the top of the table. “And please, call me Brett.”
All thoughts of him looking like an innocent little boy were instantly erased. His warm palm caused the oddest sensation to course through her, and his rich, smooth baritone was releasing a herd of butterflies in her less-than-stable stomach. She quickly snatched her hand away and placed it in her lap. The man deserved every bit of the playboy reputation reported in the society columns. Too bad he was wasting all that charm on her. Thanks to her ex-husband, Michael, she was totally immune to that kind of tactic.
“I told you I didn’t want wine,” she said. The fluttering in her stomach changed to a churning sensation, and her palms turned cold and clammy. “I think it’s time we set some ground rules, Mr. Connelly. I’m not interested in anything but the investigation of your brother’s attempted murder, so you can stop this right here and now.”
One dark brow rose in question as he stared at her. “What makes you think I’m trying to do anything but cooperate with your investigation, Elena?”
“Mr. Connelly—”
“Call me Brett.”
“You steamrolled me into having dinner with you.” She gathered her notepad and pen and jammed them into her shoulder bag. “You decided I could wait to interview you until Monday, then you even went so far as to decide that I’d have wine when I clearly stated that I didn’t want it. Do you see a pattern here, Mr. Connelly?”
“Not really,” he said, mesmerizing her with his guileless blue eyes and sexy-as-sin voice.
“I don’t like being told what to do,” she said, needing to put some distance between herself and Brett Connelly. She quickly rose to her feet, but the room swayed and she had to place her hand on the table to steady herself. “I’m used to being in control and calling the shots when I’m assigned to…an investigation.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, jumping to his feet. To his credit, he looked genuinely concerned.
“I’m…fine.” Elena closed her eyes in an effort to clear her vision. When she opened them again, Brett was standing at her side with his hand beneath her elbow. “It’s been a long trying day, at the end of an exhausting week, Mr. Connelly. I think I’ll skip dinner, catch a cab and go home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No, it isn’t necessary,” Elena said, trying desperately to fight the increasing dizziness. “Please, stay…and enjoy your…dinner.”
Brett studied her for several long moments. He wasn’t sure what the problem was, but he knew for certain Elena suffered from more than just a simple case of exhaustion. Her breathing had become shallow and labored, and her face had become a ghostly white.
“Mario,” Brett called, motioning for the maître d’. When the little man hurried over to them, Brett explained, “Ms. Delgado isn’t feeling well and we’ve decided not to have dinner after all.”
“Very well, Signore Connelly,” Mario said, shooting Elena a worried look as Brett held her coat. “I’m sorry the signorina has fallen ill. I hope she will be all right.”
Nodding, Brett took her by the elbow and started to guide her toward the door. But the moment she turned, her steps faltered and she stopped abruptly. She looked up at him, and he could see a mixture of fear and panic in her expressive brown eyes, and the desperation as she sagged against him.
“Please…help me…Brett,” she whispered, a moment before her lashes fluttered shut and she lost her battle with consciousness.
Without a second thought, he swung her up into his arms, cradled her to his chest and shouldered his way through the exit. Fortunately, he’d been able to park in front of Mario’s and it was only a few feet to his car.
He quickly placed her on the passenger seat of the Jag, fastened her seat belt, then trotted around the front of the car to slide into the driver’s seat. Jamming the key into the ignition, he shifted into first and shot from the parking space.
“Hang on, Elena,” he said, fighting an unfamiliar sense of panic as he wove his way around slower-moving vehicles. “I’ll have you in Memorial’s E.R. in less than two minutes.”
Two
Brett loosened his tie, jammed his hands into the front pockets of his suit pants and paced outside of the examining room at Memorial Hospital’s E.R. He was used to having women fall at his feet figuratively, but this was the first time it had ever happened literally. And the worst part of it was, he was to blame.
How could he have pulled such a stupid stunt? Elena had told him she didn’t want to go to dinner, that she’d had a bad day and just wanted to go home. But he couldn’t take no for an answer.
No, Brett Connelly, connoisseur of women, had taken her reluctance to spend time with him as provocation for turning on the charm—as if she was a challenge to be conquered. He’d noticed several times that she looked as if she wasn’t feeling well, but he’d ignored it. He’d even gone so far as to convince himself that a little wining and dining was just what Elena needed to improve her mood. How could he have been so insensitive, so damned stupid?
“Brett Connelly, you’re the last person I expected to see here,” a female voice called.
He looked up to find Meg O’Reilly walking toward him. Great. What else could go wrong this evening? Not only was he responsible for a woman collapsing at dinner, now his past was coming back to haunt him.
Brett hadn’t seen Meg in five years, not since the night the pretty blonde had told him she loved him and intended to marry him as soon as she finished medical school. It had only been a month after his twin brother, Drew’s, wife, Talia, had died and the devastation his brother suffered had been too fresh in Brett’s mind. As with most twins he’d felt Drew’s pain almost as if it was his own. Brett had made a vow never to put himself in the position to experience that degree of guilt, of failure.
So he’d taken Meg home that evening and kindly, but firmly, explained to her that he wasn’t the marrying kind. He’d tried to assure her that although there wasn’t any possibility of a long-term relationship, they could still see each other. But she’d taken exception to his honesty and ended up throwing a lamp at him as he’d made a hasty escape.
Now, spotting in her hand some clear plastic tubing used for IV feedings, he figured she’d probably use it to lynch him right in the hospital corridor.
“Hello, Meg,” he said cautiously. As a matter of habit, his gaze zeroed in on the ring finger of her left hand. Relief coursed through him at the sight of her shiny gold wedding band. “How have you been?”
She pointed to the M.D. after her name on the white lab coat she wore. “I finally made it through medical school.” She gave him a wry grin. “And I see you’re still checking out women’s ring fingers.”
Brett nodded absently. His mind had already returned to the petite police detective in the room across the corridor. It seemed as if she’d been in there for hours.
“Could you do me a favor, Meg? Could you check on a patient and find out what’s going on?” he asked suddenly, pointing to the closed door in front of them.
“Sure.” She glanced toward the crowded waiting
