In Graywolf's Hands. Marie Ferrarella
felt bad that she couldn’t share what had happened to her today with her mother, but she knew it would only have served to agitate and worry Louise. In the long run, she’d rather her mother had semipeace of mind by remaining in the dark than live with daily terrors—even if she could give her details, which she couldn’t.
Her mouth curved slightly as a question her mother had asked echoed in her brain.
Was she alone?
That would place her mother among the eternal optimists. Louise still nursed the hope that Lydia would be swept off her feet, marry and chuck this whole FBI special agent business.
Lucky for her, Louise hadn’t seen that surgeon tonight. There was no doubt in Lydia’s mind that her mother would have been all over Graywolf, plying him with questions, inviting him over for Sunday dinner. Louise Wakefield Evans was desperate for grandchildren and Lydia was the only one who could provide her with them. She’d had a brother, born first, but he had died before his first birthday, a victim of infant crib death syndrome. With no other siblings available, Lydia was the only one left to fulfill her mother’s hopes.
“Sorry, Mom,” Lydia murmured as she leaned forward to open up the faucet again.
The next moment, hot water flowed into the tub again, merging with the cooling liquid that was already there.
First chance she had, she was going to talk to Arthur about getting her mother a puppy. She knew her stepfather was sympathetic to her. A new puppy should occupy her mother, at least temporarily.
Closing her eyes, Lydia let her head fall back against the inflated pillow lodged against the back of the tub. An image of the surgeon materialized behind her lids.
Startled, she pried her eyes open.
What was she doing, thinking about him? She was supposed to be trying to make her mind a blank.
Maybe it was the medicine, making her woozy.
Lydia blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs. She decided that soaking in the tub might not be the smartest thing to do if she were truly sleepy. Death by Suds was not the way she wanted to go.
Lydia reached for a towel.
The rhythmic staccato of high heels meeting the freshly washed hospital floor had Lukas looking up from the chart he was writing on. Half a beat before he did, he knew it was her. He’d picked up on the cadence last night. Fast, no nonsense, no hesitancy. A woman with a mission.
Closing the chart, he replaced it on the nurse’s desk, still watching the woman approach. He wondered vaguely if Ms. Special Agent was focused like that all the time or if it was the job that brought it out. Did she know how to kick back after hours? Did she even have “after hours”?
Lukas had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t.
That made two of them.
Even after he’d gone home last night to catch a few hours of well-deserved sleep, he’d wound up calling the hospital to check on Jacob Lindstrom, the patient he’d operated on before Ms. Special Agent had thundered into his life.
Lukas’s eyes swept over her as she walked toward him. The woman was wearing another suit, a powder blue one; but this time she had on a skirt instead of pants. The skirt brushed against her thighs as she walked and gave him the opportunity to note that her legs were as near perfect as any he’d ever seen. Long, sleek, and just curved enough to trigger a man’s fantasies.
It made him wonder why Harrison hadn’t hit on her last night. Special agent or not, she looked to be right up his best friend’s alley.
But then, maybe Harrison had hit on her and she’d set him straight. That would have been a first. Lukas made a mental note to catch up with Harrison to ask for details when he got the chance. If there had been a conquest last night, something told him he would have known it. One way or another.
“You’re here bright and early,” he commented as she came up to him.
He didn’t look as tired, she observed. His sharp, blue eyes seemed to be taking in everything about her. She’d always thought that Native Americans had brown eyes. “So are you.”
Her mouth looked pouty when she said the word “you.” Something stirred within him, but he dismissed it. He’d been around Harrison too long. Maybe the other man’s ways had rubbed off on him. “I have patients to see.”
Lydia inclined her head, as if going him one better. “I have a prisoner to interrogate.”
And here, Lukas thought, was where they came to loggerheads. It hadn’t taken long. Less than a minute, by his estimate.
“Not until he’s up to it.”
“If he’s conscious, he’s up to it, Dr….” Lydia paused and, though she knew his name, made a show of looking at the badge that hung from a dark blue cord around his neck. Since the back of the badge faced her, she turned it around. “Graywolf.” Releasing the badge, she raised her eyes to his face. “This wasn’t some spur-of-the moment, impulsive act by a deranged man acting out some sick fantasy. This was a carefully planned act of terrorism. This man is part of a group that call themselves the New World Supremacists. I assure you, he wasn’t alone at the mall last night. I want to make sure his friends don’t go scurrying off to their garages to concoct some more pipe bombs to kill more innocent people. The only way I’m going to do that is to get names.”
He understood all that, but he was coming at this from another angle. He had to put the welfare of his patient first. “Ms. Wakefield—”
“That’s Special Agent Wakefield,” she corrected him. Taking out her wallet, she opened it for him. “It says so right here on my ID.”
Holding her wallet for a moment, Lukas looked at the photograph. She looked better in person. The photograph made her look too hard, too unforgiving. There was something in her eyes that told him that might not be the entire picture.
He dropped his hand to his side. “I always wondered about that. Is ‘special’ a title, like lieutenant colonel?” he deadpanned. “Are there any regular, nonspecial agents at the agency?”
“We’re all special,” she informed him, finding that she was gritting her teeth.
“In our own way,” he allowed magnanimously. “Even people accused of crimes.”
Not in her book. “Just why are you yanking my chain, Doctor?”
Because it was there, he realized. But he gave her a more reasonable answer.
“Maybe it’s because you insist on getting in my way. The man you shot almost died on the table last night. Twice. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t. Having you go at him like a representative of the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to help his recovery. I think it might be better if you hold off asking any questions.”
Not hardly. And she didn’t particularly like being told what to do. “I don’t give a damn about his recovery, Doctor. I just want him to live long enough to give me the names of his buddies.” She watched him shiver and then turn up the collar of his lab coat. It wasn’t particularly cold. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to protect myself from frostbite.” He slid his collar back into place. “You always come off this cold-blooded?”
She could almost literally feel her patience breaking in two.
“I happen to be a very warm person,” Lydia snapped, then realized how ridiculous that sounded coming in the form of a growl. A smile slowly emerged to replace her frown. “Ask anyone.”
It was amazing. He wouldn’t have thought that a simple smile could transform someone’s face so much. But it did. The woman in front of him seemed light-years removed from the one he’d just been talking to. This one looked younger, softer. Way softer.
“Maybe I will.”
He was being nice. So why did she feel so uneasy