“It’s private and, whether you believe it or not, we’re only interested in taking care of our patients, your boyfriend included, so, come on, let’s get a move on.” Her face was calm, her voice steely. “I have other patients who need me.” And with that she headed to the semicircular desk, reached over and picked up the receiver, all the while keeping her eyes on the small group as the elevator call button dinged and the doors whispered open. “Third floor. This is Evelyn Mathers. Can you hold a second?”
The security guard who stepped onto the third floor was Madge Petroski, the officer Thomas had helped to her feet less than fifteen minutes earlier. And her mood hadn’t improved. Petroski’s lips were compressed, her muscles tight, her demeanor as serious as a wolf studying a lame, straggling deer. “What’s going on here?” she demanded, and didn’t soften a bit when she recognized Thomas.
“We need an escort for Ms. Long,” Thomas said. To the nurse, he added, “We’re leaving, but if there’s a problem”—he cast a meaningful glare at the deputy stationed near Jonas McIntyre’s room—“let us know.”
The nurse nodded tightly. “Will do.”
The security guard gave a clipped nod. “Come along,” she said to Mia Long and before she could reach for her, the younger woman stomped into the open elevator.
“Thanks,” Johnson said to the nurse. “We’ll be back.”
“Fabulous,” the nurse replied, her smile as icy as an arctic blast as she glared at Thomas. “Just . . . great.” Then she turned her attention back to the call.
Johnson asked, “Do you always have this effect on people you meet? This uncanny ability to make enemies everywhere you go?”
“It’s a gift,” Thomas acknowledged as they waited for another elevator car and gave berth to an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair heading down the short hallway. “A real blessing.”
CHAPTER 22
Kara double-checked the lock on the bathroom door of Tate’s condo, then stepped into his small shower, where hot water was already running and steaming up this small space, a corner of his high-ceilinged loft. The needle-like spray felt good, relaxing muscles that had been tense ever since she’d spied Merritt’s body, then nearly been given a heart attack with her brother appearing in her car. After that, there had been the accident and waking up in the hospital where she escaped and now was . . . was alone, naked, in the home of a man she barely knew and didn’t trust at all.
Good one, Kara. Now what? You’re trapped here without a phone, or a car, or even a damned friend you can call. There’s Aunt Faiza. “No!” she said aloud, startling herself. Well, then, how about the police. You need to talk to them, explain about finding Merritt’s body and how Jonas stowed away in the Jeep and how the semi came at you, sliding sideways.
She blinked. Thought of the driver of the truck and her heart twisted. She knew the accident wasn’t her fault and Jonas would back her up, but he was a convicted felon, believed to be a liar and a stone-cold killer, not exactly the best witness, and there were the vodka bottles that would be found in the wreckage, tiny little bits of evidence that she might have been under the influence.
But certainly they’d checked her blood in the hospital . . . God, it was all so complicated.
“Hey!” She heard two sharp raps on the door. “You okay in there?” Tate called through the panels.
“Yeah, yeah. Just a minute.” She used his shampoo, lathering and rinsing, then applying a conditioner that smelled decidedly masculine, but really, who cared? Certainly not her and not Wesley Tate.
Rotating her shoulders and neck, wincing slightly at the pain that lingered, she warned herself about him again. Sure, he’d stirred up the fans at the hospital so she could make good her escape, but he was still the same guy who put himself in harm’s way as she backed out her driveway, all for the sake of getting her story, an exclusive interview. As she turned off the water, the pipes creaking slightly, she reminded herself of that important fact. Oh, sure, he could be charming and helpful, and was handsome in that rugged, I-don’t-give-a-damn way, but that wasn’t good enough. Not anymore. She’d always been interested in the totally wrong type of man for her. It was her romantic MO and probably had roots in the damned tragedy she’d suffered through.
Dr. Zhou hadn’t said as much, but it didn’t take a psychologist to connect those particular dots.
And she wasn’t going to end up depending on him. Uh-uh.