the people at CIRP would recognize you.”
His brother couldn’t argue with that point. “If Hughes has resurfaced, and they discover you’re with the Feds, there’s no telling what they’ll do to you. Do you have any idea the lengths some of those scientists have resorted to in order to cover themselves?”
His brother was right. The Feds had already briefed him on earlier questionable events at the center.
Eric’s mind ticked back to what he knew so far. Arnold Hughes had co-founded the research park, but years ago, he’d tried to sell research to a foreign source, then committed murder to cover his actions. When the police tried to arrest him, he’d escaped. His boat had exploded, but his body had never been found. Recent rumors suggested he’d resurfaced. That he’d not only supported a memory transplant experiment in which a former Savannah cop, Clayton Fox, had had his memory erased and been made to believe he was a man named Cole Turner, but he’d spearheaded an experiment to explore creating the perfect child. The child had been Simon—the baby his brother’s wife had protected by kidnapping him from the center.
Hughes was Simon’s father, only he didn’t know it.
And now a manhunt was on for Hughes.
The fact that the Feds suspected Hughes had resurfaced with a new identity had sparked the idea for Eric to capitalize on his own new face and work undercover. Ironic, but cunning—he’d use their own game to trap them. He’d even adopted a fake last name, Collier, to cover himself.
“The doctors are going to patch up my body,” Eric said with a wry grin. “It’s the least they can do after destroying it.”
“That’s just it, you’re not physically strong enough to defend yourself right now.”
Cain’s comment cut to the bone. “Another reason I’m having therapy. Besides, I need time to heal before the doctors can perform more skin grafts. I might as well be useful in the meantime.” The rehab arrangement at CIRP offered private bungalows on-site for recovery, which would allow him mobility and a beach view, a helluva lot better setup than another god-awful hospital, or having to arrange transportation from his own cabin to a rehab facility on a daily basis. He refused to be dependent on his brother.
Cain caught his arm just as Eric reached for the doorknob. Déjà vu flooded him. Another time when his brother had tried to stop him. If he’d listened to him then, the witness might still be alive.
But one look at the wheelchair, and he had to follow through. After all, it was spring. Cain had a new wife and a baby. A life to live.
Eric’s future was bleak. No spring roses or kids or lovers in his future. He had nothing but a battered, scarred body. And a dark soul, to boot.
One no woman would want.
All he had to live for was his revenge.
A WEEK LATER, MELISSA had landed a job at the Coastal Island Research Park Hospital, and moved into one of the small cottages on Skidaway Island CIRP had built for employees. But she’d hit a brick wall in Savannah when she tried to locate Candace Latone. Apparently, there weren’t any Latones living in the area, either that or they weren’t listed in the phone book. It was possible her mother had come to Savannah as a student from another city. Although Melissa’s funds were limited, her investigative skills were even more so. She would have to hire another P.I. to search for Candace.
Unless she discovered information at the school or hospital that would lead her to her mother.
People were funny about keeping secrets, even ones over twenty years old. She had to pursue her search slowly, so as not to upset the tide should someone object to her jimmying the closed doors of their lives. Last year, she’d read an article about an adopted child who’d been murdered because she’d unearthed the truth about her parentage. Her father had been a well-known politician who’d wanted to cover his mistakes.
Mistake—was that what she had been?
Shaking off the troubling reminder that she’d been unwanted, she considered the possibilities. But she doubted she’d discover anything quite so newsworthy or dramatic in her past. Still, Dormer’s warning had unnerved her, as had the stories she’d heard about the research park since she’d arrived—unethical research experiments, the death of the former director, the disappearance of another, Arnold Hughes, the murder attempt on a scientist and his wife when they had defied the institute. All too scary.
Deciding to lie low the first few days, make friends, acquaint herself with the patient load and staff, she focused on meeting the nurses, doctors and other therapists. She had just finished with her first patient, a child who’d suffered two broken legs in a car accident, when Nancy, one of the college-age girls who volunteered at the center, nudged her. Melissa’s gaze veered toward the door, where a broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair rolled toward them in a wheelchair. Masculinity and sex appeal oozed from him, along with the anguish evident in his tightly set jaw and black expression. He hated the wheelchair, that was obvious. Hated his weakness, that was obvious, too.
She didn’t blame him. She hated her own weaknesses.
“Not bad for an old guy,” Nancy murmured.
Melissa winced. He was only thirty-four. His name, Eric Collier. His chart revealed he was over six feet tall, weighed two hundred pounds. He didn’t have to stand up for her to see that his body was muscular. His face was nice looking, too, a broad jaw, angular with a firm nose and deep-set dark eyes.
“What’s his story?” Nancy asked.
Melissa explained his injuries. “He also suffered burns over twenty-five percent of his body, he’s had some skin grafts, waiting for more.”
Nancy shivered. “What happened?”
“Some kind of car accident. Apparently there was a gas leak and his car exploded.”
Nancy backed away, stricken. “Poor man. He was probably even better-looking before.”
He’s gorgeous anyway, Melissa wanted to say, but she didn’t. She had to remain professional. She never got involved with patients. And she wouldn’t make an exception here.
But the injuries and scars didn’t faze her as they did the young girl beside her. The courage the patients possessed did—everyone she worked with had a story. Dreams lost, shattered bodies and bruised self-esteem. Some gave in to pity, others fought hard not to succumb to the depression. To regain those dreams and their lives. With every failure and setback, she felt their frustration. With every success, their joy. And for those who tried to give up, she rallied harder to encourage them to fight back.
This one looked like a fighter.
The wheelchair rolled to a stop, the man’s hard gaze pinning her as he looked up into her eyes. His were a muddy brown, almost black. Angry. Full of pride. Challenge. Pain.
“Eric Cal… Collier,” he said. “I’m here for my session.”
She extended her hand, ignoring the fact that he was as handsome as sin. Anger radiated from his every pore in palpable waves, an attitude of aloofness surrounding him that would have been off-putting had she not seen it before. This man was not only scarred on the outside but on the inside, as well. Old wounds hadn’t healed, had festered instead, maybe all the way to his soul. She understood about those kinds of wounds too. She’d
