Sleight of Hand Page 15

  "Yes, I know," she admitted. "But Munchausen's is extraordinarily difficult to diagnose, even harder to prove. There are several types of inborn errors of metabolism that can mimic abuse. In fact, Karl Sterling made his reputation by disproving allegations of child abuse against one Amish family. But all those things have already been tested for in Charlie's case. And each test narrows down the list of possibilities until the unthinkable becomes the probable, the only thing likely."

  Drake still avoided her glance, no sense risking another lapse of judgment. But damn, she'd felt so good in his arms. He wrapped his hand around his beer glass, drained the last dregs. "And you think you're there–you have a medical certainty of abuse? Because, if so, then you know you need to report it to Children and Youth."

  "I called Childline yesterday. I think that's why the Ulrichs served me with a restraining order today."

  He looked up at that. "Restraining order?"

  "They're also going to sue me for assault and battery, and they've convinced another family to sue me for malpractice."

  He listened with dismay as she explained about her patient with meningitis. "How can it be your fault if a mother doesn't give her child the medication you prescribe?"

  "Tell that to the Executive Committee. I'm on a leave of absence until they meet on Friday. They may revoke my privileges."

  Drake stared at her. She was talking about more than losing her job. Revoking her privileges would be a permanent blot on her career. And Hart didn't just love her job–it was her life.

  He had the sudden image of her huddled alone in the darkness of her house, a recluse, shutting out him, shutting out the world–that's what stripping Hart of the career that fired her passion would do to her. Like Marion Kent, he could see her dwindling away, slowly fading from this world, not quite ready for the next.

  No, not Hart. She was stronger than that–she was the strongest person he knew.

  "I could lose everything," she whispered, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her, comfort her. Drake clamped his hands on the table edge to prevent himself from doing just that. Keep talking, just keep talking. There would be time for the other later. Much later.

  "And you can't prove any of this." The words came out cold, sterile, and she jerked up at the sound of them. Drake saw the movement and softened his tone. "If I look into Ulrich, check out her background, would that help?" She nodded. "But you have to promise that if I don't find anything substantial, if I feel the case has no merit, then you'll drop it. All right?"

  She looked down at the table, sliding her wine glass along the polished cherry, not answering him.

  "I won't do this unless I can trust you not to interfere," he said.

  That got her attention. Her eyes caught his and held them with an intensity that sparked across the table.

  "Did you consider for an instant that I might have been right yesterday?" she asked, her voice level, but her hands clenched the stem of the wine glass in a stranglehold. "Trust that I did the right thing about Morris?"

  "Hart," he said, keeping his tone patient despite his irritation, "that was a police matter."

  "In my ER, with my patient and my nurse's lives at stake. That makes it mine–my responsibility, my obligation to see that things are done right."

  "No, it still makes it a police matter. Which means you back down and trust them to do their jobs. No questions asked."

  She set her glass down with a bang, slopping liquid onto the table's finish. "Even when they're acting like morons, about to get my nurse and my patient killed?" She pushed herself upright, leaned against the table, both hands fisted under her weight. "Why can't you trust me to do the right thing? I can't believe you'd trust an imbecile like Spanos' judgment over mine."

  "Because he's a cop and he knows what he's doing!" Drake rose to his feet. Suddenly, the table between them seemed very insubstantial.

  "And I don't? Do you even know what really happened?"

  "I don't need to. It was a dangerous, violent man with a hostage and you should have let us do our job."

  "Excuse me for not sitting on my hands when there are lives at stake!"

  "You could have been killed!" His words echoed through the high-ceilinged room and circled back to hover between them in silence.

  She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "You can't lock me away, Drake. Not even to keep me safe. If you try, you'll smother me. I don't care how good your intentions may be. You can't do that to me. I wouldn't let Richard and I won't let you."

  Ouch, that hurt–King had isolated her, overwhelmed her in order to bludgeon her into submission. All Drake wanted was to protect her, keep her safe.

  "It almost killed me to escape Richard," she went on heartlessly, "I'm not going through that again."

  Anger flared in Drake. "You think I'm like King? Do you really believe that's the kind of man I am?"

  She held his gaze for a long moment. "Maybe neither of us knows who we really are." She took a step toward the door. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

  A flash of fear colored his fury. He was going to lose her. For good.

  His hand shot out without conscious control. It landed on her arm, on the puckered seam of scar tissue there.

  The roar of rage and terror that he'd felt that night six weeks ago returned in full force. It flooded his vision, filled his mind with the pounding of his heartbeat, surging with adrenalin.

  "Less talk, more action. If that's what you want, Cassie, then by God, that's what you'll get." Drake reached for her other arm before she could wrench away, pulled her off her feet and propelled her into the living room, up against the back of the leather sofa.

  His body trembled with desire fueled by fear and anger. He bent her forward over the couch, standing behind her, one hand under her shirt, the other unzipping her jeans and pushing the cloth away until his fingers reached skin. Hart knew how to render him helpless with desire–but he knew her as well, where to touch, how to stroke her passion.

  Drake took control of her body, not the mutual gift that lovemaking had been for them before, but pure animal passion, sex as a primal force.

  "I'm not in the mood," she protested, struggling from her position beneath his body. Then his hand found that sweet spot and her body sagged against his.

  A shudder rippled through her as he brought her to a rapid climax.

  "Drake," she started but her words were swallowed as he brought her to the peak again, too quickly for her to savor any pleasure, more a release than fulfillment.

  He pressed against her. Her skin was flushed and slicked with sweat. His tongue licked the base of her neck. There was none of the sweet vanilla and apple flavor he usually relished. Instead she tasted of raw sex, an animal in heat, musk seasoned with acrid fear.

  A small, feral cry escaped her lips. He taunted her by moving his fingers over her, teasing, giving her what she desired for a fleeting moment, then abandoning her once more.

  Hart squirmed beneath his weight. "Please," she moaned, urging him to continue. "Don't stop."

  He lowered his jeans. Her hips rocked against him, the touch of her flesh exciting him even further.

  As his hand continued to taunt her, he reached across her body, stretched toward the end table drawer. Before he could reach the condoms inside he knocked over a wrought iron lamp and sent the TV remote spinning across the floor.

  He drove her with cruel abandon, then left her bereft once more. This time she cried out in desperation. "Drake, please!"

  He lifted her hips up against his, entered her from behind. Her body responded with a shudder of passion that tore through both of them. He thrust himself inside her, pounding himself into her body as she urged him on.

  When he'd finished, when his fury was released with a final groan of pain and pleasure, he slumped forward, pinning her enervated body beneath him.

  <><><>

  Her face buried in the soft leather of the couch, Cassie breathed in its essence of animal, could taste its coarse
earthiness as the grain rubbed against her skin. Her body ached for more of what Drake offered her. She wanted more, needed more, demanded it.

  She twisted her sweaty body so that she faced him. The crimson of anger and pleasure filled her mind. She was infuriated by how much she craved his touch, by her own response as she'd surrendered, riding the wave of ecstasy he gave her. Damn it, she hated him, the way he knew her every vulnerability, the way he could bring her to places she'd never dreamed of before. No one else knew her like Drake did, could drive her as crazy with lust, desire and frustration.

  Conflicting emotions constricted her throat and left her mouth dry. She resisted the urge to smile, didn't want to encourage him. As irritated as she was, she had to admit that it was a hell of a way to end an argument. A big improvement over yesterday.

  He said nothing but planted his mouth on hers, forcing his tongue past her teeth, devouring her. Her body answered once more with a hunger that she was desperate to control.

  She pulled her shirt down, some small barrier between them. Once she had her feet planted back on the ground and her hands against his chest, she pushed against him. If he wanted to play games, she could give as good as she took. She knew how to make him beg, knew his weaknesses as well. He'd had his turn with randy jungle sex, now it was hers.

  He resisted for an infuriating moment as if still intent on demonstrating his power over her.

  Then, without warning, Cassie was suffocating, unable to draw air. She panicked. For one blinding instant it was Richard on top of her, not Drake.

  "Get off of me!" Her shout startled them both.

  CHAPTER 16

  Hart's eyes blazed and Drake's desire rose once more. Then she broke eye contact, her gaze darting past him, a wounded animal desperate for escape. Her breath quickened and all thoughts of passion fled from him.

  This was what King had done to her.

  He lurched back, eager to give her the space she needed. Her pupils grew wide with terror, her chest heaved as she gasped for air.

  He had hurt her. Just like King.

  The realization left a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He'd given into his own anger and fear and because of it had made an awful, terrible mistake.

  <><><>

  Cassie kept her head down as she adjusted her clothing, edging farther away from Drake, eyes focused on the exit, her avenue of escape.

  Once she passed through the threshold and slammed the door behind her, the panic attack eased and she could breathe once more. She raced down the steps without a backward glance.

  She made it to her car, her head sagging against the steering wheel as she collapsed into the driver's seat.

  As angry and irritated as she was by Drake's usurping of her control, she had to admit: she'd liked it. Some small–not so small, she thought as the memory of the waves of pleasure he'd given her returned–part of her enjoyed his touch. Wasn't that touch what she'd been craving for the past six weeks?

  She'd gotten exactly what she asked for, hadn't she?

  Then why had she confused Drake and Richard for the split second that had sent her reeling into panic? Had she somehow asked for the treatment Richard had given her as well? Was she in some way responsible?

  "No," Cassie said the word aloud once, then repeated it louder, filling the Impreza with its echo. "No!" She'd fought Richard, escaped him and his warped ideas of love, she'd never allow herself to enter another relationship like that. Never again.

  She thought about the victims of domestic violence that came through her ER. Wasn't that exactly what they said as they entered one abusive relationship after another? It won't happen again, this time is different, this man is different.

  Despite the warmth of the night, she shivered. What if Drake wasn't so different? Worse yet, what if she herself hadn't changed–would she always be attracted to men who would fight her for control and win? Maybe this was all her fault. Maybe everything was.

  Cassie clenched the steering wheel, trying to bury those thoughts, doubts that shook the core of her being, even more so than Drake's passionate touch had.

  <><><>

  Drake watched her go. Her eyes were dark and wide as a deer caught in headlights. She ran away almost as fast.

  He pulled his jeans back up, fastened them and sank to the floor, his back against the couch. How could he have done that to her? Treated her like that? He was as bad as King. His fingers tugged at his hair as he tried to understand his actions.

  He couldn't. Something in him had snapped, some primitive beast broke loose of its chains. No excuse. He knew what King had done to her, how any confinement or loss of control panicked her–she wouldn't even ride an elevator, for chrissakes.

  And he had held her, forced her–God, what was wrong with him? He'd never done anything like that, not even back in the days when Jack Daniels had been his best friend.

  He had to talk to her, explain. Apologize. Pray that she would forgive him.

  Drake climbed back to his feet, grabbed his car keys and left.

  He parked in front of her house. The lights were on upstairs. Good, she was still up. Hart's fat tortoiseshell cat, Hennessy, was silhouetted in the windowsill. He gathered his courage and got out of the car. He had no idea what he'd say to her, hoped that the right words would come.

  The steps to her porch seemed to have grown steeper since he was last here, weeks ago. By the time he reached the top he was breathing hard and fast. He moved across the porch, his legs feeling heavy, and reached a hand toward her door. His arm grew numb, and he had the sudden feeling of being pushed back. A heavy weight pressed on his chest, threatening to suffocate him, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  Drake tried to move forward. His vision darkened. He fought for air as an overwhelming sense of doom and terror filled him. He stumbled backwards down the steps.

  Hanging his head between his knees, he leaned against the Mustang's bumper and caught his breath. It was several minutes before he was able to raise his head and look up at the house looming over him. Slowly the numbness and sense of terror receded, leaving him feeling limp, powerless.

  Adeena Coleman had once told him Cassie's house was haunted. Not by ghosts, but by memories. Shivering in the warm spring night, he wrapped his arms around chest, unable to ward off the memories of the last time he'd crossed the threshold into Hart's house.

  His vision filled with a kaleidoscope of images. Bright roses flying through the air, scattered in all directions. The cold touch of a gun muzzle. Hart's body sprawled on the floor, bloody, maybe dead. Fear and rage and grief churning through him as he surrendered to a killer.

  Drake shook his head. Ridiculous. He dealt with scenes of violence all the time. He was used to it, part of the job. There was no killer waiting inside the door tonight–only Hart.

  He started toward the house twice more but couldn't make it past the first step before the pounding in his head and chest stopped him.

  He returned to the safe haven of the Mustang. Bent over, racked with dry heaves, swallowing hard to keep his dinner down, he drummed a fist on the still warm hood. Tomorrow, he told himself once he could breathe again. He'd talk to Hart tomorrow.

  Far away from this house and whatever demons inhabited it.

  CHAPTER 17

  Cassie woke realizing that she had nowhere to go, nothing to do. The thought paralyzed her. Then she remembered the way she'd left Drake last night and a feeling of dread overwhelmed her. What if she'd lost him as well?

  It'd been weeks since she'd had a panic attack like that. And for Drake to see it. No wonder he was hesitant about getting seriously involved with her–who wanted to get involved with a nut case?

  At first she'd been angry with him about the sex, the way he'd taken control, but, she had to admit, that kind of passion was exactly what she'd been wanting. It had been exciting, letting go like that–jungle sex, primal passion, call it what you will, it had been good.

  So good. Until the end. Somehow Richard seemed to invade eve
rything she touched, poisoning even the things she cherished like her relationship with Drake.

  Cassie hurled a Rom curse into the air, a weapon aimed at her ex-husband. Hennessy jumped and looked at her in reproach. Cassie clamped her hand over her mouth in chagrin, hearing Rosa's voice warning her about the power and danger of curses. What you send out in this world always comes back sooner or later.

  "Sorry Gram," Cassie whispered. Then smiled. She'd never get Drake back this way. Talking to herself like a crazy woman, spewing gypsy curses and half believing they might work.

  She huddled beneath Rosa's quilt, despondent, blocking out the morning sun. Until Hennessy's plaintive meows forced her to lower the covers. The cat jumped lightly onto Cassie's chest, kneading the quilt back farther until she could butt her head against her owner's.

  Empty food bowls must take priority. The cat punctuated her message with a tap of a paw against Cassie's nose.

  "All right, already," Cassie muttered, sliding free from the warmth of her bed and grabbing her robe. Why bother getting dressed? She padded downstairs in bare feet and fed the cat. Who would see her? Would even care?

  The house was quiet except for the sound of the cat gulping down her food.

  Maybe she should get a TV. Let it hypnotize her, placate her until she didn't notice the passing of the days. Morphine for the masses.

  That thought did it. She ran upstairs, threw on shorts and a T-shirt, then went down to the basement where she spent an hour working with her heavy bag and weights. Her reaction time was off, her kicks lacking in power, but it was satisfying imagining Virginia Ulrich's face on the bag. Then Richard's. Slamming one punch after another into them until her knuckles were red and raw when she took the gloves off.

  She sat on the edge of the weight bench, head sagging as she caught her breath. Where had she gone wrong? All she wanted was to protect one little boy–was that so awful? Now she had nothing. Humiliated in front of her coworkers, facing disciplinary action. And Drake–what was she going to do about Drake?