full lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. Did men get collagen treatments?
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He patted his pocket. “Multitasking.”
She rolled her eyes and pivoted toward the corner.
“Lacey, right? You work for Dr. Joseph Buonfoglio.”
“Yeah, Lacey.” She glanced over her shoulder. He knew her name? She didn’t think she was worthy of Dr. Perfect’s notice.
“I’ve seen you over at San Francisco General. You’re in the hospice/palliative nursing program, aren’t you?”
She spun around. She’d seen him at SF General, too. Pretty hard to miss a six-foot-two Adonis with groupies trailing him around the hospital. “That’s right. I’m in the hospice program. What does an internationally acclaimed cosmetic surgeon, darling of the rich and famous medical-convention rock star know about a hospice?”
He raised an eyebrow just as she stumbled around the corner.
She covered her face with her hands. Smart move, Lacey. The hunky Dr. Marino may be arrogant, but he also had connections. She giggled. Even getting kicked out of the hospice program was worth the look on his face. Well, almost.
Stepping up to the office door, she grabbed the doorknob, but it didn’t turn. She jiggled it. Had Dr. B locked the door after the food arrived? That didn’t seem likely.
She slipped her key into the lock and pushed open the door. Rustling noises echoed in the office, and the door that separated the rooms in the back from the reception area stood open. Dr. B must be eating his sandwich.
She sniffed the air. Cappicola didn’t have that heavy, metallic smell. It reminded her of the smell in the hospital…the hospital emergency room. Her heart banged against her rib cage as she crept toward the gaping door.
Placing a hand against the wall, she inched forward. She peered into Dr. B’s office and clutched the doorjamb to steady the spinning room.
Dr. B lay crumpled on the floor in front of his desk, a pool of blood soaking into the carpet under his head. The scream that barreled up from her lungs snagged in her throat, and she choked.
A large figure with a black ski mask and black gloves stepped into the hallway from the supply room. His eyes glittered through the holes in the mask, and Lacey stumbled back, banging her elbow against the wall.
The shooting pain released the tightness in her chest and she screamed as she scrambled toward the reception area and the door she’d left open. She felt the man’s body heat behind her before he yanked her hair, pulling her backward. He twisted her hair, jerking her head against his body, his garlic-scented breath bathing her cheek.
She stomped on his foot with her high heel. He grunted but tightened his grip, circling her throat with his other arm.
Rather than immobilizing her, the terror raging through her body spurred her to action. Her purse slipped from her shoulder and dangled from her arm. She shook it down farther, gathered the strap in her hand and swung back, but the blow barely grazed her captor’s hip.
She jabbed her throbbing elbow into his rib cage and had the satisfaction of hearing his muffled curse. The vise pinioning her neck loosened, and she gathered her breath and let loose with another scream that tore through her ragged throat.
“What the hell?” Dr. Marino charged through the office door, and Lacey took advantage of her assailant’s surprise as his hold on her slackened.
She wrenched out of his grasp, tumbling forward onto her hands and knees. She looked back in time to see Nick plant his fist against the man’s face. As the intruder staggered back, Nick reached forward and twisted the ski mask so that the eyeholes were no longer positioned over the man’s eyes. The man raised his gloved hands to correct his mask, desperate to keep it on, and Nick punched him in the gut.
The man grunted but kicked Nick’s midsection, sending him reeling backward and crashing into a table. Magazines scattered and a heavy lamp tipped over, the lampshade bouncing across the carpet.
“Look out. He might have a weapon.” Lacey crawled to the door and dumped out her purse, scrambling for her cell phone.
The masked man advanced on Nick, still bent over the table. Nick grabbed the base of the lamp, spun around and brought it down toward the man’s head. The blow glanced off the side of the intruder’s skull as he brought his arm up to knock the lamp back.
Lacey gripped the phone in her stiff fingers and punched in 911 just as Nick and the intruder fell to the floor next to her. Lacey flattened her body against the floor. Amazingly, the man’s ski mask still covered his face.
The 911 operator answered the phone, and Lacey shouted, “Please come right away. Someone’s been hurt. The man’s still here.” Then she gave the operator the address and disconnected.
“Who ordered the—” The deli delivery guy, a skinny teenager, gaped in the doorway, his eyes bulging out of his head as he dropped the food.
Nick paused at the intrusion, and the man reached for the heavy doorstop under the table and swung it at Nick’s head.
“Nick!” Lacey screamed and dropped the phone. The doorstop skimmed the side of Nick’s head instead of flattening his face as he jerked out of the way.
Nick collapsed, and the man with the ski mask jumped up and shoved the delivery guy out of his way. His foot smashed the bag of food on the floor as he sprinted down the hallway.
“Go after him.” Lacey dragged herself up and waved her arms at the teenager frozen against the doorjamb.
“Are you crazy?” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple resembling a golf ball. “That guy’s huge.”
Nick moaned, and Lacey hobbled over on her knees and inspected the gash on the side of his head. She shrugged out of her sweater and yanked her cotton T-shirt over her head. The delivery guy’s eyes got bigger and rounder. She folded the T-shirt into a square and pressed it against Nick’s wound, staunching the flow of blood.
She glanced over her shoulder at the speechless teenager. “Hold this bandage on his head. I have to check on my boss in the back.”
“Th-there’s someone else here?”
“Yeah, but he’s…unconscious.” Tilting her chin toward the door, she said, “Keep an eye out for the emergency response team.”
Dr. B was more than unconscious. She didn’t want to go back to his office. Judging from the amount of blood on the carpet, she doubted he could use her help now.
She returned to his office, anyway, and tiptoed toward his still form, as if afraid she’d wake him. She pressed a fist to her mouth as her gaze hitched on the gun in Dr. B’s slack hand. When did he get a gun? Didn’t do him much good today.
She could see now that the intruder, the murderer, had smashed in one side of Dr. B’s skull. A marble bookend, smeared with blood and hair, lay next to Dr. B’s body. Pressing her fingertips against his neck, she felt for a pulse. No sign of life.
What if she had stayed? Would Dr. B be alive? Would she be dead?
She
