Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
As always, writing the book is easy. Editing it, editing it again, checking and double-checking contracts, checking galleys, thinking up flap copy, designing the cover, marketing it, and selling it is hard. So, many thanks to the unsung heroes of publishing, all of whom are busy making me rich.
Thanks to the fans who tirelessly track down my backlist. If not for all the requests for this anthology, it wouldn’t have been done. I hope it was worth the wait! (Not to mention the $14.00.)
Thanks to my husband, Anthony, who reads everything I write and isn’t afraid to tell me when something sucks, the bum. And thanks to my darling children, who are adept at entertaining themselves when Mommy is on deadline, and who only bother me when something is on fire.
Thanks also to my wonderful Yahoo group, a gang of readers who are unfailingly supportive and considerate, both of me and of each other. It’s the nicest group on the web … Check ’em out at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/maryjanice/.
Th-th-that th-th-that th-th-that’s all, folks!
“The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Compensation
“In a way, I’m a thief just the same as you are. But I won’t sell you hope when there ain’t any.”
—Charles Schnee, U.S. screenwriter
“Nowadays the thief cannot be distinguished from his victim. Neither has any valuable objects on him.”
—Karl Kraus, Beim Wort genommen
Betty White: “And if you watch one minute [of PBS] without contributing, you’re a thief! A common thief!”
PBS rep: “Okay, Betty White, calm down.”
Betty White: “I’m sorry. It’s just that these thieves make me so damn mad. You know who you are … thieves!”
—The Simpsons, “Missionary: Impossible”
Stealing is wrong. So is vigilantism. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
Dr. Jared Dean hated being interrupted more than just about anything in the world. So he was annoyed when he heard the crash of something falling over in the chart room. For heaven’s sake, he thought darkly, scrawling orders for one of the seven patients he’d admitted that evening, just put the charts back in their rows, you guys. Don’t play keep-away with them.
“What’s going on in there?” Shari, one of the RN floats, asked without looking up from restocking the meds cabinet.
“The guys have too much time on their hands,” Jared said, writing NO NARCOTICS!!!!!!! in Mrs. O’Leary’s chart and underlining it twice. Mrs. O’Leary (“Like the lady with the cow, honey.”) was a frequent visitor to the ER. To all the emergency rooms in the city, actually. She was in her late forties, impeccably groomed, ridiculously rich, and hopelessly hooked on Demerol and Vicodin. Jared had been trying to get her into a drug treatment program for two years, to no avail. Mrs. O’Leary thought drug addicts were smelly street people who skin-popped heroin (not that she knew, or used, the phrase “skin-popped”), not grand dames of society who contributed six figures to charity every year.
“Can’t blame them for horsing around. Third shift can be a snoozer.” He glanced at his watch—three in the morning, groan—and swallowed a yawn.
“Maybe we should threaten to sic the A.A. on them,” Shari joked.
Jared snorted. He didn’t believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, a balanced federal budget, city buses that ran according to the bus schedule, or vigilantes who ran around at night righting wrongs. The newspapers had been whispering about the A.A.’s activities for almost a decade.
“At least the clerks aren’t pulling this crap during first shift,” Shari added, shoving a hank of her strawberry blond hair out of her eyes. “You know how those morning weenies can get.”
Jared was about to answer her when there was a dull thump. The sharp crack of someone slamming against the window brought him to his feet. He moved past an open-mouthed Shari, headed for the chart room at a dead run, and fairly leapt through the doorway, ready to start chewing some ass … or kicking some.
Instead, he stood there with his mouth open. Nothing he’d seen in his years as a med student, intern, and ER resident prepared him for the sight of a startlingly beautiful woman engaged in a vicious hand-to-hand battle with the largest man he’d ever seen.
And winning.
She was stunning. Petite—her assailant was well over a foot taller—and delicately built, with small hands and feet. Her white blond hair was skinned back into a French knot at the nape of her neck. She looked like a princess, one who could pour tea or break your nose, depending on how you addressed her. She was dressed in dark colors—black turtleneck, black leggings, dark shoes—which accentuated her fair skin and hair. Exertion had brought a delicate flush to her features.
Her assailant wasn’t nearly so attractive—dirty blond hair shaved close to his skull, thick black eyebrows that met in the center of his forehead, fists the size of bowling balls, a nose that had been broken at least twice. Thick lips skinned back from his teeth as he snarled wordlessly at the woman and sent a punch whistling toward her wide-eyed face.
Jared opened his mouth to shout a warning … and the woman deftly blocked the punch, twisted the man around without letting go of his arm, and slammed him, facedown, on the table. Jared winced at the pop the man’s shoulder made coming out of its socket.
The man howled curses, which were abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fold of skin at the nape of his neck and slammed his head into the table.
Silence.
“Look out,” Jared said, finally able to articulate. The woman’s head snapped up and she stared at him. For a long, electric moment, their eyes met and Jared had the absurd thought that she could see all the way down into his soul. Her mouth popped open in a small o and she gasped, a quick intake of breath that made her breasts (high and firm, his mind reported happily, if uselessly) heave.
“Don’t worry,” he said. She had the look of a doe trapped in the headlights, which was ridiculous. What could he, mild-mannered
