Doing It Right (4 page)

She looked away. “I’m not quite that bad. You have—” she eyed him as he hustled toward the kitchen, remembering he hadn’t eaten in seven hours—”admirable equilibrium.”

“That’s what all my bodyguards say,” he replied
affably over his shoulder. “How about some breakfast?”

“That would be lovely,” she admitted, carefully folding the blanket she had been using. She placed it gently at the end of the couch and followed him into the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind my coming here. I didn’t hurt your lock—”

“I don’t mind,” he assured her. “You can come over anytime. Do you want a key?”

“It’s not necessary,” she said with a straight face.

“I
know
that. But maybe it’ll be a little faster than picking my lock every … No?” She shook her head. “Ho, boy. That’s some childhood you must have had.”

She changed the subject—but later, when he thought about the conversation, he realized she hadn’t changed it at all. “How is the little boy?”

He looked up from removing ingredients from the refrigerator. “Little boy?”

She perched on a stool beside the counter. “He came in the ER with multiple stab wounds. Red hair, about seven years old?”

“Ah. He was stable when I left. Amazingly, the bastard who did the cutting managed to miss virtually every major organ and blood vessel. His mother’s boyfriend,” Jared added, whipping eggs in a stainless steel bowl. “Carved the kid up when Mama left him. In Cleopatra’s time, they used strangulation as the death penalty. Kind of makes you long for the good old days, huh?”

She nodded seriously, though he had—he
thought he had—been joking. Dark humor, the kind he took refuge in when terrible things happened to little kids. To anyone. “Someone
should
kill the boyfriend,” she said matter-of-factly. “That kind never stops.” She drummed her fingers on the counter, thinking.

“Now wait a minute,” he protested. “I can see you trying to fit killing the boyfriend into your busy schedule—between bodyguarding me and grocery shopping and single-handedly cracking every safe on the block—and you’ve got to forget it. If you killed everybody you thought deserved it, you’d never be done.”

“Don’t you think someone who stabs a little boy five times deserves to be removed from the planet?”

“I think it’s not our call.”

She snorted, such an incongruous sound with her delicate exterior that he nearly laughed out loud. “Spoken like a true sheep.”

He grated cheese irritably. “What, because I don’t go around like Vince the Vigilante, I’m a sheep?”

“No,” she said patiently, “you’re a sheep because you don’t right wrongs.”

He slammed the bowl on the counter and leaned across it, until his face was two inches from hers. “I had that child’s blood up to my elbows,” he said evenly. “Don’t tell me I don’t right wrongs.” He leaned back, forcing his temper down. “And how’d you know about the kid, anyway? I didn’t see you in the ER all night.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t be sorry, just use the
door
once in a while so I can see you coming and going.”

She didn’t smile, just looked at him with serious eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes,” he said, whittling away at a shallot until it was a delicate pile of white and purple shavings. “I know and I accept with thanks. For the record, I run into plenty of people whose lungs I’d like to remove without benefit of anesthesia. But if I concentrated on that, I couldn’t do my job. Saving lives is more important to me than avenging them.”

She shifted on her stool, causing the white T-shirt she wore to mold to her breasts for a moment. He looked away before he accidentally cut off his thumb. “That sounds nice. You’re great at your job, I could tell. The nurses,” she added dryly, “seem especially impressed with your … hands.”

He waved the knife at her. “Go on,” he said modestly.

“It’s true.”

“I said go on. Do they talk about how tall I am, how handsome, how smart, how I’m the most fascinating man they’ve ever known, the finest doctor, the best volleyball player?”

“They talk about how it’s been a while since you were caught in the meds closet with one of the orthopedic surgeons.”

He winced. “One time! It was only one time. I was young.”

“It was last year.”

“I’ve grown decades since then in wisdom. What else do you want in your omelet?”

“Whatever you’re having. Don’t change the subject. Are you still seeing her?”

“God, no.” He poured two large glasses of milk. “She used me to get even with her fiancé. A ten-minute grope in the closet and she was off to confess her infidelity and demand he start paying attention to her, uh, needs.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me,” he said gloomily, sliding the raw egg mixture into the pan. “And somehow I ended up with this ridiculous stud reputation. Most of the women who come on to me are looking for a no-commitment quickie and the ones I’d like to get to know think I’m a pig and won’t have anything to do with me.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, and he jerked his head up at her tone. She hadn’t sounded sympathetic. She’d sounded almost … pleased?

“It’s what I deserve,” he sighed, “for giving in to her womanly wiles.”

“What about your wiles? More milk, please,” she added when he opened the fridge to put the carton away.

“I am wile-less. And you never answered my question—how’d you know about the boy? And the orthopedic surgeon, for that matter,” he added under his breath.

“It’s an inner-city emergency room,” she pointed out, looking on with interest as he slid a perfect
omelet onto her plate. “I could walk in on my hands and the only one to notice would be the triage nurse and the only thing
she’d
want to know was my insurance number.”

“Can you?” he asked, beginning to cook his own omelet.

“What?” she asked with her mouth full.

“Walk on your hands?”

She swallowed, dabbed her lips—full and pouty, his mind reported uselessly—grinned at him, then arched backward on her stool. In a moment her head and torso had disappeared and he could see her legs receding as she carefully walked away from him on her hands.

He applauded. She came back to her feet, slightly flushed and looking pleased, and took her seat, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “You’re amazing,” he said admiringly. “You can do everything.”

“You wouldn’t like me if you really knew me,” she said, then pressed her lips together so hard they went white. He had the feeling she wasn’t in the habit of making candid comments to near strangers.

“What’s not to like?” he said, trying to sound casual, to cover up the bald truth in his question.

She shook her head at him and finished her omelet in silence. “Wonderful,” she said, pushing the empty plate away. “The best breakfast I ever had. Where did you learn to cook?”

“My dad was a chef.”

“Was?”

“He and my mom retired and moved to North Carolina. Now they golf and wear ugly clothes and make fun of the tourists. It’s a shameful thing, I’ve been searching for a cure for them. Where are your folks?” He rinsed the plates in silence, sure she wouldn’t answer him.

“Dead,” she said finally. “They died when I was just a kid. I went to a foster family the week after they died, and when my foster mother broke my arm I ran away.”

“Jesus.” He crossed the room, wanting to take her into his arms, not sure how to bridge the sudden gulf between them. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s no big deal,” she said quickly. “It’s not like I remember my parents. You don’t miss what you never had.”

“Wrong, gorgeous. That’s the stuff you miss most of all.” And carefully, so carefully, he put his arms around her and drew her close.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring at his mouth.

“Want to bet?”

Her mouth was a dream, the nicest dream he’d ever had, all sweet lips and lush softness. She pressed against him and he felt her breasts flatten slightly against his chest, felt her arms come around him, felt her mouth bloom beneath his. She sighed into his mouth and he shuddered, balling his hands into fists so he wouldn’t tear off her clothes and take her on the kitchen tile, which hadn’t been mopped since he was a med student. He heard her make a sound, some sound, a cross
between a growl and a whimper, and heard himself groan in response. Then she came to herself—or perhaps came away from herself, back to the cool exterior she liked to show the world—and stiffened, took her arms away and pushed him back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not very, but not interested in gaining a black eye either, “but you’re so beautiful and—and good, I can’t resist you.”

She looked startled, then sad. “I’m not good. I’m bad. You should keep it in mind, Jared.” She touched her mouth, then looked at him with something like wonder.

“Anybody who has Carlotti for an enemy—who would protect a stranger from her enemy—isn’t bad.”

“I’ve done … terrible things. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he urged softly. He took a step toward her and she skittered back, nearly tripping over the stool to keep away from him. He was struck once again by the combination of power and vulnerability. She could snap his spine like a bread-stick, he was sure. And yet, she was afraid of his touch. “Or not,” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve done terrible things, too. In med school one time, I brought my cadaver to breakfast at the local Denny’s. Man,” he said nostalgically, “the food inspector sure got pissed. On the bright side, my cadaver was a cheap date.”

She giggled, then choked off the sound and looked at him severely. “No more of that,” she said.
“I’m here to keep you safe for a few days, not to play wifey.”

“Don’t
play
wifey,” he said promptly, “marry me.”

“Ha, ha.”

He decided not to mention the fact that he wasn’t kidding. “So now what happens?” he asked.

G
ood question, Kara thought, once again stretched out on the couch. She had decided to look after Dr. Dean—
Jared
—for a very simple reason and her conscience had nothing to do with it. He had chased her not to hurt her or turn her in, but to ask if she was all right. That was when she realized Carlotti would come after him. That was why she was here.

Jared’s stunning good looks, great sense of humor, and outstanding dedication to helping others had nothing to do with it. There were plenty of good-looking men in the world. Gorgeous, dark-haired men with lightning smiles. With a sense of common decency that was as much a part of him as his white coat and stethoscope. Phenomenal at healing and cooking, stitching head gashes with the same hands that whipped up a perfectly fluffy omelet. Dr. Dean was nothing special. Not him.

That surgeon, she thought with disgust. The bimbo
who used him and dumped him. He was too good for someone that idiotic.

She slammed the pillow over her head, muffling a groan.
And if he’s too good for a surgeon,
she reminded herself savagely,
he’s a damn sight too good for you, silly bitch.

So the question remained—now what happened?

Sleep. Then lunch. He hadn’t wanted to go to bed; he’d wanted to keep talking to her. She first thought it might have been because he was interested in knowing her as a person, but that was too conceited to be considered for more than a moment. No, she was interesting to him, like a virus was interesting, if dangerous. He knew she could shake up his nice little life and so he was drawn to her, the way the new kids at juvie were drawn to the ones who graduated to robbery and murder.

So he’d kept after her, talking to her and asking questions and telling her about himself, and when she reminded him he hadn’t slept in twenty hours, he had looked stubborn and shrugged and asked her what her earliest memory was, because his was of his dad chopping onions while onion-tears streamed down his face and ever since then he’d felt kind of funny about onions, they were “the meanest vegetable.” Tomatoes were the nicest, so round and sweet and juicy, they were—

She interrupted him, he argued, they bargained. He agreed to sleep for a few hours if she would let him take her to lunch when he woke. To which she agreed, looking forward to the lunch and mad at herself for looking forward to it.

He had given her a longing look over his shoulder as he trudged to his solitary bed, and she’d been ridiculously tempted to follow him and undress him and find out if he was as good at other things as he was at kissing.

But that was madness, pure and simple, and she wasn’t about to open herself up to a citizen, someone who didn’t know the first thing about survival or what she had been through. Someone who would be shocked and horrified at what she did. Someone who would wait around long enough for her to love him, then abandon her once she depended on him.

Dr. Jared Dean was the best kisser in the world. And she didn’t intend to find out anything beyond that.

It was no use. He couldn’t sleep. He pulled his pillow from beneath his head and punched it. It was too hot—
he
was too hot—and Kara was too close.

The more he tried to ignore the fact that The Delectable One was sleeping just a few feet away, the randier he got. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t his bodyguard be dull and ugly? Uncomplicated and bow-legged?

It’s just because you’re in a dry spell,
he told himself.
When was the last time you got horizontal with anybody? The last time you got some nooky, they were still debating whether Gore or Bush had won the election. Right? So just … put her out of your mind.

Right. Sure. Piece of cake. Ha!

As if in response to his frustration, his door creaked open with ominous slowness. Jared clutched the blanket beneath his chin and stared at the large, menacing silhouette framed in the doorway. He was a fan of horror movies, so he knew he was about to be stalked, chased, then cut in half with a table saw, only to be saved at the last minute so he could appear in the sequel. A
bad
sequel.

“Leave me alone,” he said to the approaching silhouette. “Go find Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

The silhouette stopped short of his bed. His curtains were wide open, and as the moon came out from behind the clouds he saw it was Kara. Her silhouette was menacingly huge because she was wearing an armadillo suit.