Necessary Secrets. Barbara Phinney
“Warrant Officer Mitchell gave her statement that night, sir, and has already repatriated back to Canada.”
Jon had frowned. “When?”
“The day after the memorial service, actually.”
“Would it be possible to talk to her?”
“Mr. Cahill, I’m not at liberty to say any more—”
The line had gone dead, and Jon wagered it wasn’t because of a bad connection. Not at liberty to say. The commander had been watching too many media interviews on TV.
Why had Rick’s supervisor been shipped back so soon? She sure as hell got out of Dodge pretty damn quick. And why couldn’t they find their own supply truck? Intuition burned hot inside of him.
Now the military would get a lesson in how good the police were with investigations. Finding Warrant Officer Sylvie Mitchell had been a breeze.
Jon focused on the woman lying in front of him, intuition still itching his skin. Something was definitely being covered up.
And Sylvie Mitchell was his last chance to find out what that was. God help her if she clammed up, as well. He walked over to the bed and leaned slightly forward. “Feeling better?”
Her eyes flew open, shock and horror flaring in them. And fear, too?
Fear of what? Him?
His anger dropped away like an icy stone. He wasn’t here to scare the facts out of her. All he wanted was the truth about Rick, something he deserved above all else.
Sylvie Mitchell had better understand that.
Sylvie. The name conjured up the image of a sultry brunette with voluptuous curves and a come-hither smile.
This woman could only be the exact opposite. A blond, she had lean, toned, minimal curves, and no way would he ever expect a beckoning, erotic smile to crack her efficient, porcelain complexion.
“As soon as you started to wobble, I picked you up and carried you over here.”
She blinked around the room. “Where am I?”
He followed her gaze. Judging from the posters and the odd-looking pieces of monitoring equipment, he realized this place must be a birthing room of some kind. “In the maternity ward attached to the medical center, I presume. I haven’t got a lot of experience in this area.” Not wanting to dwell on that fact, he turned back to her. “How do you feel?”
Sylvie inhaled and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the examination table. “Better. Thank you.”
He shoved out his hand to stop her from rising off the bed. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, leaving plenty of exposed skin to touch.
Warm, dry skin. And softer under his fingertips than he’d expected from a soldier.
He yanked back his hand. “Just the same, wait for the doctor. There has to be some reason you fainted.”
She shot him a wary look. “I missed breakfast.”
Jon glanced at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. What time do you Albertans get up?”
“Early.” She looked the other way. “I run a ranch just outside of town, so I don’t sleep in.”
Jon was ready to shove her back onto the table, should she try to stand. But she didn’t. Rather, with a soft exhalation, she lay back down and shut her eyes.
That was it? Jon waited for more, for anything to stop him from staring at her lean form: her right knee bent; breasts that were still firm enough to curve upward; and a thin line of flat stomach that looked as though it needed warm, moist kisses—
He swung away from her. Hell, maybe he should leave. He’d acted on impulse coming here, and through all the hours traveling, he’d envisioned a different Sylvie Mitchell, a different set of answers and a much different reaction to her.
He shoved aside the attraction. No way would he leave. He was so close to finally hearing the truth he could taste it.
But Sylvie Mitchell looked so vulnerable lying there. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Um, do you want me to get you something to eat?”
“Do you want me to throw up on you?”
Her face was so deadpan Jon couldn’t help but smile. Yet the pitiful grin fell away quickly. Oh, cripes, it had been so long since he smiled it hurt his cheeks. “Not really.”
She said no more, only lay there, eyes shut again, totally ignoring him.
“Ms. Mitchell?”
She opened her eyes.
“You knew my brother, didn’t you?”
She blinked. “You don’t look like him.”
Annoyed that she didn’t answer his question directly, he worked his jaw. “He took after our mother. I favor our father.” Both of whom were dead, he wanted to add.
“Rick was so blond,” she added softly, studying his face with a tiny frown. “And you’re the exact opposite.” She raised her eyebrows. “You say you’re Rick’s brother, but frankly you don’t look like him. How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could be a reporter snooping out a story, for all I know.”
Was there a story to snoop out? he wanted to ask. Instead, and without a word, he yanked his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open onto the narrow area of examination table between them. She lifted her head to peer down at it.
He knew what it said. Jonathan Andrew Cahill. Toronto Police Services.
She slumped back on the bed. Oh, mercy. A police officer in search of the truth about his murdered brother.
Could it get any worse?
“You’re a cop?”
“Like our father, before a drug pusher ambushed him.”
Ambushed? Sylvie rubbed her arms, hoping the sudden goose bumps would disappear. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that telling Jon his only brother had died in nearly the same fashion wouldn’t be a good thing. Not while this man still carried a frustrated anger so big that she could practically see it roosting on his shoulder like a gargoyle.
“I’m sorry. I remember Rick telling me about him.”
“He was a good police officer. Then some bastard killed him. And two years later that bastard walked out of court a free man.”
What could she say? His bitter tone resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and bombarding her, over and over. A free man. When his father lay dead.
She silently prayed he’d suggest they meet someplace, at a future date….
Something she could prepare for—or maybe even avoid.
The man heaved a burdened sigh as he picked up his wallet to pocket it. “Look, to say the least, the military has been vague about Rick’s death. I have yet to receive anything in writing. I spoke to Rick’s—and your—commanding officer, and…” He paused, quite distinctly, too, leaving the impression he was tailoring his words carefully. “…all he said was Rick was on a detail with you. Delivering rations to an outpost. The accident occurred in the mountains. Right?”
She studied the ceiling. Delivering rations to an outpost that didn’t exist. Driving around the wrong mountain. “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him and focus on his words at the same time. “I’m sorry Rick died. He was a good soldier.”
Frustration surged inside of him. Damn it, that was it? A short apology for losing a good soldier? He hadn’t come halfway across the country to hear that trite compliment. He hadn’t been told by the chief of police to take all the time he needed to deal with Rick’s death—even if it took all summer—just to hear