Face to Face (15 page)

Drake arched an eyebrow, backing her up until she was against the table. "What are we going to do about that?" He licked the condensation the ice cube left in its wake.

Cassie carefully set the glass on the table out of reach. "First one to beg loses," she said, teasing him with the ice cube against his lips.

He grinned, nipping at her fingers as he sucked on the frozen water. "Deal." He moved his mouth to her top button, his tongue flicking her sweaty skin. She in turn reached around and rubbed the ice cube down his spine, her fingers slipping below his waistband to the sensitive spot at the small of his back.

"Only one rule," she whispered as his teeth clamped down on the small button, ready to yank it from her dress. He glanced up at that; they both knew rules weren't her forte. "You tear any buttons, you sew them back on."

Drake straightened, his hands sliding down to her hips. "No fair. There must be a hundred of them," he protested, his palms heating her skin through the thin fabric of the dress.

She wasn't swayed by his argument. Instead her grin widened. "Maybe even a hundred and one." 

"So we'll leave the clothes on," he told her, sliding the ice cube from her fingers before it could wreck his resolve. "I remember a certain lap dance you gave me once," he murmured as he slid the ice cube down her cleavage, his lips close behind. She shivered beneath his touch. "I've been wanting to pay you back for that." 

His fingers moved the ice cube over one of her breasts, holding it there as her nipple swelled. Then he clamped his mouth over both the ice and her flesh, teasing her through the fabric of her dress, his tongue directing the ice in its movement.

She writhed beneath him, her fingers clamping around his biceps with a bruising grip. Relentless, he slid the ice cube down her body until it rested just beneath her belly button. His hand held it there, her dress staining with the melting water, as he nudged her hips up onto the table. He spread her knees apart and leaned forward until his pelvis and hers rubbed together, separated only by several thin layers of fabric.

Then he moved his hand down even lower.

In the end it was Cassie who had ripped the dress open, buttons showering them from every direction. 

Drake took his victory drink and tortured her with it. He squeezed drops of lemon over her lips and chin, his tongue dancing over her skin, tasting the refreshing tartness. He sipped lemonade from the notch above her sternum, slurped it from her belly button, sucked it from her breasts, all the while using his fingers to bring her to climax after climax. 

Afterwards, Cassie remembered sitting naked, sewing buttons back on her dress, all thirty-six minus two lost forever, while he sketched her. The perfect summer day.

Now Cassie bounded down the steps from Drake's apartment, the memory of that lazy Sunday warming her. She lowered her head and sniffed at the fabric of her dress, disappointed to smell only laundry detergent. No hint of lemons or heat or passion. But still, every time the cloth caressed her skin, she felt Drake's hands. As if he was there with her, protecting her, helping her get through this ordeal.

Even if he wasn't.

Reality hit her as she punched the alarm code into the new system. That was the nice thing about fantasies. They wouldn't let you down like real people so often did.

It wasn't Drake's fault. He didn't even know she had the deposition today. Or what was going on with Mary's case.

Because he hadn't given her the chance to tell him. If he really did love her like he said he did, he'd be here when she needed him. Good thing she didn't need him, Cassie told herself as she stepped into the parking lot. Good thing she wasn't in love with him.

 Just a bad case of hormones run amuck. That's all her and Drake were. And hormones she could handle.

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Drake hauled his bag out to the Mustang, still confused by his discussion with his mother. Could he ask Hart? It was the worst time possible.

Yet images of her face laughing, beaming, hell, even crying tears of joy in answer to his proposal filled his mind. Irresistible future gems of emotion he yearned to experience in real life.

He was so engrossed in fantasy he didn't hear Muriel call his name until she stood right beside him. "Remy."

"Sorry, Mom. What did you say?"

"I said be careful." She hugged him tight, so tight he lost his breath, surprised such a small person could squeeze so hard. Then she broke away, wiping her eyes with her knuckles. 

"And take this." She thrust a tiny black velvet box at him. One side was worn down to gray cardboard. "Your father used to rub it like a good luck charm. Took him three months of carrying it around before he worked up the courage to ask."

He opened the lid. Her sapphire engagement ring sparked in the morning sun.

She laid her hand on his and squeezed the lid shut again. "Don't you make Hart wait that long. She's not one to wait, Remy. You ask her."

"When? How?" Surely not while he was being stalked by some psycho-nut who wanted him dead.

"You'll know when the time is right." He must have looked worried because she reached her fingers to his brow, soothing it just like when he was a little boy. Only now she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. "You'll know." She kissed his cheek and returned to the house.

Drake slid the tiny box into his pocket. It felt warm, solid. Just like Hart. He drove away, his mind buzzing with possibilities, Hart at the center of them all.

He couldn't resist calling her. Her cell went to voice mail, so he tried her house, then his. To his surprise a man answered.

Spanos.

"Where's Hart?"

"Still in bed," Spanos replied. "You know how horny she gets in the morning. The way she came, over and over—"

"Fuck off, Spanos. What the hell are you doing there?"

"Cassie asked me to spend the night. Showed me all those fruity paintings you do—no wonder she needed a real man. Oh, she's calling me back to bed, gotta go."

The buzz of a broken connection filled the car. Drake swore, his chest constricting with anger. No way Hart let a Neanderthal like Spanos touch her. 

But the testosterone fueled fool who lived inside Drake's mind whispered in opposition, remembering the way she'd smiled at Spanos yesterday morning, the way his own body had responded to Monica Burns' blatant advances.

No. Hart wasn't like that. Wasn't like him.

Or was she? 

Why the hell was Spanos in Drake's apartment?

He tried Hart's cell again. No answer. Just as he was getting ready to try her home, a call came into his phone. Not Hart. Jimmy.

"What the hell's going on?" Drake snarled at his partner. "I just called my place and Spanos answered. Is Hart okay?"

"Is she with him?" 

Drake's fury checked itself at Jimmy's worried tone. "He said she was. I didn't talk to her. Why?"

"Just got off the phone from a guy I know on the Gang Unit. Both the Rippers and Gangstas are gunning for Hart and some girl she saved yesterday. She needs to stay off the streets."

"Why the hell—" Without waiting for an answer, Drake pushed the accelerator, glad the back roads he'd taken were empty. "I'm two hours out. Can you get to her?"

"Spanos will keep her safe. I'm more concerned about the girl she helped, Athena Jackson."

"Why?"

"Turns out she's the chief suspect in a homicide. Head of the Gangstas, Rodney Hunsacker, gunned down two weeks ago. If we don't find her fast, there's going be war breaking out between the Rippers and the Gangstas."

"Why are the Rippers after her? Seems like they'd be pretty happy she did their work for them."

"Apparently she and Rodney were going to run away together. He convinced her to steal the Rippers' bankroll but then dumped her."

"So she killed him and kept the money." Stupid girl. Did she really think she could outfox two of the most vicious gangs in Pittsburgh ? "Call Spanos. Tell him to keep Hart at my place. I'm on my way."

He hung up and concentrated on the twisting mountain road. He'd left her. She was in danger and he'd abandoned her. Maybe that was why she'd asked Spanos for help. 

The thought of the ex-cop alone all night with Hart twisted in his gut. He shifted his weight, the ring box in his pocket digging into his thigh, and forced the Mustang to go faster.

CHAPTER 17

Juliet Nguyen, the Liberty Center lawyer who represented Cassie in her malpractice case, was waiting in the King, King, and Ulrich law offices. Despite being a weekend, secretaries bustled about pushing carts laden with documents, associates huddled over computers or talked on phones, the hum of a copy machine filled the air.

"Thanks for coming, Juliet." Cassie shook the attorney's hand. She felt a little naked. The other woman wore a formal suit and carried both a large purse as well as an official appearing attaché case. 

Cassie had nothing but her car keys. She'd left her cell in the car, as usual. Bad enough carrying a trauma radio inside the ER. She hated being tethered to a device when she was outside the hospital.

Of course, if Richard's malpractice suit went the wrong way, she might never see the inside of an ER again. At least not as a physician.

Before Juliet could answer, the large oak doors to the conference room opened. Alan King stood there, smiling in greeting as if they were overdue guests at a cocktail party. "Ladies, come inside, come inside."

The conference table was an immense slab of mahogany surrounded by elegant leather chairs. No glass or chrome. The entire room had an old world sense of grandeur with framed original oils and sculptures standing guard in the corners. At one end of the room a videographer set up his camera and recording equipment beside a court stenographer who already held her dictation cup to her face.

Alan guided Cassie to a seat at the end of the table. Juliet took the chair beside her. Before Alan sat down, six associates filed in and piled documents on the table top, then each took their seats. Alan remained standing, smiling over the proceedings in his elegant suit with its crisp linen shirt and red silk tie.

Cassie was a little surprised Richard wasn't here to watch her suffer through Alan's interrogation. Lately he acted as if he thought they might reconcile. Strange coming from the man who was simultaneously working to destroy her, accusing her of trying to kill him. But Cassie had long ago given up trying to understand either of the King brothers or their narcissistic actions.

Alan remained silent as his associates walked Cassie through the name, rank, and serial number of her CV, outlining her education and training. The junior lawyers fired their questions in random order. Cassie's gaze ping-ponged back and forth across the table as she braced herself against the next barrage.

"Tell us about the night you poisoned Dr. Richard King," one of the associates sang out, so fast Cassie wasn't sure which one. Although they all looked different: two women, four men of varying ethnicities, their voices were eerily similar, same tone, same volume, same quick-fire cadence.

"I didn't—" 

Juliet silenced Cassie with a quick shake of her head. Objection." Juliet made a note.

Another attorney picked up the line of questioning. "You gave him a cup of coffee laced with fentephex, a deadly drug, didn't you?"

"It was meant for me." She'd come close to exposing the man behind several deaths at Three Rivers and he'd poisoned her coffee in an attempt to silence her forever.

"He took the cup from your hand. Your fingerprints as well as Dr. King's were found on it." 

"It was my cup. Of course my prints were on it. But I'm not the one who put the fentephex in the cup." As they well knew. The police had their man; the case was closed.

"What are the effects of an overdose of fentephex, Dr. Hart?"

Finally something she didn't have to think twice about answering. "High fever, malignant hypertension, seizures, coma, larynospasm, muscle rigidity, rhabdomyolysis, cardiac failure, and cerebral edema."

"And you've seen people die from fentephex overdoses?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"It's an agonizing death, isn't it, Doctor?"

"Yes. It's very difficult to treat. We had little to offer patients until I tried an experimental protocol using a pentobarbital coma."

"Patients suffer massive seizures, often resulting in a lack of oxygen, correct?"

"Yes."

"How long can a person go without oxygen before they suffer permanent damage?"

Cassie hesitated. "It depends. There are so many variables."

"Give us an average. Common medical thinking."

"Again, it's difficult to pinpoint." She opened her mouth to start to hazard a guess but Juliet kicked her below the table and Cassie shut up.

"Very well. Let's look at a specific patient. Dr. King. How long after he drank from your coffee cup, ingesting a massive overdose of fentephex, was he deprived of oxygen?"

"We were alone in my office and I had no resuscitation equipment," Cassie stammered. It wasn't the answer she'd rehearsed with Juliet, but right now all she could do was re-live the scene as it played out in her mind. As soon as Richard collapsed, she'd realized it was from fentephex. Although at the time she thought he'd taken it himself. He'd just gotten back from rehab and she'd been suspicious he was abusing drugs. Again.

"How long before you called for help?" This time the question came from Alan King. His voice filled the room even though he didn't raise it. Everyone else went quiet. "How long did you let him lie there, dying, convulsing, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog before you did something to save the man who loved you?"

"Objection," Juliet snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. 

Cassie ground her fingers against the tabletop, trying to keep a hold on her emotions. Guilt flooded through her. She remembered Richard's face, gasping for air but finding none. Remembered standing over him. 

Remembered thinking he deserved it. That she would be safe with him dead.

It was only a second—no longer than a heartbeat. But for that single moment, she wanted him dead. She'd forgotten she was a doctor and remembered only the pain he caused her. And she hesitated. A second. One second.