of tattoos and any ounce of fat. Then he toweled himself off, straightened and turned.
“Looks like I have a visitor,” he said, leaving his jumpsuit dangling around his hips.
Unless Gabrielle missed her guess, he regarded her with the same scorn Roddy and Brinkman reserved for him. Hatred or enmity she could understand. She’d seen plenty of both since starting at the prison. Officers and inmates were never meant to be friends. But disdain? Disdain implied superiority. Who did Tucker think he was? He reminded her more of a doctor or a lawyer than a murderer.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
Please, God, let this day end well, she prayed, telling herself that if there was trouble, Roddy and Brinkman would help. They might hesitate long enough to teach her a lesson, but they’d ultimately intervene.
Problem was, a lot could happen in a mere sixty seconds. And there were any number of excuses for delay….
Suddenly seven weeks of job-training didn’t seem like nearly enough.
In and out. Five minutes, that’s all. Hauling in a deep breath, Gabrielle removed the pin in the door and motioned to Eckland, down in the officer’s booth, to unlock Tucker’s cell.
Metal screeched on metal as the door rolled to the right. “I’ve brought something to clean your cuts, Mr. Tucker,” she said.
“Mr. Tucker?” He eyed Roddy and Brinkman, who stood with their batons drawn, as though eager for trouble.
“Isn’t that your name?” she asked.
“I think you’re the first person to use it since I came to this hellhole.” Still favoring his left side, he moved forward, and it was all Gabrielle could do to keep from dashing out and running for safety.
Evidently he read her fear because he stopped, giving her some space, and his voice took on a mocking note. “It’s going to be mighty hard to dress a wound from back there. Or are you planning to leave that stuff here with me?” A nod indicated the first-aid kit she held in her hands.
Inmates made weapons out of the most innocuous substances. Gabrielle could easily imagine Tucker honing a knife out of the plastic lid and stabbing someone with it.
“I’m not stupid,” she said, waving him toward the bed. “Will you sit down, please?”
“Please?” His lip curled into a bitter smile. “At least you’re polite.”
“Are you going to sit down or not?”
Holding his injured hand like an unwieldy club, he brushed against her shoulder as he sank onto the lower bunk. She suspected he did it on purpose, to test her, so she stood her ground and refused to back away. If she was going to do this job, she couldn’t act like she was about to run screaming in the opposite direction every time she came into contact with a prisoner. Besides, she’d noticed the lines of pain and fatigue in his face and was starting to lose some of her fear. He was hurting far more than he let on.
“This is probably a waste of the courage you screwed up to come here,” he said. “Unless you brought an X-ray machine and some plaster, I doubt there’s anything you can do for me.”
“Sorry, no plaster.” She set the kit on the bed beside him. “Some antiseptic and Band-Aids, though.”
“I’d settle for a couple of Tylenol.”
“It’s against the rules for me to dispense any medication. You can buy aspirin from the store.”
“Aspirin doesn’t work for me.”
“Well, it’s against the rules for me to give you anything else.”
The look on his face told her what he thought of her response. “It’s against the rules for you to be here now, but Hansen makes his own rules. What’s a couple of Tylenol? Think about it, Officer—” his eyes flicked to the name sewn on her shirt “—Hadley. Two capsules of extra-strength Tylenol and you can consider your mission here complete. Then you won’t have to dirty your hands by touching a monster like me.”
A monster like him? If he was a monster, it certainly didn’t show on the outside. Despite the injuries that marred his face, he was one of the most attractive men Gabrielle had ever seen. He practically exuded virility, from the comfortable way he fit his body to the aristocratic features of his face—the aquiline nose, the thin upper lip, the prominent jaw and those incomparable eyes.
“What makes you think I have a problem with that?” she asked, snapping open the kit and rummaging inside.
“You mean, besides the revulsion on your face? It doesn’t take a crystal ball to see you’d sooner touch a leper.”
Gabrielle kept her focus on what she was doing and didn’t answer. He was right. He’d murdered his wife, and she didn’t want to come anywhere near him. But he could definitely use what little first aid she could give. Although the blood on his split lip had congealed, his hand had swollen considerably. The cut on his forehead was bleeding again, if it had ever stopped, and he had to keep wiping away the blood to stop it from rolling into his eyes.
“Can you blame me? Your record doesn’t do much to recommend you,” she said, pulling on the latex gloves she carried on her belt.
“You can’t believe everything you read.”
She folded a piece of gauze and doused it with antiseptic. “Oh, yeah? I suppose you’re innocent, just like everyone else in here.”
He sucked air between his teeth as she cleaned the gash above his eye. “I don’t think you give a shit whether I’m innocent or not. No one else does.”
She fumbled with one of the butterfly bandages from the kit, trying to figure out how to use it. The wound on his head needed stitches. She’d never seen one quite so deep. But the gloves made it difficult to feel what she was doing, and the darn bandage wouldn’t stick.
She looked back at Roddy and Brinkman, hoping they would finally see how unethical it was to deny Tucker the medical help he so obviously needed. But they stared straight ahead, stone-faced, and Gabrielle couldn’t decide whom she disliked more. Tucker, for being the murderer he was, the very scum of society. Or Hansen, Roddy and Brinkman for their refusal to do the right thing.
She studied the wound some more, knew it was too deep to leave as it was, and finally stripped off her gloves so she’d have a chance of making the bandage stick.
Tucker glanced at the discarded gloves. “Aren’t you taking quite a risk?”
“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? I already got your blood all over me earlier.”
“And now you think you’re going to die of AIDS.”
“Am I?”
He shrugged. “Depends on who you’re sleeping with. You won’t get it from me.”
Ignoring his allusion to her love life, she concentrated on what she was doing so she wouldn’t ruin another bandage. Come on…come on. Once this is on, I’ve handled the worst of it, she thought, but his next question made her pause.
“Why
