haven’t spent my entire adult life in prison,” he said out of a senseless need to amend her impression of him. She was supposed to think he was a lowlife criminal. And he wasn’t supposed to care.
She looked disappointed in him. “How are your parents?”
“Still living in Scarsdale.” His father, Ed Brandt, was an uncomplicated medical salesman who stayed on the road even longer than his job required. He was avoiding his wife, Marilyn, who wasn’t a bad person, but very difficult to live with on a daily basis. She suffered from manic depression, and her moods kept the Brandt household in a constant funk. Devlin avoided them now, but he kept track via his older sister, who was married and happy, the closest thing to normal the family had produced. Ed was nearing retirement and Marilyn was on a new drug, so Devlin guessed they were doing as well as could be expected.
“How’s your mother?” Mackenzie’s face showed her concern.
“She’s feeling a little better, thanks.” Devlin cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the subject. He’d been ashamed by his mom as a kid and had never brought friends back to the house. Word had spread about the crazy lady anyway, making him an outcast early on. In Scarsdale, imperfection wasn’t tolerated. “My sister, Deb, looks after her.”
“Do you visit?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Mackenzie gasped. At first he thought she was reacting to his callous disregard for family, but then he realized where she was looking. Her eyes were round. “Devlin.”
Damn—she’d seen the blood. He should have been paying attention instead of worrying about her opinion to his cover story. And now she’d managed to tug the jacket halfway off him, revealing the red patch on his torn shirt.
“You’re hurt.” She reached behind the sofa and clicked on a lamp. Her eyes got even bigger as she goggled. “Is it a gunshot wound?”
“No. It’s nothing.” He pushed her hands away. “Only a scratch.”
“Then let me see…” Within seconds, his shirt was unbuttoned and she was examining his abdomen. It was decorated with bruises and a couple of raw red scrapes that matched the one on his chin. Bonaventure had taken great pleasure in stomping him into the cement floor when the first cursory pat-down hadn’t turned up the missing ruby.
Devlin sucked air between his teeth when Mackenzie prodded at his ribs. “Broken?” she asked.
“Not for lack of trying,” he said.
“You should see a doctor. What if your lung gets punctured?”
“The ribs are only bruised. I’ve had cracked ribs before and believe me, it hurt like hell. This only hurts like heck.”
“That’s hardly an educated diagnosis.”
“Them’s the breaks.”
She shook her head. “Why don’t you take off those wet boots and go clean up in the bathroom. There’s a first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. I’ll make you something hot to drink and get you an ice pack for that eye. Then I can bandage you up.”
He put out a hand, stopping her from rising. “Can I trust you?”
She seemed about to give him the sarcastic retort he deserved, but then her features softened. “You must think so, Devlin, or you wouldn’t be here.”
She was wrong. He’d been a deep undercover cop for so long that he didn’t trust anyone, even himself.
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