Sleight of Hand (19 page)

Cassie shook her head and said nothing, setting the table and pouring a glass of Merlot for herself and a Yuengling Black and Tan for him.

"Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?" he said when the seafood stew was half eaten in silence.  "What do you need help with?"

"I think one of my patients might be in danger."

Drake looked up at that, his spoon halfway to his mouth.  "Really?"  She nodded, biting her lip, daring him to laugh.  He set his spoon down and turned his full attention on her.  "Tell me about it."

And she did.  About Charlie and the intraosseus and her confrontation with Virginia Ulrich and Sterling in the PICU.  About the grandfather, the Senator, who could ruin Drake and Ed Castro's plans for the free clinic, about the first son who'd died so close to the second one's birth.  About everything except Virginia's supposed affair with Richard–Drake hated anything to do with Richard and she wanted him to judge her case on its own merits.

"And she's seven months pregnant now," she finished with a rush.  He remained silent, took a long swallow of his beer.  Cassie bowed her head and concentrated on her food.  It did sound foolish when said out loud.  Then why wouldn't this gnawing in her gut go away?

She mopped up the remnants of the stew with a piece of corn bread.  Still he was silent.  Finally she looked up to see his eyes resting on her, watching her with curious attention.  As if he was judging her rather than the merits of her argument.  Cassie felt the color rise to her cheeks under the weight of his gaze.

"I'm not going crazy," she blurted out, breaking the silence.  "There have been cases like this one before.  It's a rare form of child abuse called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.  The perpetrator, usually the mother, sees her child's illness as a way of manipulating others, of getting attention or some other need satisfied."

He pushed back his chair and moved over to stand beside her.  Lowering his frame so that his face was level with hers, he placed a hand beneath her chin and raised her mouth to his.

The kiss took Cassie by surprise.  Its passion was quiet and intense, a smoldering heat that spread from him to her.

She circled her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, opened herself to him.  Forty-three days, she'd yearned for this.  

He lifted her to her feet, shoving the chair aside as their bodies met.  Cassie drank him in, savoring his taste–spicy sausage, barley and hops–and swallowed all her fears and doubts.  Who needed food, the giddy thought made her smile, this was all she needed.  

Her hands tugged at his shirt, sliding under the cotton to glide over his sweat slicked skin.  He'd lost weight.  His muscles, always strong and firm, now felt chiseled, in sharp relief.  Her fingers danced over his back, reading the changes in his body.  Then they came to the heaped-up scar under his right arm.  

The exit wound from a thirty-eight caliber bullet.  She knew because she was the one who'd patched the sucking chest wound.

Drake froze at her touch.  Cassie immediately withdrew her fingers from the scar.  Too late.  He was gone.  He gently disengaged himself from her, and she felt as if she'd lost something precious.  

Give him time, Adeena had counseled.  How much did he need?  Or maybe what he really needed was distance–distance far away from her?

Cassie hung her head, refusing to say anything for fear she'd pour forth her doubts and worries and speaking them aloud might crystallize them into a terrible reality.  

He moved his hands from her face down to her shoulders, but his touch was now that of a neutral observer, there was no heat in it.

"Tell me more about this Munchausen's by Proxy."  His voice came from light-years away.  He slipped his hands from her body and began to gather the dishes, taking them into the kitchen.

She swallowed her anger, although it burned her to do so.   Why wouldn't he accept what she wanted to give to him?

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Drake rinsed the dishes with a clatter.  God, he couldn't resist her–not when she practically glowed with passion.  But passion could burn.  He'd learned that the hard way two months ago.  Hart might be immune to its effects.  He knew from painful experience that he wasn't.  And he wasn't certain he could live through the fire twice.  

The churning in his gut, clammy palms, heart pounding hard enough to jump through his skin–feelings that brought with them the overwhelming memory of that night six weeks ago.  He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to collect his wits once more. 

They had to find another way.  For his sanity if not hers.  A middle ground, safer ground.

He left the dishes and rejoined her at the table, keeping a safe distance.  "I've heard about the woman in New York who smothered her babies but they called it Sudden Infant Death."

"And there was a woman in Philadelphia, and another in California who poisoned her children with salt and baking soda.  I found one article written by a survivor as an adult.  She described her mother repeatedly breaking the same bone with a hammer.  The mother told the child it was therapy."

"We both know there are sick people out there," he acknowledged, thinking of his day spent with families tormented by a predator with a taste for children's blood.  What a world the two of them lived in.  

For a moment he imagined leaving all thoughts of dead children behind, escaping with Hart to the bedroom, locking the door and burrowing into the warm comfort of her arms.  

No, he had a job to do, so did she.  He regained his train of thought.  "Why are you so certain that Virginia Ulrich is one of these?  And if she is, would she dare to abuse the grandchild of a United States Senator?"

"Part of the compulsion is the need to outwit anyone who might discover the abuse–physicians, nurses, family members.  It reinforces the perpetrator's belief that they're superior to those around them.  As they manipulate everyone, they're creating their own little narcissistic paradise where they are not only the center of attention but also the only person in control."

"Isn't Munchausen very rare?  And haven't people been accused of it who were actually innocent?  Over in England, they're overturning hundreds of cases, saying doctors were overzealous in their attempts to find a reason for children dying."

"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.