The Trouble with Temptation (4 page)

As Howard Briscoe turned to look at him, his eyes intense over the steaming cup of coffee, Brannon played dumb.

“Answer to what?”

Briscoe snorted and blew on his coffee. “Don’t waste our time, Brannon. I know Griffin and you tried to kill each other the night after Hannah was brought in. He practically spits on the floor when your name is mentioned now. It doesn’t take much to figure out why you’re hovering at her side non-stop either. You know she’s pregnant.” He paused and added, “I
do
know you’re aware of that fact. This isn’t violating patient confidentiality. It’s just…” He cocked his head. “Make this easy on me and tell me what you know I already know. I’m skating the line as it is.”

Brannon didn’t know why it mattered, but it seemed to. Dr. Briscoe was a damn good doctor and straight as an arrow, so if he was skating a thin line, there was a reason. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he jerked his head in a nod. “Yeah. It’s … the baby is mine.”

Briscoe tugged off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Brannon didn’t think he was imagining the troubled expression in the doctor’s eyes. “What’s going on, Doc?” he asked softly.

But the older man shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not my place to say.” He hesitated and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a phone. Brannon stood there as he punched in a number, stood there as he spoke quietly—to his office, it sounded like. Then he gestured to Brannon. “Come on. I need to speak with Hannah. You’ll have to wait in the hall a moment. You’ll … understand why in a moment.”

*   *   *

Hannah stared outside.

Fat, shiny green leaves blocked her view of the sky.

They were magnolia leaves.

She knew that.

She also knew she loved magnolia trees and strawberries. She knew she hated raspberries and she knew her mother was dead.

She could remember the son of a bitch who had been her stepfather and knew he’d died—choking on a mouthful of BBQ ribs as he had a massive heart attack, but he hadn’t suffered badly enough considering the hell he’d put her mother through.

She also had a shameful secret, because she’d been there at the time.

She could remember standing over him, frozen—not out of fear, but because as he struggled to breathe, she kept seeing the way he’d closed his fat fingers over his mother’s neck. Hannah had seen how her mother had struggled for air, time after time after time.

It was odd how she could remember all of those things
and
the fact that she knew that she could have saved her stepfather. She had the knowledge. But she had done nothing. Not for the longest time. She’d just … frozen as she remembered how he’d used those big, meaty hands to hurt her mom and she couldn’t move.

When she’d finally forced herself to
do
something, it had been too late.

She could remember all of that.

But she couldn’t remember where she lived. She couldn’t remember what she did for a living.

She knew her name was Hannah—they’d told her. But she couldn’t
remember
it.

She couldn’t remember if she had a car, she couldn’t remember what she’d been doing the night of the wreck—they had told her about that. She didn’t remember, although she could sure as hell believe it, because her body
hurt
.

It was like her memory was a giant piece of Swiss cheese and there were entire chunks there—and entire chunks that
weren’t
there.

One piece that was there … the man.

The red-haired, sexy, god-like creature who’d stood in the door, staring at her as though the entire world had revolved around him seeing her.

To her, it had felt like her heart had been waiting for just that moment to start beating again. Like it had been waiting for
him
. Like she’d had to see him before she could really function.

Brannon.

His name was Brannon.

But she didn’t know how she knew that and she didn’t know how she knew him.

The door swung open and she turned her head. That simple movement exhausted her, but when she saw who it was, she forced herself to roll over onto her side—facing
away
from the door.

It was the doctor.

She was fed up with doctors and she knew she wasn’t even close to done with them.

“Hannah.”

“What?” she asked wearily.

Dr. Briscoe chuckled wryly. “You sound like you’re tired of me already, Hannah.”

She flushed. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“No, it’s alright. Trust me, I understand. Very few people get as fed up with doctors as those in the medical profession, I assure you.” He sat down on the chair near the bed and braced his elbows on his knees. As he leaned forward, he pressed the tips of his fingers together. He had a pensive look on his face, as though he was giving something a great deal of thought.

“I…” She frowned. “In the medical profession. Does that mean—?”

She stopped abruptly, going to lift her hands to her face, but she stopped. An image—a
memory
—superimposed over the hands she found herself staring at. Her own hands, wearing a pair of blood-streaked gloves, while the man next to her patted her shoulder.
Hannah, there was nothing you or J.C. could have done. Nothing anybody could have done …

“I know you,” she said quietly. “We—do we work together?”

“In a manner of speaking. What are you remembering?”

Looking up at him, she shook her head. “I’m not sure. Blood on my hands—no. There were gloves. A uniform. I wore a uniform. A stethoscope.” She blinked and a piece fell into place. “I drive an ambulance.”

“Indeed.” He patted her shoulder again, a gentle smile on his long, bony face. It matched his long, bony hands. He had the face of a thinker. A serious thinker.

Hannah abruptly realized he had things he needed to tell her.

“What is it?” she asked warily.

He cocked his head.

“What do you mean?”

“You have this look—like you need to tell me something.” She sat up and gingerly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The nurse and she had fought it out for twenty minutes. They insisted she have the bed rail up because she was considered a patient at high risk for falling. Hannah had said she’d keep her ass in bed, but she didn’t want the damn bedrail up.

In the end, she’d let them put it up but as soon as they’d left, she’d exhausted herself by lowering it. It had taken forever and for a few minutes there, she’d thought she might end up taking a header out of the bed, but she wasn’t going to be penned up like a child.

She’d lost half of her memories—not her brain entirely.

“It would seem you haven’t lost your perception, Hannah.” Dr. Briscoe continued to watch her. “I do indeed need to tell you something. I’ve already talked with several other members of the team, but … well.” He grimaced. “We’re a small staff. We are an excellent hospital, but the bottom line is, we don’t tend to handle patients with head trauma like yours. We were going to discuss transferring you out to Baton Rouge if you didn’t show improvement within another week.”

Nerves started to twitch and jump inside like she had crickets dancing around in her belly.

“Since I’m not still in a coma, I don’t see what the issue is.”

Briscoe pursed his lips. “There is another concern. The other physicians decided it would be best if I was the one to tell you.”

“Oh, shit.” The bottom of her stomach dropped out. “I’m dying, aren’t I? Is it a tumor? Do I have some sort of slow brain bleed?”

For a moment, Dr. Briscoe just started at her and then he just shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. “No, no, no … it’s nothing like that, Hannah.”

Abruptly, he stood up and came over, sitting on the foot of the bed next to her. “You know, if your nurse sees that you’ve got that railing down—and if she knows that I’m leaving it down—she’ll have both our hides.”

Hannah’s stomach pitched and rolled. It had been doing that a lot today. They’d come in to talk to her about a dietary plan and she knew she needed to eat, had thought maybe she was hungry, but the later it got, the more nauseated she became.

“Would you please just tell me whatever it is, Dr. Briscoe? I already feel like I’m going to get sick.”

His features softened. “Hannah … don’t look so terrified. You’re not sick, I promise you.”

“Then what is it?” she half-shouted.

“You’re…” He paused and then finally, he said, voice flat, “Hannah, you’re pregnant.”

*   *   *

Dr. Briscoe quietly closed the door behind him.

Brannan stood close to it, feeling more than a little lost.

Thirty minutes ago, he’d been willing to mow down the Mississippi National Guard to get to Hannah, and now he would have done anything to have just a few more minutes to level off and figure out just what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to do.

A nurse had helped her into the chair.

She was looking at her knees.

He stood there looking at her.

His hands felt all big and awkward and stupid—why the hell were they so big anyway? He glanced down at them and wondered if he should go over there and hug her. Or at least offer to hold her hand. Maybe brush her hair. He’d liked doing that.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me like I’m on exhibit?” she asked.

He swallowed.

She was still looking at her knees.

“I wasn’t…”

Now she lifted her head, pinning him with a level stare. Okay, Hannah was still in there. Maybe she didn’t remember him—or at least remember much about him—but everything that made Hannah who she was? All of that was still buried inside her. It made him feel a little better.

Since he still didn’t know what to do with his giant hands, he shoved them in his pockets and inched a little closer. Hesitancy, tentativeness were just not things he was familiar with so it made it that much more awkward for him to ease closer.
Like a bull in a china shop
pretty much summed up how he was feeling just then.

Hannah looked at him, her expression curious.

He opened his mouth, again, to say something.

But she beat him to it. “Were we dating?”

“What?” The question threw him even more off balance than he already felt.

“Dating. You know, romantically involved.” She eyed the distance between them and then shrugged. “You’re not exactly … acting like we’re involved.”

Blood rushed to his face and he finally gave into the urge he’d been fighting and moved closer. Snagging a chair, he swung it around and sat as close as he could. He’d pull her onto his lap, cradle her close if he thought she’d let him. But she had her guard up. “We’re involved,” he said gruffly as he reached out and touched her knee. He didn’t even see it as a lie, because they were—she was carrying his baby, they’d had sex—the best damn sex he’d ever had and she had feelings for him.
Yeah, like it’s one-sided,
his conscience jeered.

It wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t and for him to realize it while she lay in a coma was a kick in the balls. Now as he tried to figure out what to do and where to go, she sat there staring at him with so much apprehension in her gaze. Apprehension, he realized, that she was probably picking up from him.

You’re not exactly acting like we’re involved.

No, he wasn’t. He knew why, too. He was scared shitless and Brannon didn’t handle that well. This wasn’t the time for soul-searching, though.

If he searched his soul, he’d just find her anyway.

There was doubt in her eyes and it dug holes into him. Chances were, some part of her even remembered something. Maybe not the fight, but the hurt, because he knew he had hurt her. The memory of pain was one of those things that lingered long after the actual wound was gone. Even emotional wounds—or maybe most
especially
emotional wounds.

He took her hand, slowly, waiting to see what she’d do. She didn’t do anything. She neither gripped his nor tried to take hers away. “We had a fight, Hannah.” Clearing his throat, he forced himself to speak, staying as close to the truth as he could without saying what had driven her to push him away.

He had to fix that—all of that.

“You were angry at me.” With a jerky shrug, he looked away. “We’ve…”

He sucked in a breath and then said, “We’ve just recently gotten involved. Then we had the fight. You were angry. I left. Neither of us knew about the…” His eyes fell to her belly. There was no sign of the life that lay hidden deep inside her, but he wanted to go to his knees and press his mouth to the soft swell, promise that he’d take care of her, and the baby. “We didn’t know.”

Hannah’s face flushed. “How did you find out then?” Her brows drew down low over her eyes. “The doctor shouldn’t have told you—that violates my right to confidentiality.”

“He didn’t.” Brannon looked away. “Somebody else … let it slip.”

“How did you feel?” The analytical, probing question hade him uncomfortable and he realized he hadn’t taken much time to
think
about how he felt, knowing about the baby.

He stroked his thumb across the inside of her wrist, lifted it to his lips. Then he let her hand go, watching as she slowly drew away, fingers curling up into a fist.

“How did I…” Rising, he moved over to the window and looked out over the streets of Treasure.

“I don’t know.” He thought of a hundred little lies he could have said that would have sounded
better
than that.
I don’t know
. “At first, I just didn’t know what to think. It was like I’d been punched in the head. Now I…”

He turned and looked at her, his gaze sliding down to her belly. “I can’t describe how I feel. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that kind of fear, that kind of nerves, that kind of excitement.…”

“Kind of like how I’m feeling,” she whispered, her voice weak.

Kneeling in front of her, he palmed her cheek. “There are a hundred kinds of fear, Hannah. This one … well, I wouldn’t give it up.”

*   *   *

She searched his face. She thought of the way he’d looked, standing by the window, driving a hand through his hair. The sight had sparked something in her mind, a series of flashes, scraps of memory, really, as he did that same motion, long fingers plowing through his dark red hair.