Danger in a Red Dress

by Christina Dodd

  “Thank God, miss, you were in the right place at the right time,” the chauffeur said. The back door of the car was open. Leaning in, he gently placed her patient on the leather seat. “Thank God you could care for him.” He helped her in beside . . . the guy.

  She had to find out his name.

  He must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “Who are you?”

  The chauffeur shut the door behind them. He slid into the front seat and started the car so smoothly she didn’t even notice they were moving.

  She sat on the floor beside her guy. “I’m Grace.” She’d been using that pseudonym for the past year, because in Hebrew, Hannah meant Grace, and every time she said that name, it was like a prayer of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving because, by the grace of God, Hannah was still alive and free.

  “I’m Gabriel.” Her guy offered his hand.

  She placed her fingers in his broad palm and shook, then gasped and winced.

  He held her firmly, gently, and turned her hand up to the light. “You’re hurt, too.” He sounded like he cared.

  “I didn’t realize.” She scowled at the scrapes the pavement had made. They weren’t serious, but her other wrist . . . my God. The pain. In these circumstances, with Carrick onto her . . . this was unmitigated disaster.

  “Hey,” Gabriel said, “it’s okay. We’ll take care of it.” She tucked her wrist under her arm, and looked around wildly. There was just so much blood. She hadn’t expected that much blood. She hadn’t expected to feel woozy from pain and shock.

  Maybe he was going to die? From blood loss? She should reassure him, and urge the chauffeur to hurry because—she focused on the blood that blotted her clothes—because there was so much blood. “I just have some scratches. No biggie.” Her voice was fainter than it should have been. “It’s you we have got to get to a hospital.”

  “We’re going to a hospital.” He was the one who was shot, and he was the one making the soothing noises. “It’s a private hospital where my friend works. He’s a doctor, and he’ll contact the police because it’s the law, and everything will be on the up-and-up.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t even thought about that. A gunshot wound had to be reported to the cops. And that meant . . . she couldn’t stay with him. She couldn’t rely on him to keep her safe from Carrick. She had to get away as soon as she could.

  “I think maybe you’d better lie down.” Gabriel watched her from narrowed green eyes. “You look ill.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. I just . . .” Now that the trauma was over, she felt faint and sick to her stomach, and she wanted to put her head down on Gabriel’s broad chest and sob her heart out.

  That would go over well.

  But as she had so often over the past eleven months, she blinked back the tears. “It will be a relief to get you checked into the hospital and know you’re going to be taken care of.”

  “Checked in? No, they’re not going to check me in.”

  “Yes, they will.” This guy was obviously unclear on the concept. “You’ve been shot, and it’s not a minor wound, either. It’s a through and through.”

  “I don’t care. They’re not keeping me. So I’m going to need a nurse.”

  “Look—” Her first ride in a limo, and all she could think was that she hoped she didn’t throw up on the leather seats.

  He overrode her objection. “I’m going to need a nurse. Someone who’ll go to my home and stay with me, and administer painkillers—”

  She flinched.

  “And make sure my fever doesn’t spike.” As he watched her, he already looked fevered. “You’re a nurse.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said automatically.

  “You did a hell of an imitation of one back there.”

  “First-aid course.”

  “Then you, the expert with the first-aid course . . . you could go home with me and take care of me.”

  She would never work as a home-care nurse again. Never. It had taken her long enough, but she’d learned her lesson. “No.”

  “If you won’t do it, then I’ll go home by myself.”

  “Fine.”

  The limousine slowed and stopped. Daniel hopped out, came around, and leaned in to lift Gabriel out of the seat.

  Gabriel groaned piteously and went limp.

  “Damn, boss, this is bad.” Daniel hurried toward the emergency entrance.

  Without a second thought, Hannah grabbed her backpack, scrambled out of the car, and followed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As Hannah trailed Gabriel inside, the small hospital jumped to attention. The ER nurses produced a gurney, placed Gabriel on it, and pushed him into a private examining room.

  Hannah hovered in the doorway. “Dr. Bellota has been called,” one of the nurses informed her as if she had the right to know, and steered her toward a metal straight-backed chair.

  Hannah placed her backpack on it and stood there, wanting to go, needing to get out before she was trapped, but desperate to see that Gabriel would be all right, that someone else hadn’t been caught in this tangled Manly web . . . and killed.

  With an easy stride, the doctor walked in. He was short, overweight, about sixty, with a shock of wavy white hair and sharp brown eyes, and an imposing presence that proclaimed he was in charge. “What did you do now, Gabriel?” he asked heartily.

  “Stepped in front of a bullet.” For a man who’d been shot a half hour before, and hanging limply in his chauffeur’s arms five minutes ago, Gabriel sounded strong and rational. “If Grace hadn’t yelled a warning, the bullet would have been a lot higher and slightly more fatal.”

  “Only slightly, huh?” As Dr. Bellota washed his hands, he cast a sharp glance at her bloody hands and clothes. “Grace, were you hit?”

  Hannah had trained in a hospital like this, and the familiar sounds, scents, and sights took her back and made her give her report with brisk efficiency. “No, Doctor, he took the bullet. It’s a through and through, a loss of blood but no bones or vital organs hit.”

  As he dried his hands and donned gloves, Dr. Bellota considered her thoughtfully, then watched the nurses cut away the twine and bloodstained T-shirts, and peel back Gabriel’s pants. “Good job,” he said to Hannah. “Medical training?”

  “Yes.” Wrong answer. “No. First-aid course.”

  “Good first-aid course. I wish they all were this comprehensive.” He bent over Gabriel’s wound. “Clean shot. That makes my job easier.”

  “Any permanent damage?” Gabriel asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it, but only time will tell.”

  Hannah relaxed against the wall, woozy with relief. “There was a lot of blood.”

  “There always is.” Again Dr. Bellota leaned over Gabriel. “We’ve got someone from HPD on her way over.”

  Hannah shrank into a corner.

  The doctor continued. “If you can stand it, I’d like to hold off on the pain meds until you’ve spoken to the officer.”

  Gabriel watched Hannah as he said, “I’ll hold off on the pain meds until I’m at home.”

  Dr. Bellota snorted. “You can’t go home. Judging by her clothes and the dressings we removed, you’re down a pint of blood. I’m keeping you for observation.”

  “No, you’re not.” Gabriel was definite.

  “Damn it, Gabriel—”

  “Stow it, Dean. I’m not staying here.”

  “You’ll need a nurse.”

  “Grace can do it.”

  Dr. Bellota glanced at her again. “She says she’s not a nurse.”

  Gabriel spoke quietly to him.

  They held a quick consultation, the kind that made Hannah edge toward the door.

  Dr. Bellota called one of the nurses over.

  She came to Hannah, and with the polished smile of a professional healer, she said, “Grace, I’m Zoe, and I’m a physician’s assistant. Dr. Bellota wanted me to take you down to have your arm checked out.”

  Hannah tucked it tighter into her pit
. “It’s fine.”

  Gently Zoe pulled it free. One glance, and she spoke sharply. “This is not fine. Doctor, come and look at this.”

  Hannah focused on her wrist. She expected to see a scrape. Instead something had torn her skin back, baring muscle and bone . . . and blood. Lots of blood.

  It wasn’t merely Gabriel who had been shot. The bullet had ripped through his leg and across her wrist, and the blood she wore . . . wasn’t all his.

  The lights dimmed. A buzzing started in her ears. And with a faint moan of humiliation, she collapsed.

  Gabriel leaned on one elbow and watched Dr. Bellota examine the unconscious woman on the floor.

  Examine Hannah Grey.

  Her complexion was parchment white, her lips and eyelids almost blue. Blood streaked her cheap clothes and pooled beneath her hand. She was thin, way too thin, almost dead from the ordeal of killing Mrs. Manly and running . . . from him.

  Zoe wound gauze around the frail wrist.

  Bellota lifted Hannah’s eyelid. “How long’s it been since she ate?”

  “I don’t know. I just met her on the street when she flung herself on top of me.” A point that was bothering Gabriel quite a lot. He would have preferred if she’d screamed and run. It would be more in character for a murderess.

  On the other hand, he already knew she was a complex creature, a study in contradictions.

  “She’s shot, but a bigger problem is, she’s malnourished. Can you sign a form for treatment for her?” Bellota viewed Gabriel sternly. “You are her brother or husband, aren’t you?”

  “I sure am. I’m also the guy who’s paying for her treatment.” Hannah Grey wasn’t going to die on him now. Not when he had her firmly in his grasp.

  “Right.” Bellota stood as Zoe trundled in a gurney. “Get her hooked up to a saline drip.”

  “D5W?” Zoe asked.

  “Right, let’s get her blood sugar up. Then run an MRI on that wrist. Don’t let the lab tell you they don’t have time.” Bellota frowned at Zoe. “I want it now.”

  “Then, Doctor, you call it in.” Zoe assembled the bag and the drip chamber, then inserted the needle in Hannah’s arm.

  Hannah twitched. Her eyelids quivered.

  Gabriel released a slow sigh of relief. She was responding. Not a lot, but she was still here.

  Bellota grunted, but did as Zoe instructed. When he got off the phone, he said, “The lab’ll take her now. Whatever you do, don’t let her get up.”

  “Don’t let her walk out,” Gabriel added. When Zoe raised her eyebrows, he said, “Keep an eye on her. And keep the police away.”

  “Right,” Zoe said.

  Gabriel had dealt with her before; Bellota respected her, and she was one smart woman, who understood far too much without a word being said.

  She nodded at him, then pushed the gurney into the corridor.

  Gabriel collapsed back on the damn uncomfortable bed.

  “Now you’ve got to stay in the hospital,” Bellota said with satisfaction, “because she’ll need to stay.”

  “She’ll run if she can, and I’ve played hell finding her. So get me ready to go, because we’re leaving.”

  Of all the ways he had imagined this capture would go, this scenario had never crossed his mind. He’d considered talking her into giving herself up. Considered lulling her into trusting him, then announcing who he was and slapping the cuffs on her. Considered seducing her and then . . . Well, he’d never got beyond seducing her.

  He certainly hadn’t thought he would feel both grateful to her, and sorry for her. “Get Daniel in here, please. I need to talk to him.”

  Bellota jerked his head toward one of the nurses, then went back to work on Gabriel, poking and prodding and making him groan. “What in the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. That’s what I want to talk to Daniel about.” Because Gabriel didn’t believe in coincidences, so—why had someone shot him?

  Hannah woke up on a gurney being trundled through hospital corridors. She stared up at the passing fluorescent lights on the ceiling and wished she didn’t feel so wretched. She’d been shot, too. The police would want her statement. She needed to leave—and if she stood up, she’d throw up. And collapse.

  This was her nightmare. She was living her nightmare.

  Nothing escaped Zoe’s sharp gaze, and from behind Hannah’s head, she said, “Doctor ordered an MRI on your wrist.”

  “I can’t pay.” Although Zoe had probably figured that out.

  “Mr. Prescott will take care of it,” Zoe said, and when Hannah would have objected, she added, “You saved his life. It’s the least he can do.”

  “Fine.” Hannah had to resign herself to that. She didn’t have a choice. Carrick had found her, so she had to go on the run again, and if she was going to make it, she needed to be healthy.

  She needed money, too, but she’d figure that out later.

  The way the doctor and the nurses treated Gabriel told Hannah one thing. “He’s not a drug dealer, I take it.”

  Zoe threw back her head and laughed. “No. No, he’s quite a respectable businessman.”

  So what was he doing in that neighborhood? Shopping at Wal-Mart?

  But it wasn’t like he was looking for hookers—wrong location for that—and Hannah supposed he could have been visiting in one of the McMansions.

  Which meant he had been shot in her place, and if he knew that, he wouldn’t be so grateful.

  The medical team was brisk and efficient, performing the MRI and letting her look at the results without committing to an opinion.

  But Hannah had an opinion. The wound needed stitches, some clever sewing to correct the damage to muscles and tendons, but all in all, it looked pretty good. And right now, she felt pretty good. She knew it was an illusion fostered by the saline drip, but if she could figure out a way out of here . . .

  “The films will go down to Dr. Bellota to be read, and he may send you on to a specialist,” Zoe said.

  “To check for nerve damage.”

  Zoe watched Hannah carefully flex her left hand, then touch each of her fingers to her thumb. “Are you sure you’re not in the medical profession?”

  Of course Zoe recognized another nurse, and that was another piece of the identity puzzle Hannah couldn’t afford to have slip into place. So Hannah ignored Zoe’s oblique accusation, saying only, “The good news is, my hand does what I want it to do. The bad news is, I imagine I’ll need stitches. Do you do that?”

  “The bullet did damage. Dr. Bellota will want you to see a plastic surgeon.”

  Hannah placed her good hand over Zoe’s, looked into her eyes, and took advantage of the sisterhood of nursing. “Help me out here.”

  Zoe chewed her lip, then made her decision. “I can’t do the stitches, but . . .” She wheeled Hannah back down to the ER and into an examining room. Quickly, efficiently, she bandaged the wrist. “I’m taking the films to Dr. Bellota now. I’ll get right back to you.” She whipped out of the examining room and headed down the corridor.

  Hannah wasn’t going to get a better chance. She unplugged herself from the drip, cursed the fact she’d lost her backpack, and headed for the exit.

  She had almost made it out when Daniel stepped in front of her, smoothly blocking her way. “Miss Grace, Mr. Prescott is on his way out, and he asked me to escort you to the limo.”

  She stood in the waiting room, looked up at the big black man, and said, “I am not going to the limo.”

  In a calm, coaxing voice, he said, “Now, Miss Grace, if you don’t go home with Mr. Prescott, Dr. Bellota will have kittens right here in the emergency room. If you need to go somewhere first, I’ll be glad to drive wherever you need, wait for you to pick up your things—” He held up her backpack.

  She caught her breath. All her things were in her backpack, and he held it just out of reach. “Can I have that?”

  “Of course, miss. I’ll put it in the car for you.” He smiled
in a way that might have been comforting in a smaller, less-toned, less-determined man. “Mr. Prescott has a nice private penthouse apartment located in the Galleria, where the two of you can recuperate in peace and quiet.”

  “If I have to recuperate, what good will I do Mr. Prescott?”

  “I’ll be there to help haul his lazy ass around to the bathroom and whatnot. Don’t you worry. You won’t hurt your wrist having to deal with him.”

  She tried to step around Daniel.

  He moved to thwart her. “Don’t you worry about Mr. Prescott getting fresh with you, either. He would never hurt a woman, and anyway, I suspect that gunshot’s going to slow him down some.”

  She wished Daniel would let her go. Let her walk into the early-evening sunshine and disappear into the city, and figure out how to hide from Carrick’s men. Because they wouldn’t miss twice.

  Oh, God, what was she going to do? Racket about from place to place like a pinball while innocent pedestrians got shot by Carrick’s cut-rate assassins?

  “Wait until you see that penthouse, Miss Grace. It’s gorgeous and plenty big enough for the two of you, and of course I’ll be there to take care of you, so you’ll have a chaperon.” Daniel glanced over her shoulder. “Here he comes now, looking all riled about whether I did my job and caught up with you.”

  She turned to see Gabriel, sitting up in a wheelchair pushed by Dr. Bellota himself.

  Gabriel looked pale and sweaty.

  Dr. Bellota looked grim.

  He pushed Gabriel up to her. “Against my better judgment, I’m going to let Gabriel go home.”

  “You haven’t got a choice,” Gabriel said.

  “That’s why I’m doing it.” Dr. Bellota took Hannah’s wrist and checked her pulse. “How you managed to convince Zoe, the finest doctor’s assistant I’ve ever worked with, to let you go—”

  “She didn’t let me go. I tricked her!”

  “Right.” Dr. Bellota obviously didn’t believe that, but at least Zoe was off the hook. “Daniel, I depend on you to keep them both in bed—in bed—for seven days. If they’d stay in the hospital, it would only be five days, but no”—he laid on the sarcasm—“Gabriel has to go home.”