Kitabı oku: «Under His Skin»
RITA HERRON
UNDER HIS SKIN
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
MILLS & BOON
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For Kim Nadelson: my former editor who still reads me
even though she doesn’t have to!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
Grace Gardener hesitated outside Detective Parker Kilpatrick’s hospital room, nerves fluttering in her stomach. She had to find out who had murdered her brother.
The police were wrong. Bruno had not killed himself. He wouldn’t take his own life. Not and leave her alone.
Ever since her parents’ murder twenty years ago, she had practically raised him. And he had vowed to find out the truth about their deaths. Had that investigation gotten him killed?
Maybe Detective Kilpatrick could help her.
Although he was still recovering from the terrible fire that had put him in the hospital, he was alert, and he could ask around.
She had to be careful and guard her emotions, though. For some insane reason, the detective rattled her nerves. But she refused to get involved with a detective, not after losing two loved ones to the job.
For heaven’s sake, he’d only been with the Savannah Police Department a short time and he’d ended up at death’s door, and now in the hospital.
With a shudder, she remembered the night they’d wheeled Parker into the ER. He’d been injured trying to save a woman’s life in a fire. A hero, but he’d suffered second-and third-degree burns, had a collapsed lung and crushed leg. Had nearly flatlined. She’d held his hand and called to him, urging him to fight for his life, and miraculously they’d revived him.
And when he’d opened his amber eyes and looked at her, even glazed with pain, she’d felt an odd chemistry between them. A chemistry she hadn’t felt with a man in a long time.
She clenched her hands; she was the delirious one. She’d simply connected to him because of his close call with death, the excitement of bringing him back and knowing that she would play a part in his recovery.
But he’d barked at her over the next few weeks and thrown her out of his room more than once, refusing her help. Still, she’d held on to her patience because she’d understood his frustration.
He was an alpha male who liked being in charge, and he’d been robbed of his independence. Her brother and father had been tough as nails like him, and would have responded the same way to being physically incapacitated.
Remembering them again sobered her, so she knocked on the door. When she heard his gruff voice, she stepped inside. For a brief moment she paused, her breath catching at the sight of him standing on his own. He was over six feet and had powerful shoulders, now encased in a dark blue T-shirt that emphasized his muscular physique. Thick, wavy dark brown hair framed an angular face constantly darkened by beard stubble, and though a scar ran along his temple, his face, thank God, had not suffered burns.
She remembered seeing him half-naked when she’d tended to him, and her stomach quivered. Even in a hospital gown, he was the best-looking masculine specimen she’d ever met. She’d wanted to soothe his pain, to heal him with her hands, and had admired his fierce determination and insistence that the doctors were wrong, that he’d show them all and walk again.
“What are you doing here?”
A small smile tilted her lips at his surly tone. “Nice to see you, too, Parker. I just dropped by to check on your progress.”
His jaw tightened, and a flicker of something that resembled pain flared in his eyes as he walked toward her. He wasn’t using the crutches, although he probably should be. “I’m fine, as you can see. Now you can go.”
“Ah. I forgot you don’t like company.”
“I’m a cop, not into chitchat.”
Right, the cop part. He was antsy to get back to the job. To put his life on the line again to save others.
And possibly end up right back here or worse, dead like her brother and father. She still didn’t understand what drove them to put themselves in danger, and make their loved ones worry and suffer.
She spotted the newspaper on the bed, noted the story about the missing bodies from the morgues and the story about the body she’d found at the graveyard the night before when she’d stopped by to visit Bruno’s grave.
Nightmares of the man’s blank eyes staring at her in death haunted her all night. “I see you’re keeping up with the crime in Savannah.”
For a moment concern warmed his eyes. “Yeah, I saw the story. Are you all right?”
She nodded, moved by the slight tenderness in his husky voice. “I hope they find whoever left his body. That poor man didn’t deserve to be desecrated like that.”
“My partner’s on the case. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”
She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. He’d just given her an opener. “I spoke with Captain Black about my brother’s death. But he said they still don’t know anything. And I’m not convinced that he believes me.”
He shrugged, drawing the T-shirt tighter across his massive chest while the cotton running shorts he wore slid down to reveal his flat stomach. Dark hair was broken by patches that had been singed off, and scars discolored the bronzed skin, but they were healing.
“Captain Black is a good guy. He’s trying to find out the truth, Grace. So what are you really doing here?”
She stared at him for a long moment, debating over whether to leave or ask for his help like she’d originally intended. If she did ask, would he tell her to stay out of it as his captain had, or would he help her?
PARKER SILENTLY CURSED himself for his rudeness. Grace Gardener had dragged him back from the brink of death, and while he’d been trapped like a sick animal in ICU, her gentle hands had tended to his injuries and helped him with routine tasks that no man wanted a woman’s help with.
The very reason he could barely look her in the face.
He wanted her bad. Wanted her like a man wanted a woman. To strip her clothes, feel her curvy body naked and writhing beneath his. Wanted to hear that sultry voice whispering his name in the heat of passion, not sympathy.
Yet she’d seen him at his most vulnerable. Thought of him as the poor, sick, scarred, crippled man who needed to lean on her small frame just to walk to the damn bathroom.
A big man like him shouldn’t be leaning on anyone, much less a female half his size.
The reason he had to get rid of her. If she stayed much longer, looking so soft and sweet, making him need her in other ways than as a physical crutch, he’d make a fool out of himself.
“Go home, Grace. You helped patch me up, your job is over.”
She nodded. “I just wanted to see how the leg was doing.”
His mouth thinned but he shrugged. “I’ll be jogging out of here soon.”
She laughed softly. “I’m sure you will.”
The conviction in her voice offered him hope just as her comforting words in the ER had. As if to contradict him though, his leg suddenly seized up. A sharp agonizing pain split his calf and bolted up toward his spine, and sweat broke out all over his body. He felt dizzy and gritted his teeth, praying she’d leave before he did something embarrassing like pass out on her. Or end up on the floor where he’d have to crawl back to the bed.
She obviously saw the pain he desperately tried to hide, and eased toward him. “Sit down, Parker. You’ve probably been overdoing it again with your therapy.”
He had been pushing himself beyond the requirements but was determined to get back on his feet, literally.
The pain intensified, the room growing fuzzy. In spite of his resolve, he gripped the metal rail of the bed to steady himself and tried to move toward it. She was beside him in a flash, slid one hand beneath his arm and helped him take the agonizing steps back to the bed. She said nothing as he lowered himself onto the mattress, but when he tried to lift his injured leg to stretch it out, the muscles were so knotted and bunched, that he had to bend over to work out the spasm. She stooped and began to massage the muscle, her fingers deftly working magic. Then she helped him straighten his leg on the bed. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and she offered a tentative smile, then once again kneaded his cramped calf.
He clenched his jaw to keep from moaning and wiped sweat from his upper lip, battling the need to order her to stop, but her hands felt so damn wonderful that he couldn’t bear to ask her to quit. Like he had so many other times, he wanted those hands on him in other places. Places that hadn’t been touched in forever.
You’re a weak man, his father had told him as he’d tried to beat some sense into him.
Damn it, he was right. And Parker hated it.
A knock sounded at the door and one of the surgeons who’d operated on Parker, a lean, ash-blond man named Dr. Wilson Whitehead, poked his head in. He glanced at Grace and his brows arched as if he was surprised to see her in the room, especially sitting on the side of his bed rubbing Parker’s leg.
“Parker?”
Parker pushed Grace’s hands away and crossed his arms. She stood, a flash of contrition in her eyes as if she’d been caught behaving unprofessionally when she’d simply been doing her job.
“Grace?”
She nodded in greeting. “Dr. Whitehead.”
Again, a look of question darkened his eyes, and Parker’s senses jumped to alert. The doctor was interested in Grace. Were they involved?
Humiliation crawled up his spine for even thinking she might be attracted to him. A gorgeous woman like her probably had men chasing her all the time. Healthy men like Dr. Whitehead with a boatload of money, men who could wine and dine her, not a scarred guy with a bad attitude and a life that had no room for anything but tracking criminals. A job that would only put her in danger.
“What’s going on?” Parker asked.
Dr. Whitehead stepped farther into the room and approached the bed. His gray eyes bore into Parker’s, serious and filled with the same professional detached expression that he wore when he’d informed Parker he’d never walk again.
He had bad news. Just how bad?
Parker’s patience disintegrated. “I asked you what the hell is going on.”
Dr. Whitehead stuffed his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. “I’ve reviewed your last tests, and they’re not good. You’re not healing as well with the new tendons as I’d expected.”
Not news to him. He wanted to heal faster, too.
“I’ve just learned that we have a tissue recall,” the doctor continued. “The tissue you received is part of that recall.”
“What’s wrong with the tissue?” Parker asked.
“It wasn’t processed properly. That may be the reason for your lack of progress.”
“So this new tissue might work better?”
“Exactly.”
“This means another surgery?”
“Yes, another transplant.”
Parker grimaced, the reality setting in. More surgery meant an extended hospital stay, a longer recovery. More rehab.
A more lengthy leave of absence before he could return to work and be a whole man.
He cut his gaze toward Grace and wondered if she’d known, if she’d come because she felt sorry for him and wanted to see how he’d handle the news.
Not because she liked him personally.
Hell, he’d take the surgery if it meant a chance his leg might recover.
But he wouldn’t accept Grace’s pity or delude himself into thinking that she might be attracted to him—not ever again.
Chapter Two
Grace saw the wheels turning in Parker’s head. Frustration lined his face, as well as pain, and the realization of what another surgery meant.
A setback in his recovery.
Yet the hope that the unhealthy tissue was the reason for his slow progress also glittered in his eyes. And the bad tissue had to be removed. That was a given.
He angled his face toward the doctor. “Do you really think this surgery will make a difference?”
Dr. Whitehead gave a clipped nod. “Yes. The contaminated tissue most likely caused the irritation in your leg, the constant discomfort and the subsequent infection.”
Parker seemed to assimilate the doctor’s comments, then he released a heavy sigh full of resignation. “All right, when do we do it?”
“The sooner, the better. How about first thing in the morning?”
“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Dr. Whitehead nodded. “I’ll talk to the nurses and make sure they have you prepped and ready.”
He grimaced. “Great.”
Dr. Whitehead turned to her. “Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Walk out with me?”
“Sure. Just give me a minute.”
Parker’s amber eyes pierced her. “Go, Grace. Guess I’d better rest up before the next carving.”
Her heart squeezed for him. But how many times did he have to tell her to leave before she got the message?
Besides, how could he help her now? He would need rest, to recuperate…
She was on her own.
“All right. Good luck tomorrow.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “I’ll stop by to check on you.”
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s my job,” she said defensively. Although she knew she was lying. There were other nurses just as capable. She didn’t have to follow up on his recovery, didn’t have to visit him. Didn’t have to even think about him once he left her care.
But occasionally a patient got under her skin. And while she’d tended to Parker, she’d started to care for him. She not only wanted his help with her brother’s case, but she wanted to see him heal, to regain full use of his leg, because she admired him. She’d never seen a patient so determined to beat the odds and regain his mobility. Any part she played in that progress gave her a sense of accomplishment.
He picked up the newspaper, effectively cutting her off, and she sighed. The most difficult cases were the most challenging, but the most rewarding.
But she wouldn’t throw herself at the man, not when as soon as he recovered, he’d return to the police force. To a job that she hated. One that would most likely get him killed.
So she left the room, shutting the door behind her.
“I was surprised to find you visiting Parker Kilpatrick,” Wilson said.
Grace hesitated. The doctor had expressed interest in her more than once. Had hinted at lunch a couple of times, but she’d managed to avoid a direct rejection.
“I like to follow up on my patients,” she said.
“Are you sure it isn’t because he’s a cop?”
His question rubbed her the wrong way. He knew she’d suffered over her brother’s death. “I take my job very seriously, Dr. Whitehead. Parker has had a tough go of it, and I want to see him make a full recovery.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Grace. You’re a wonderful nurse.” His smile softened. “That’s one of the qualities I admire most about you. That and your legs.”
Buttering her up with a compliment should have made her feel good. Instead she took a step backward. Although she normally didn’t date people she worked with, she had entertained the idea of going out with him.
But a few moments earlier, when she’d seen him standing beside Parker, she had been drawn to Parker instead. Even though he was injured, struggling to recover, and had scars, Wilson Whitehead paled in comparison.
“How about dinner?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m really tired tonight.”
“Grace—”
“Maybe another time, Wilson.” She rubbed her temple, feigning a headache. “I’d better go.” She rushed away before he could respond.
She was tired, and wanted to get to bed early for the morning shift. Whether Parker wanted her nearby for his surgery or not, she intended to be there.
And if he did recover, maybe he’d take her brother’s case. Until then, she had to dig around on her own.
PARKER CURSED as Grace shut the door. Damn it, he shouldn’t have been so brusque, but knowing she’d seen him at his weakest was more than he could bear. And now the thought of undergoing another surgery, more rehab….
He slammed his fist into his pillow, wanting to vent his rage.
But he’d been taught control, he had to exert it now. Irritated at himself for his outburst, he reined in his temper. He refused to give in to despair.
He would endure the surgery, the pain afterward, then walk again, and he’d do it without those cursed crutches.
Maybe the contaminated tissue had impeded his recovery, and this new surgery would do the trick. Then he could resume his life.
He was nothing without his work.
Frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t help with the body-snatcher investigation, he hobbled off the bed, then slowly shuffled over to the small desk in the corner of the room. At least the rehab facility at the Coastal Island Research Park offered more than a plain hospital room, and they had wireless Internet services. Since many of the patients required long-term care, the center encouraged patients to continue their work if possible, and had provided accommodations to ensure that possibility through modern technology.
He booted up the computer, then accessed the police databases and searched for stories about the missing corpses to see if there were other similar cases in the South or across the States. Several cropped up, so he methodically accessed each one.
The stories of necromancy made his skin crawl—two had occurred in Savannah four years earlier, three in Atlanta, and numerous others in New Orleans and across the States. Most had been solved, although one case in the hills of North Carolina had never been closed.
A satanic cult in the Tennessee mountains had also stolen bodies to burn as a sacrifice. A case in eastern Kentucky noted a serial killer who dismembered corpses after he killed the victims—the killer had been tried and convicted, and was now on death row.
Some bodies had been stolen from morgues around Halloween for pranks. Other cases involved stealing comatose patients for organs to sell on the black market.
A schizophrenic man in North Carolina had stolen corpses because he swore he heard voices telling him to turn them into vampires.
He paused, rubbed his hand over his face. Even though he’d been a cop for years, the depravity of humans still stunned him.
Having read about the questionable projects a few doctors had been involved with at CIRP, he ran a search for medical purposes for which a corpse could be used. Research experiments and medical educational facilities topped the list. But those bodies were donated to science, not stolen. There was no report indicating they had a shortage of donors for either.
Knowing any one of the above could be the motive for the current body snatcher, or that they might be dealing with yet a different scenario, he made a note of the various motives.
One of the nurses poked her head in. “Mr. Kilpatrick?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Whitehead suggested I give you a sleeping pill to help you relax before your surgery tomorrow.”
“I don’t need a pill.”
She shrugged. “All right, but I’ll be in to get you bright and early.”
Her cheerful smile irritated him. “Fine. I’ll be here,” he mumbled. As if he’d be anywhere else.
He checked the morgues housing the bodies for reports of impropriety but found nothing. In spite of his resolve to work, exhaustion wore on him. Another downside of his injuries; he’d yet to regain his stamina. And he would need his energy to force himself to endure the agonizing therapy following tomorrow’s ordeal.
Within seconds after his head hit the pillow he faded into sleep, but images of Grace’s blue eyes flashed into his mind. He didn’t need her at his side, but he couldn’t help but wish she’d show up anyway. Just hearing her voice before he went under the knife would give him comfort.
DARK STORM CLOUDS HOVERED in the sky, obliterating the moon and stars as Grace drove to Tybee Island and the cottage her parents had owned. Thunder rumbled and lightning crisscrossed the darkness above the palm trees, signs of an impending storm.
Grace hated storms. There had been a terrible one the night her parents died.
Worse, all the Halloween decorations in town and on the island reminded her of the ghost stories and legends of pirates and lost souls in the area, adding to her paranoia.
She tried to focus on the reason she’d moved back to the cottage—because it was so peaceful. She craved the lulling sound of the ocean in the background, the warm fall air, the smell of the marsh and the sway of the palm trees in the late-night breeze. During the summer months when most of the cottages were inhabited, either by homeowners or renters, the island came alive with bikers, joggers, walkers and children. But fall sent vacationers home, and the island felt isolated, even deserted and eerie at times.
Especially at the end of the street tucked back into the cove where she lived.
Tonight, in light of the ghouls and goblins hanging on door fronts and trees, the recent wave of vandalism and stories of missing corpses, she felt on edge, as if someone was watching her. Someone who was waiting in the shadows, ready to leap out and grab her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have returned to her parents’ home. It had stirred all kinds of memories. But pleasant ones mingled with the sad. The rare times when her father had taken vacation days, rented a fishing boat and taken her and Bruno fishing in the inlet. The crabbing expeditions in the marsh. The long walks on the beach searching for sea turtles and shells. Building sand sculptures and flying kites in the spring.
Although her parents hadn’t died in this house, she thought about them more and more since she’d returned.
She parked in the clamshell drive, lifted her hair off her neck to let the breeze brush her skin as she let herself in the cottage. The wind chimes on the front porch tinkled, and inside, lavender and cinnamon scented the air. Remembering the figure running into the woods the night before at the graveyard, she paused in the doorway, listening for an intruder. What if the man in the woods thought she had seen him?
What if he came looking for her?
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