files on his desk. Her hips swung back and forth like a pendulum on a grandfather clock while she made her grand exit. When the door was inches from closing, she stuck her curly-haired head back in his office. “You’ll be interested in page three. The report says we’ve got an inventory issue.” She closed the door for good this time.
For all her odd, assertive, and opinionated qualities, she was flat-out the best pediatric nurse he’d served with. She might be the first person to exceed even his standards. He could forgive her sharp and eclectic edges since he had enough of his own to fill a hazardous disposal hamper.
In contrast to the nurse, the woman staring back at him on the computer screen was all grace and giving and stubbornness. For the first time, he fully understood what a generous spirit she possessed, and mentally crossed things off his medical equipment Christmas list. He wouldn’t be the one to ask her to give time or money or more of herself than she’d already given.
Instinctively, he wanted to help. Intuitively, he understood he might not have what she needed to help her heal. Experience cautioned him to take it slow.
He had to find the words.
He had to make her want to fight.
But even then, pushing her to the edge might be risky. She might run or jump.
Then what?
Chapter 9
McKenzie pondered the caller ID. Park Place Security. Why would apartment security be calling at this time of day? She picked up the phone and tucked it under her chin. “Hey, Stu. What’s up? Don’t tell me my art supplies arrived already.”
“No. No packages have been delivered, Miss Carver.”
Stu sounded way too formal for the funny, sometimes overprotective, security guard she adored.
“I have a Mr. Branston in the lobby, and he’s mighty persistent about seeing you. He’s not on your guest list.”
The doctor hadn’t used his title, or the fact he was her fake fiancé, to influence security. It wouldn’t have worked, Stu wouldn’t have believed him anyway, but the fact remained interesting. “It’s okay.” McKenzie stared out
at the Manhattan skyline, remembering. She inhaled a deep, resolute breath. “Allow him up.”
The experienced guard lowered his voice. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll accompany him. Just in case.”
“You’re a good man, Stu.”
“Tell that to my wife.”
“See you in a minute,” she snickered.
A familiar soft bump against her calf made her glance down.
It was George, who’d disappeared after breakfast. “What’s up with you?”
The cat stretched out his front legs, claws exposed, and his hindquarters slid back. He followed her, bouncing on all three legs to the front door.
“Your buddy is on the way up. Let’s see what you think of him now.”
She unbolted the door and waited. Possible explanations for the doctor’s visit whirled through her mind. He had no need to apologize. Ellie was fine; she’d checked earlier in the morning. She should be the one asking his forgiveness. Now she had her chance.
A minute later, he stepped off the elevator.
Her heart thumped.
Dressed in jeans, a button-down maroon shirt, holding a bunch of burnt-orange sunflowers, he carried a load of concern, yet exuded unthreatening chivalry.
“Dr. Branston, it’s nice to see you,” she greeted formally for Stu’s benefit.
“Boss.” He extended the flowers. A peace offering? “I wanted to thank you.”
“For?”
“The review board changed my status to permanent resident. I passed the probationary period.”
Accepting the flowers meant forgiveness, approval, or at least a truce. She extended her hand—a sign of goodwill. The brief touch of his fingers sent a warm spiraling sensation up her arm.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he leaned in. “I was hoping you could help me. I need advice.”
She contemplated what trouble he might have gotten into this time. “You haven’t been requesting more procedure changes, I hope.”
“Nope,” he chuckled, “But I have found myself in sort of a quandary. I thought you could help me sort out the details.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Stu cleared his throat inside the elevator doorway. “Will that be all, Ms. Carver?”
“Thank you, Stu. And the next time I see Wilma, I’ll give her that reminder.”
The security guard’s wink barely registered before she closed the door. A sense of being trapped, suffocating, with no way out, crept in, and she stepped back into the safety of her apartment. Putting distance between herself and the all-too-handsome man helped, but his delicious smell followed her like a homing device. She needed a barrier, and the kitchen island provided one. She set the bouquet on the counter.
“Your gym bag is still by the front door. Don’t forget it this time,” she said, hoping the jitters in her stomach didn’t reflect in her voice. “Would you like a water, soda…” She turned to look at him. “A beer, maybe?”
He bent down to give George a scratch and a tail pull before glancing up. “Seems I spill beer. Water’s fine.”
The intensity of his stare didn’t ease, but he was wearing that lopsided grin she’d come to love. “Sounds like Billie Holiday’s Greatest Hits,” he observed, pointing at the surround sound speaker. “When I’ve had a bad day, she’s always at the top of my playlist. Are you having a bad day, Boss?”
She placed a glass of water on the counter and studied her finicky cat weaving his way around Garrett’s legs. Not wanting to examine Garrett’s amenable response or his question too closely, she pushed past the decision to let him in and focused on getting answers.
“It’s all Easy Living, Doctor.”
He smiled at her musical quip.
“So, what can I help you with?” she asked while reaching for some eucalyptus, lavender hand lotion.
His mouth opened, but he hesitated and shifted his weight before settling again. “I’ve met someone.” His fingertips drummed on the counter. “I can’t quite figure her out.”
Choking on the water in her mouth, she worked to clear her throat. “You came here to talk about your love life?”
“No.” He settled his elbows on the counter. “Well, maybe.”
Disgust made her turn away and reach for a flower vase. Their engagement had been fake, but what was he doing kissing her if he had another woman in his life?
“Typical man. You either do or don’t have a woman in your life. There isn’t an in-between.”
“This woman’s special. She has a large family and friends who adore her. She’s smart, funny, great with kids.” He met her eyes after she placed the large bundle of flowers in the container. “And she has a heart the size of a football field.”
Jealousy surged, biting her in the throat. She fought to calm the rising envy, concocting reminders that she wasn’t whole and had no right to pursue a relationship. She’d deal with the flowers and her feelings later.
His troubled yet gentle stare confused her. Something had changed. The way he looked at her with a bit more patience and a bit more kindness gave her goose bumps. He was never patient except with children. George flopped down at his feet. And animals.
“She sounds perfect. What’s your problem?”
“She won’t talk to me. And I frighten her, though I’m not sure why.”
“You can be rather intimidating, and sometimes what you’re trying to say doesn’t come out quite right. But if she’s interested, she’ll get past all that.”
“I’m not intimidating,” he pushed back ready to debate her assessment.
“Did I mention defensive?”
“How about decisive? I’ll grant you that.” His gaze locked onto hers and searched deep. “Sometimes I need to make hard decisions and provide assurances. Have you ever felt out of control, helpless, and needed someone to tell you things would be okay?”
That suffocating feeling she lugged around every second of the day limited her breathing. The kitchen suddenly seemed small, confining. She needed space. She made a move toward the living room, but his hand shot out and stopped her cold.
“Mac. I won’t hurt you. I’m not him.”
She wrenched her arm free. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I know, Mac. I read the articles on the internet.”
Her heart crumpled in her chest like a dried flower. “I figured you’d find out sooner or later.” Overpowering the embarrassment that tempted her to run into the bedroom and hide, she turned to face him. “You think because you read some story or heard some rumors that you know. You don’t know. You can’t know.”
His eyes scanned her face, trying to read her thoughts. She could see the frustration building. He slid onto the nearest kitchen stool. “So tell me, Mac. Make me understand.”
Images—scary, horrifying, breath-stealing images swamped her mind. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It? You can’t even say the word, can you?”
His words stabbed at her. Rage swelled, and fury filled her mouth until she had to spit it out. “Stalker. Kidnapping. Rape. There. Are you satisfied now?”
“No, not satisfied, more concerned. I want to understand. Help if I can. Mac? Please talk to me.”
His distress penetrated through the panic robbing her of breath. “You really want to know?”
“If it wouldn’t be too difficult. As you said, newspapers don’t tell the whole story, and I would rather know the facts.”
“The facts, huh?” She huddled, arms crossing her midsection, while she attempted to find that indestructible face of confidence her family and friends often saw. She moved to the end of the counter.
“I had gone backstage to congratulate one of my friends on her Broadway debut and celebrate the show’s final curtain call. We planned to go for drinks, but I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t want to deal with the crowds, so I used the back entrance. When I exited, there were several people hanging out waiting for autographs.”
It was as though time transported
her to the theatre district. “It’s odd. I can still recall the smells, the sounds. I didn’t see him in the crowd.” Her fingernails dug deeper into her sides. “The man had stalked me for years and had gotten more aggressive to the point my family ordered security to follow me everywhere I went. I knew what he looked like, but he’d dyed his hair and cut it short. A camera flash blinded me. It happened so fast. Someone grabbed my arm. I felt a prick in my neck. I don’t think I even screamed.”
A sense of trepidation made her take a breath. “I shouldn’t have used the back door. I shouldn’t have sent my security home. I shouldn’t have done a lot of things.”
“Mac, don’t do that to yourself.” He approached. “Dance with me.”
“What? Here? Now?”
“Why not?” He eased one arm behind her back, grasped her hand, and then shuffled to the beat of the music. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
His tender expression plucked her back from traveling down the usual spiral of self-loathing and doubt. She swallowed a few times to clear the anxiousness stuck in her throat and placed her cheek on his shoulder. “I awoke in an abandoned apartment. After that, time sliced into segments of terror and pain.” She nuzzled closer to get warm. “Days of whispered horrors and physical torment. He…he….”
Garrett’s solid, muscular frame wrapped around her like the walls of a safe house, cushioning her and holding the physical and mental anguish at bay. “My mind shut down, and my body went numb. I stopped fighting. I stopped hoping. I stopped wanting to live.”
“It’s not your fault, Mac.”
Her shoulders lifted and then dropped with the weight of the past. She let him guide her around and around and around the kitchen island, swaying to Billie’s tune. “Logically, I know that. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t sleep. I jump at unfamiliar sounds. I panic when someone whispers a compliment.” She stopped and twisted to see his expression. “That woman you described, the woman you think you know, isn’t alive anymore. She died, and she’s not coming back.”
“Mac.” He took her hand and swung her away two feet and then back to him, as smooth as painted swirls. “You’re a fighter. I’ve seen your passion, especially when it comes to abandoned kids. Maybe you need to take a step back and not push so hard.”