the recovery position. Then she looked up at him. “What was she doing when she fainted?”
“Talking to me. I caught her before she fell.”
“Good thing. She could have really rapped her head.” She slung the stethoscope around her neck. “Her vitals are fine, but I’ll get the doctor to look at her, just in case.” She stalked over to the wide medicine cabinet and pulled out a clear capsule. She returned to the bed, broke it open and shoved it under Sylvie’s nose.
Sylvie flinched. Her eyelids fluttered wide and she batted the nurse’s hand away. “Ew! What the hell?”
The nurse smiled as she discarded the smelling salts. “Works every time.” She peered down at Sylvie before patting her hand. “You fainted. Lie still. I’ll ask the doctor to check you over.”
The nurse left them alone. Jon remained by the window, again speculating on whether the faint had been a ploy to avoid answering his question. The military had pulled every other damn stunt to prevent him from learning exactly what had happened the night Rick died.
Like the night he’d called Rick’s commanding officer. Oh, the man had been more than polite, calling Jon “sir” and showing in his voice the right amount of sympathy and concern. But Jon’s gut tightened with intuition when the man turned vague about the details: investigation still on-going; bad weather that night; trouble finding the truck they’d sent out on detail.
Jon was a police officer in Canada’s biggest city. Lies, omissions, and cover-ups came with the territory, and there were some of each crossing through the phone lines that night.
“Trouble finding the truck?” he’d barked back. “How could that happen? You sent them out on a detail, with a route to follow?”
“The weather was poor, Mr. Cahill,” the commander had answered. “I’m sorry, but the connection is bad on this end. I must tell you, we’re still investigating your brother’s death very thoroughly.”
“What did his supervisor say happened?”
“Warrant Officer Mitchell gave her statement that night, sir, and has already repatriated back to Canada.”
Jon had frowned. “When?”
“The day after the memorial service, actually.”
“Would it be possible to talk to her?”
“Mr. Cahill, I’m not at liberty to say any more—”
The line had gone dead, and Jon wagered it wasn’t because of a bad connection. Not at liberty to say. The commander had been watching too many media interviews on TV.
Why had Rick’s supervisor been shipped back so soon? She sure as hell got out of Dodge pretty damn quick. And why couldn’t they find their own supply truck? Intuition burned hot inside of him.
Now the military would get a lesson in how good the police were with investigations. Finding Warrant Officer Sylvie Mitchell had been a breeze.
Jon focused on the woman lying in front of him, intuition still itching his skin. Something was definitely being covered up.
And Sylvie Mitchell was his last chance to find out what that was. God help her if she clammed up, as well. He walked over to the bed and leaned slightly forward. “Feeling better?”
Her eyes flew open, shock and horror flaring in them. And fear, too?
Fear of what? Him?
His anger dropped away like an icy stone. He wasn’t here to scare the facts out of her. All he wanted was the truth about Rick, something he deserved above all else.
Sylvie Mitchell had better understand that.
Sylvie. The name conjured up the image of a sultry brunette with voluptuous curves and a come-hither smile.
This woman could only be the exact opposite. A blond, she had lean, toned, minimal curves, and no way would he ever expect a beckoning, erotic smile to crack her efficient, porcelain complexion.
“As soon as you started to wobble, I picked you up and carried you over here.”
She blinked around the room. “Where am I?”
He followed her gaze. Judging from the posters and the odd-looking pieces of monitoring equipment, he realized this place must be a birthing room of some kind. “In the maternity ward attached to the medical center, I presume. I haven’t got a lot of experience in this area.” Not wanting to dwell on that fact, he turned back to her. “How do you feel?”
Sylvie inhaled and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the examination table. “Better. Thank you.”
He shoved out his hand to stop her from rising off the bed. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, leaving plenty of exposed skin to touch.
Warm, dry skin. And softer under his fingertips than he’d expected from a soldier.
He yanked back his hand. “Just the same, wait for the doctor. There has to be some reason you fainted.”
She shot him a wary look. “I missed breakfast.”
Jon glanced at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. What time do you Albertans get up?”
“Early.” She looked the other way. “I run a ranch just outside of town, so I don’t sleep in.”
Jon was ready to shove her back onto the table, should she try to stand. But she didn’t. Rather, with a soft exhalation, she lay back down and shut her eyes.
That was it? Jon waited for more, for anything to stop him from staring at her lean form: her right knee bent; breasts that were still firm enough to curve upward; and a thin line of flat stomach that looked as though it needed warm, moist kisses—
He swung away from her. Hell, maybe he should leave. He’d acted on impulse coming here, and through all the hours traveling, he’d envisioned a different Sylvie Mitchell, a different set of answers and a much different reaction to her.
He shoved aside the attraction. No way would he leave. He was so close to finally hearing the truth he could taste it.
But Sylvie Mitchell looked so vulnerable lying there. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Um, do you want me to get you something to eat?”
“Do you want me to throw up on you?”
Her face was so deadpan Jon couldn’t help but smile. Yet the pitiful grin fell away quickly. Oh, cripes, it had been so long since he smiled it hurt his cheeks. “Not really.”
She said no more, only lay there, eyes shut again, totally ignoring him.
“Ms. Mitchell?”
She opened her eyes.
“You knew my brother, didn’t you?”
She blinked. “You don’t look like him.”
Annoyed that she didn’t answer his question directly, he
