bed and slept a few hours, plagued by a tangle of waterfalls, hot black eyes and unfamiliar aches. The shrill ring of the alarm was almost a relief, but when she reached her office at Boston General, the tension she’d felt after Harris’s attack returned in force.
A book she remembered leaving open to a page on cardiac complications was closed. Her chair, which she usually pushed all the way under the desk, was askew.
Had someone been in her office? She glanced at the door. It had been locked as usual. She shook her head.
She was still rattled from the day before, that was all. She was shaky from being assaulted, and worried by Mr. Harris’s strange choice of words. The voice on the phone said Dr. Davis killed my wife. Had he meant her phone call when Ida Mae died? It seemed the likeliest answer, but the phrasing bothered Ripley. What if someone else had called Mr. Harris and told him R-ONC was responsible for his wife’s death?
She’d be looking at a malpractice suit, and even worse, it meant that someone in her dwindling department couldn’t be trusted.
“He’s late.”
Ripley jumped, cracked her elbow on the corner of her desk, and swore. It wasn’t often that her best friend, Tansy, snuck up on her. Usually, the pretty blonde entered the room with a flourish and an invisible fanfare. Men lit up. Women smiled. Her energy was infectious.
Not today. Ripley grimaced. “You look about how I feel. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing important.” Tansy’s smile barely flattened the frown. A sleepless night was etched in the slump of her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes. “How are you feeling after yesterday?”
“Jumpy and sore,” Ripley replied. “And I know Cage is late.”
The new RSO’s threatened audit was another reason for her nerves. Though Ripley and her technicians were scrupulous about their radiation practices, Zachary Cage was reputed to be on a mission. And Leo Gabney was looking for an excuse to close the R-ONC department and shuffle their expensive patients elsewhere across the city, where Ripley knew they’d get adequate care.
Adequate, but not exceptional. And though she’d originally taken the R-ONC position to prove to her father that she wasn’t going to join him in his cushy private practice, over the years the department had become her baby. Her family.
It was the only family she was likely to have, Ripley knew, and she wasn’t about to let the administration, or the new RSO, take it away from her.
“Ida Mae Harris’s autopsy is today, you know,” Tansy broke the silence, shooting her a sidelong glance.
And there was her biggest worry in a nutshell. She touched the manila folder on her desk. It was all that was left of a sixty-eight-year-old woman who’d been looking forward to a milestone anniversary she would never reach. “Yes, I know.”
“They won’t find anything that Gabney will be able to use against us.” Tansy gave her a one-armed hug. Though she spent much of her time on loan to Hospitals for Humanity—HFH—an international group of doctors who took assignments under the worst of conditions, Tansy worked in R-ONC when she was at home. She understood.
“I almost hope they do find something, you know? At least then we’d have an answer.” Ripley shrugged. “It’s always better to know than to wonder.”
“Well, whatever they find, it wasn’t anything R-ONC did wrong. It wasn’t anything you did wrong.” Of anyone in the hospital, only Tansy knew how much Ripley needed to hear the words. Only Tansy knew how insecure the seemingly invincible Dr. Davis was about her work, how much it frightened her to play God.
How much it hurt when she lost a patient. A friend.
Ripley squeezed her eyes shut. “I hope you’re right. And I hope the new RSO doesn’t cause problems.” Her temperature spiked as her mind flashed back to black eyes and the hot whispered promises of her dreams.
Or had that been a nightmare?
“What sort of problems would those be?” The rough rumble came from close behind her, too close, and the sizzle that lanced through her midsection was unmistakable.
Ripley spun and faced the door. Cage. She stifled a curse that he’d walked through the outer office and into the inner sanctum without her realizing it, before she’d been able to prepare herself to see him again.
She didn’t want him to know about the autopsy. Didn’t want him to know that she couldn’t explain Ida Mae’s death. Her past experience with Radiation Safety had taught her it was best to tell them as little as possible.
And her own reactions told her it was safest to keep her distance from this RSO in particular. With R-ONC’s future uncertain, she couldn’t afford the weakness that came with an emotional entanglement.
Her father had taught her that, as well.
Cage’s face gave away nothing as they squared off in her doorway, and once again Ripley felt that click of connection. Something primitive flared deep in his black eyes and he held out his hand like a challenge. “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday. I’m Cage, the new RSO.”
She took the hand and felt her heart kick when his fingers closed over hers. “Dr. Davis.” He held on a moment longer than necessary before allowing her to pull away.
“A pleasure,” he replied, but a lift of his heavy brow told her it was anything but.
“Though I’m grateful for your help in the atrium yesterday, I’m not thrilled about a full audit. I have patients to treat, and the violations you mentioned were Dixon’s way of getting back at me for refusing to date him.” A hint of temper seeped into Ripley’s voice and she gestured toward the outer office, feeling tired and cranky. Twitchy. Tense. “Never mind. Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the radiation logs.”
She tried to brush past him, but the RSO didn’t budge and she ended up too close, staring up into his dark, dark eyes. A tremble began in her stomach and worked its way out from there. Irritation, she told herself. Nerves.
Lust, whispered her subconscious. Sexual awareness.
It took her a long moment to realize that he wasn’t gazing into her eyes with mirrored desire. He was focused over her shoulder, staring at Ida Mae’s paperwork piled on the corner of her desk. “What is that, your personnel file?”
Ripley spun away and slapped a hand on the pile. “This is confidential patient information, Mr. Cage. Off-limits unless you’re a doctor.”
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, but he stepped back and inclined his head. “My apologies. After you, Dr. Davis.”
Why had he thought it was her personnel file? Ripley had no idea, just as she had no idea why the outer office suddenly seemed crowded and hot.
Hyperaware of him following close behind, she walked to a padlocked refrigerator, pulled out a green binder and handed it to him. “Here’s the main radiation log. It’s up to date as of this morning.”
Their fingers brushed when he took the rad log. “Of course it is.” His voice gave away nothing, but Ripley felt as though he was mocking her. Or perhaps himself. “I would expect nothing less.”
With
