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“He’s all yours,” Jocelyn said. “Though I wish I didn’t have to pick up Michael from the sitter’s.” She nodded toward the room. “That is one seriously yummy man.”
As if to make her words more believable, Jocelyn gave an exaggerated shiver of delight that had everything, breasts and ample hips especially, shimmying. Four inches shorter than Char, her friend was curvy with dark hair, red lips and nails, and a penchant for bad boys and one-night stands.
She also had a three-year-old son she adored who wasn’t feeling well, forcing Jocelyn to leave work early.
“You said that about the appendectomy two weeks ago, remember? The one with the porno mustache?”
“I’m telling you, under that furry thing was a handsome man. And did you see his six-pack?”
It would have been unprofessional to point out she’d seen pretty much every inch of him. “I think I’ll stick with clean-shaven men just the same.”
“He—” Jocelyn jerked her thumb at the door behind Char “—has that stubbly thing going on. Plus I saw ink. You know how much I love tattoos on a man. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to see his body art up close and personal.”
“There’s not much personal about helping a patient get undressed or examining them.”
“Please,” Jocelyn said, handing Char the patient’s chart, “it’s the only reason I busted my very cute butt at nursing school.”
Smiling, Char shook her head and knocked on the door as Jocelyn flipped her hair and sauntered off, the very cute butt she was so proud of wiggling.
Char was still smiling as she opened the door, scanning the patient’s chart. Her smile slid away when she read the name at the top of the form, written in Jocelyn’s neat handwriting.
No. It couldn’t be.
“If it isn’t Little Red,” a husky, male voice said. Her head snapped up as Kane’s gaze drifted lazily over her, from the top of her hair to her sensible shoes. She had a feeling if he could have, he would have raised one eyebrow in scorn. As it was, both brows were lowered, probably due to pain. “Cute PJs.”
She strangled the doorknob. Pretended it was his neck. Kept her lips pressed tightly together. It was better than informing him of the difference between sleepwear and her favorite scrubs—purple pants, lighter purple long-sleeved tee under a floral top.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, Kane remained. No figment of her imagination, no hallucination brought on by a strong resemblance and bad lighting. He was here.
He was also her patient. Hers to take care of.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Damn it. She should have known it was him from the way she’d reacted to the sight of his legs. It was as if every time she was around him, her body went haywire. Hot. Then cold. Then hot again.
And that was just from getting a glance at his legs and feet. His feet, for God’s sake.
He shifted. Winced and blew out a breath from between his teeth. “Speechless?”
Maybe it was the pain she saw in his eyes, the way he went white with it. Or maybe it was the decidedly missing mocking tone from his voice. Or, she thought as she took in his appearance, it could be his torn clothes and the many bloody gashes on his person. Whatever it was, she snapped out of her reverie. She had a job to do and she’d lick the bottom of his stupid, scarred boots before she’d let him get to her. Even for a moment.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she could load him off onto another nurse. Well, she could, but she never shirked her duty. And if she asked someone else to take him on, they’d want to know why. She wasn’t prepared to give that answer. Ever.
She crossed to stand next to his bed. “Actually, I was just lamenting about how, of all the ERs in all this great land of ours, you had to walk into mine.” She pursed her lips, somehow knowing he’d hate it if she showed him too much compassion. That he’d mistake any sympathy for pity. “Then again, you didn’t technically walk in.” Because she figured it would annoy him, she added air quotes to the last two words.
Opening her laptop, she cleared her throat. Set the computer on the stand and plugged it in.
“Let’s get some information,” she said, bringing up the file Jocelyn had started. “What happened?”
“Didn’t you talk with those EMT guys?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you know what happened.”
Couldn’t he cooperate at all? She pushed aside her irritation and glanced up at him. His face was a sickly color now—the pain must be getting to him. She softened a bit. She hated seeing anyone suffer. She’d get him something as soon as possible.
The EMTs had taped a piece of gauze to a cut on the side of his right eye, the flesh around it already turning interesting shades of yellow and green. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wet and torn, his jeans ripped, his right arm bent at an interesting and far-from-natural angle.
“Motorcycle accident,” she said, typing the words into the computer.
He shut his eyes and gingerly laid his head back. “A deer ran out in front of me. It was either lay the bike down or fly over the handlebars.”
“Guess you made the right decision.”
The police department would do whatever it was they did to ascertain if he’d been speeding or driving recklessly.
“Right before the accident,” she said, “were you light-headed or dizzy?”
“No.”
“Sick to your stomach?”
He snorted and she had no idea whether that was an affirmation or not.
“Were you drinking tonight?”
“Just water.”
“What about recreational drugs?”
Now he opened his eyes, pinned her with an unreadable look. “What about them?”
Something told her to tread carefully here. It was always a sensitive subject, but one she needed to address. Too bad most people were less than forthright about their bad habits, especially the ones that were illegal. She kept her voice matter-of-fact, her expression clear and nonjudgmental. “Were you impaired in any way?”
The fingers of his left hand clenched. “I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs.” His mouth thinned, but she wasn’t sure if it was due to physical discomfort or the topic of conversation. “I went for a ride after work. The roads were wet. A deer ran out into the road and I lost control. End of story.”
She picked up the electronic ear thermometer. “The EMTs’ notes said you weren’t wearing a helmet.” Yes, her tone made it clear she was judging him. Bad enough he drove a powerful vehicle that could reach great speeds. The least he could do was protect his head. “You’re lucky you weren’t more seriously injured.”
Or killed.
“Worried about me, Red?”
Taking his temperature, she rolled her eyes, caught herself mid-roll and pretended to be checking out a very interesting speck on the ceiling. “It’s part of my job to be concerned about any and all of my patients.”
“And here I thought I held a special place in your heart. With what happened between us and all.”
His voice was low. Husky. It seemed to vibrate right into her chest.
Neat trick, that.
Straightening slowly, as if her inner voice wasn’t screaming at her to leap back and run like mad, she gave him her haughtiest look, the one she reserved for unruly, rude or pain-in-the-rear patients.
He definitely qualified for the latter.
“Did you injure your left arm?” she asked, her cool tone daring him to make another comment about the night she’d gone to his apartment.
In answer, he held it out. She gently wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, unwound the stethoscope from her neck and inserted the ear tips. After taking his blood pressure, she removed the cuff and checked his pulse. Typed all three figures into his file.
“Any allergies to medications?” she asked. He shook his head. “What about tape? Latex? Iodine?”
“No.”
“Are you currently taking any medications?”
He shook his head then winced.
She opened a drawer and pulled out tubing. “I’m going to get your IV started, get you something for the pain. Could you straighten your left arm for me?” she asked, pulling on sterile gloves.
She tightly tied a thick rubber band around his forearm just under his elbow, found the vein she wanted to use on the back of his hand, then disinfected the area. While it dried, she peeled open the catheter.
“You ever do this before?” Kane asked, his tone wary enough to make her glance at him.
He was staring at the catheter in her hand with what could only be described as trepidation. What was that about? She’d had plenty of people—young, old and in between—who were terrified of needles, more that weren’t thrilled about them, but could handle a shot or IV being inserted as long as they didn’t watch it piercing their skin. But Kane had tattoos. Several intricate, rather large ones, which would have taken hours upon hours to complete.
That’s when it hit her, the realization swift and producing a giddy sort of triumph. He wasn’t afraid of needles.
He was afraid of her.
CHAPTER FOUR
“YOU LOOK HAPPY,” Kane grumbled, not liking the small smile playing on Red’s mouth.
She made a humming sound, pure contentment and satisfaction. “Do I? Must be because I’m loving my job at the moment.”
“Loving that you get to poke at me a few dozen times. Literally. With a very sharp object.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”
But her grin, just this side of mean, said otherwise.
He shouldn’t think it looked good on her.
He shifted. Pain stabbed his ribs, shot up his side. He held his breath, kept his face expressionless, but that didn’t seem to stop eagle eye from noticing. She didn’t frown—her usual expression around him—but there was no ignoring the concern in her eyes.
“You okay?” she asked.
She was doing her job, and that was all he wanted from her.
He exhaled carefully. Slowly. Inhaled the same way. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Just as he didn’t answer hers.
She noticed but didn’t call him on it.
“What question?” she asked, poking and prodding the back of his hand again with her finger, the sharp point of the needle closer to his skin than he would have liked.
He didn’t mind needles, could handle pain just fine. Though he’d rather avoid it if possible. Mostly he didn’t like the idea of her using him as a pincushion. Not when he was having a hard enough time keeping himself together. Acting calm and collected when all he wanted was to jump off the bed and get as far from this place, with its institutionalized smells and windowless walls, as possible. Before he completely lost it.
“Have you done this before?”
She raised her head, blinked at him as innocently as a newborn babe. “Once or twice. I’m getting really good at it, too.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, her blue eyes wide. “With my last patient, it took me only six or seven tries to get it right.”
She was messing with him. She had to be.
He hoped.
Before he could find out, someone knocked at the door, and Charlotte excused herself—like the polite little nurse she probably was with every other patient—to see who was there.
A reprieve. He was smart enough to be thankful.
Then again, the more she stabbed at him, the longer his mind was occupied and he didn’t have to think about anything else. Such as how much it hurt just to breathe. Hell, he’d gladly forgo the process altogether if it wasn’t an instinctual, and necessary, act to remain alive. How pain swamped him with every movement, no matter how slight or how slowly done, making his stomach turn. How the mother of all headaches pounded at the base of his skull, blurring his eyesight and making him want nothing more than to go home, down a few shots of whiskey and slip into a dreamless, painless sleep.
Too bad he’d given up drinking.
But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the memories.
The familiar sights and sounds of the hospital threatened to drag him back to the past. Reminding him of the accident that had almost cost him his life.
That had almost taken away the most precious thing in his world.
And it had been all his fault.
“Sorry about that,” Red said as she returned to his side. “Okay, here we go.” She bent over his hand and that’s when he realized her hair was different. Short, like a pixie, the red strands loose and waving slightly. “Slight pinch,” she murmured, inserting the needle into his vein.
He barely felt it.
And he’d let her rip off his good arm and beat him over the head with it before he admitted it.
She taped the port to his hand then gave it a gentle pat. “You were very brave,” she told him soberly. But her eyes gleamed. “Want a lollipop?”
She smiled. A real smile, one that reached her eyes and made a dimple in her left cheek form. A sudden, vicious craving swept through him, a hunger for something sweet.
Something like skinny, small-chested Charlotte Ellison.
He must have hit his head harder than he thought.
In answer to her smart-ass question, he scowled. But that only made his head hurt more, so he stopped.
