Covert M.D.

There was dead silence in the office as the balance of power shifted neatly into Rathe’s hands—which had been his intention. He needed to take control of the situation right away.

When he was in charge, nobody made mistakes. Everyone lived.

But he could feel Nia fuming at his casual dismissal of what she’d seen in the loading area. The aggravation poured off her in waves. He could smell it coming from her skin, like the memory of—

Like the memory of a mistake. A betrayal.

A lost opportunity.

“Gentlemen?” Rathe forced his voice to sound level when it would have—what? Cracked? Faltered? Impossible—he was a grown man. Things like that didn’t happen to him. That was for kids such as Nia. “Do we have an agreement?”

Logan Hart, who looked like a kid himself, frowned, but his boss, Talbot, smiled with a glint of respect in his eyes. He held out his hand a second time, this time in affirmation. “We have an agreement, Dr. McKay. We would be fools not to take advantage of your expertise.”

In his peripheral vision, Rathe saw Nia curl her lip. Surprisingly, he had to fight a kink of amusement.

But this was no laughing matter. It was an investigation, and if her little stunt down in the subbasement was any indication, she was going to be a hell of a lot of work to baby-sit while he went about his business.

The director leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Basically we’re stumped. Transplant patients who would’ve survived a year ago are dying, and there are gaps in our supplies that suggest theft, but nobody’s seen anything.” He spread his hands. “I brought this to the head administrator’s attention, and he called you.”

“What sorts of supplies?” Rathe asked.

At the same time Nia said, “Are there connections among the dead patients?”

Logan Hart grinned at her, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Good question. They’re all rare type.”

Rathe shrugged. “If they’re rare tissue type, then they probably waited longest for their transplants and had the worst prognoses. You may just be seeing a blip. Let’s focus on the supplies to start with. What’s been disappearing?”

Nia frowned but didn’t argue.

Talbot pushed a bulging envelope across the desk. “There’s a list in here, along with your ID badges and supporting information. Jack Wainwright picked your cover stories. I hope you’ll find them acceptable.”

Rathe could have sworn Talbot was laughing at him but wasn’t sure why. He opened the envelope, shook out its contents and glanced at Nia’s information before passing it to her. She would be posing as a transplant specialist visiting the hospital to observe Boston General’s procedures, and give a short lecture series. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to dissemble much to maintain her cover, which was good. She didn’t have the experience he did at sliding into new roles. Chameleonlike, he could assume any cover, pass himself off easily as any of a number of people, such as…Rathe glanced at his packet.

“A janitor? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Nia lifted a hand to stifle a snicker. When Rathe glared at her, she managed to straighten her face before she said, “It’s perfect. You’re working the night shift, so you’ll be able to watch the loading docks and see what comes and goes. So far, that’s our best lead….”

She was right, damn it. But Rathe also knew she was thinking that working the day shift, when he was off, would give her time to do some digging on her own. To prove herself.

He knew, because he’d once been like that himself. He’d learned his lesson the hardest way possible, and he’d be damned if he’d let Tony French’s daughter find herself in the same situation.

So he nodded. “You’re right. Working the night shift will give me plenty of time to help you with your end of things.”

She scowled back. “You’ll need to sleep sometime, McKay.”

“Not necessarily.” He scooped their IDs into the envelope. “I don’t sleep much.” He nodded to the transplant doctors, who were following the exchange with rapt attention. “Gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

Rathe didn’t miss the frown Nia directed at him, nor did he miss noticing how Logan Hart held her hand a moment longer than necessary when they shook.

Kids will be kids, Rathe told himself fiercely, and the words echoed in the voice of Nia’s father. Though Rathe had shrugged off his experiences as an on-loan medic in the war-torn country where the two had met over a transfusion, the place had marked Tony. Not long after, Tony had retired from the Army to hunker down in the suburbs with his wife and daughter while he waited for the nightmares to fade.

Rathe hoped they had in the end.

Trying to ignore the tug he felt in his gut when Nia laughed at something Logan Hart said, Rathe spun on his heel and left the office. He never should have come back to the States.

At least when he was abroad, it was easier to forget that he’d slept with his best friend’s daughter.

He stalked down the hall, away from the woman and the memories. But he didn’t go far. He had a feeling she was going to find every possible opportunity to place herself in danger during this assignment.

Hell, it’s what he would do in her situation.

EIGHT HOURS LATER, still annoyed that Rathe hadn’t waited around after their meeting so they could plan their case and divvy up the responsibilities, Nia stalked to the garage where she’d parked her car. She couldn’t wait to get back to the swanky apartment building that had been donated to Boston General for use by visiting scientists and patients’ families.

She’d spent the day going over the notes and familiarizing herself with the setup. Slick and well organized, Boston General’s Transplant Department boasted twenty beds and enough high-tech gadgets to satisfy even Nia—especially since she had designed a few of them herself during her two years in grad school.

“Brilliant,” they had called her, when in reality she had simply been bored. Bored by the classwork, by her fellow students, and by the city itself. She had longed for faraway places that could be reached only by overgrown paths, for adventures like the stories her father had told her. Stories with titles like, “The Time Rathe Was Adopted by Cannibals” or “The Time Rathe Saved the Congo.”

Those stories had stopped the day she announced to her parents that she wanted to join HFH when she grew up. Come to think of it, so had Rathe’s visits, for the most part.

In the damp garage, Nia missed the car door lock and dropped her keys to the pavement beside her silver Jetta. She bent and retrieved them, and was surprised to find her throat tight with the memory.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she murmured as she unlocked the car and slipped inside its interior, which smelled of leather and hospital disinfectant. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for me.”

But her father’s plans and hers had diverged a long time ago, even before he got sick.

She backed the Jetta out of her hospital parking slot and drove the vehicle out of the garage, shielding her eyes against the reflected glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror. “Geez,” she muttered over the classic rock on the radio, “I know it gets dark early this time of year, but are the high beams really necessary?”

The headlights followed her out of the garage and down Washington Street, where she merged slowly with the rest of the “rush” hour traffic.

It wasn’t until a mile and three lane shifts later that Nia realized the high beams were still just a few cars behind her.

She was being followed.

“Nonsense,” she told herself as nerves prickled in her stomach. “The whole apartment building is owned by the hospital. They’re simply going the same place you are.”

But that didn’t stop her left eye from twitching, as it had the night before when she’d seen the two white-coated men pushing a laundry hamper out of the Transplant Department. And it didn’t stop her heart from picking up a beat in fear.

She gripped the leather steering wheel tightly as traffic pushed her toward the entrance to the apartment building’s parking garage. Should she drive by and see what Mr. High Beams would do? Or should she park and make a run for it?

What would Rathe do in this situation?

“Argh!” She slapped the steering wheel in frustration and turned into the garage. She had purged that silly, teenage question from her head years ago, along with the crush she’d had on her father’s dashing friend. Or so she’d thought. But there it was, reminding her of the man she’d loved at twenty-one and hated not long after.

Mr. High Beams didn’t follow her into the garage, and Nia felt faintly ashamed for jumping at shadows. A good investigator needed to be tougher than that.

She parked, climbed out of the Jetta, slung her purse and soft-sided briefcase over her shoulder and tried to stop herself from hurrying to the elevators.

A voice spoke out of the shadows. “We need to talk.”

Chapter Two

Nia gasped and jolted, though the quick thunder of her heart identified Rathe before he stepped out into the light. She took an involuntary step back, snagged her foot on a crack and stumbled.

He caught her before she fell, one strong hand grabbing her arm, the other curving around her waist and sending a lightning bolt of sensation through her chest.

“Let me go!” She struggled to get away, not from him, but from the effect he had on her.

He released her quickly, though kept a hand up to make sure she was steady. A shadow moved across his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Nadia.”

Nadia.

It was the name her father had given her, the name he’d called her until the day he died. The memory of it brought a phantom ache to the scar beside her navel, and the threat of tears to her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temples, where the first tendrils of a headache had gathered. It was late, that was all. She wasn’t usually this vulnerable to memories.

“Go away, Rathe.” Her quiet voice held the accumulated stress of the day.

Of all the times she’d imagined their reunion…

“We have things to discuss.” He stood between her and the elevator, though she sensed he wouldn’t stop her from boarding. No, he would just ride up with her, which could not be allowed. He’d had his chance to be a part of her life, a part of her family, and he’d turned it down without even a reply, just a packet of letters marked Return To Sender.

She shook her head, feeling the echoes of old sorrow, newer frustration. This would never work. There was no way she and Rathe could function together as a team. “We could’ve talked anytime today, you didn’t need to follow me home. Right now I’m tired and I have a full day of surgery to observe tomorrow, so I’m going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

She moved to brush past him, but he caught her arm and waited until she looked up at him. “Nadia. Nia. I didn’t follow you. Talbot told me where you were billeted, so I waited here for you.” He paused a beat. “Why? Did someone follow you?” When she didn’t answer right away, he shook her. “Nia! Were you followed?”

She thought of the high beams behind her, the feeling of creeping malevolence they’d given her and the relief she’d felt when she turned into the garage and they moved on by. “No, of course not.”

“You always were a lousy liar. Damn it! This is all because of that crazy stunt you pulled in the laundry area.” Looking suddenly tired, he released her arm, stepped forward and stabbed the elevator call button. “Come on. We need to set some ground rules. If you keep this up you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Why are you being like this?” Nia’s voice rose as her frustration moved to the fore. She was tired and confused, and though his presence complicated everything, she wasn’t going to bow out of her first official investigation simply because he wanted her to. “Why are you set on running me off this case? Is it personal? Is it because we were lovers? If so—” she dredged up the words she’d said so many times in the fantasies where he’d come back and begged for another chance “—you’re the one who walked, McKay, not me.”

Technically he hadn’t walked; he’d sent her back to her father. Somehow that had been worse.

“This has nothing to do with ancient history,” he snapped, though Nia swore that, for a moment, his eyes dropped to where her snazzy leather jacket hung over her breasts. Heat climbed her cheeks as he continued, “Nothing!”

“Then what is it about?”

He paused for a moment, seeming to struggle with the answer. Then he exhaled noisily. “You’re a woman, Nia, and I don’t work with women. You know that.”

It was one of the stories her father hadn’t told her, one she’d overheard her parents discussing late at night. Rathe’s partner, Maria, had been killed while they were on assignment. Not long after the incident, he had come to live with Nadia’s family for a few weeks. Gaunt and sad-eyed, he hadn’t spoken much. He’d spent most of his time sitting down by the beach with an empty sketchpad on his knee.

At eighteen, Nadia had known him only from her father’s stories. Though Tony had told her to leave Rathe alone, she had found excuses to wander down by the water. She’d sat on the steps above him, each day bringing a different book, until he’d finally turned around and asked, “What are you reading?”

She’d blushed and shown him the cover of a travel book about Bateo, wishing it were something more sophisticated. A text from her advanced P-chem class maybe, or a mature story about unrequited love.

“I’ve been there, you know,” he’d said.

And though she knew he’d been to Bateo—from the story entitled “The Time Rathe Stopped an Outbreak of Blood Fever”—she had shaken her head and asked him to tell her about the island. He’d described the way the light slanted down between the leaves high above, and how the bugs were bigger, the animals meaner, and the natives tougher than any she’d see in the States.

As he’d talked, his eyes had glowed a molten silver, his shoulders had squared and his back had straightened until he looked like the man she’d expected to meet, not the sad, hollow figure who’d sat down by the beach and sketched nothing.

The next morning he was gone. Inside her heavy book bag—she’d been in her third year of college by then—she’d found a sheet of paper folded inside the book on Bateo. On it was a pencil drawing of a jungle scene with some of the prettiest leaves, biggest bugs, and meanest-eyed creatures she could imagine.

After that he’d sent her presents once or twice—a colorful feather arrangement and a cowrie shell necklace she’d kept in a carved box beside her bed. Then he’d come back the year she turned twenty-one, and everything had changed.

And changed again.

Now she angled her chin up at him. “Yes, I’m a woman, but I’m also damn good at my job. Just ask Wainwright.” She knew full well Rathe had already called their boss, just as she knew he’d pushed to have her yanked from the case and been turned down. “Even better, open your eyes and see for yourself.”

“It’s not that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, it is.” She stepped into the empty elevator car, bracing an arm across the opening to keep him out. “And for your information, I’m not quitting. If you can’t work with me, you’ll have to take yourself off the case.”

A large part of her hoped he would do just that. A smaller, more feminine part hoped he wouldn’t.

He scowled. “Damn it, Nia! Let me come up. We need to talk about this.” The air around him vibrated with tension, and his eyes seemed to shoot silver sparks, but she wasn’t afraid of him.

Not physically, at least.

She stepped back and pulled her finger off the open-door button. “No. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Meet me in the coffee shop at seven.”

The doors tried to slide shut. He blocked them with his shoulder and glared at her. “Fine. But promise me one thing. Promise you won’t snoop around the hospital again tonight. Leave that to me, okay?”

Nia might have taken offense at the request, but she was too darned tired to do more than collapse into bed. And there was something in his frustration, in his suddenly human gaze, that told her the request wasn’t just the primary asking his junior investigator not to interfere.

Her father might have called it “The Time Rathe Asked for a Favor.”

Confused, stirred up and weary beyond words, she simply nodded. “Fine. I won’t go back to the hospital tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

A glint that might have been relief, might have been triumph, flashed in his eyes and he let go of the elevator doors. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned and walked away as the panels slid shut.

This time it was Nia who slapped a hand to keep them open. “Rathe!” He stopped and looked back without turning. She felt suddenly foolish, but something compelled her to call, “Be careful.”

Maybe he smiled. Maybe he winced. But after holding her eyes with his for a heartbeat, Rathe simply inclined his head and turned away.

Nia let the doors slide shut and resisted the urge to press her suddenly hot face against the cool metal wall.

THE NEXT MORNING Rathe leaned back in an uncomfortable booth and watched Nia enter the hospital coffee shop. A restless night was etched in the deep circles under her eyes. Her skin was tinted with makeup, but the hollows remained. And, damn it, they didn’t detract one iota from her beauty.

Her dark hair curled around her face, adding mysterious shadows to eyes that already knew him too well. A faint blush stained her high cheeks, and her full, sensuous lips drew into a flat line as she sank down opposite him, both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She grinned at him, though the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Okay, Bwana. Teach me how to investigate.”

Rathe frowned but didn’t argue. During the long night, he’d acknowledged he would have to teach her some basic survival skills, since she seemed determined to see this through. He would walk her through a safely edited version of an in-hospital covert job, and try like hell to convince her it wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life. He just couldn’t picture her in the Investigations Division, all five-foot-something of her pitted against the ugliness that lurked beneath the underbelly of the medical community.

Why? He wanted to ask. Why are you so set on investigations? Your father would’ve hated it. You could be hurt. Killed. Why?

But that was personal, not business. So instead he pushed a sheet of paper across the table to her. “Let’s start with the laundry room. Why did you follow those men out to the loading dock?”

“What’s this?” She picked up the paper, scanned its contents and answered her own question, “It’s the pickup timetable for the linens. There was a team scheduled for the one-to-three shift the other morning.” She glanced up at him. “Why wasn’t this information in our background packets?”

Rathe shrugged. “Who knows? I copied it from the schedule in the maintenance office…” among other things that she didn’t need to know about. He would tell her enough to do her part of the job and no more. He’d pass along enough to satisfy her, plus a little disinformation to keep her away from the dangerous parts.

Though the case seemed simple on the surface, Rathe had a feeling it was anything but.

“So how do you explain the bed and all the equipment we saw in that so-called laundry van?”

“I didn’t see it.” When she raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “I didn’t get there until after the door was shut.”

There was no need to tell her that he’d been nearly panic-stricken to see the tiny, furtive figure of a woman heading for the departing van. In an instant he’d been back in the Tehruvian jungle, seeing Maria wave from a rebel army transport.

And that was before he’d realized the shadow in the laundry room belonged to Nadia French.

“Why were you there, anyway? We weren’t supposed to start work until later that morning.” She pursed her lips and blew across the top of her coffee. Sipped. Swallowed.

Rathe looked away. He had to keep this professional. Mentor and student. Senior and junior. The way it should have been from the very first day he’d noticed his best friend’s daughter watching him from the beachfront stairs.

“I was looking around,” he replied, not mentioning the gut feeling that had drawn him down to the subbasement. He tapped the paper that now lay on the table between them. “Unless you have a compelling reason why you followed those two, I think we should move on.” Rather, she should move on and leave the subbasement to him.

“You’re going to disregard what I saw in the van?” Her fingers tightened enough to dent the cardboard cup.

“No.” Rathe shook his head. “Not disregard. File and continue.” He held up a finger. “Rule one—Don’t fall in love with your own theory. When that happens, you’ll overlook clues that don’t fit.”

He waited for the argument, but she surprised him by nodding. She sipped, then gestured to encompass the hospital. “It’s like making a diagnosis. Don’t pick a disease until you’ve gathered all the facts.”

“Right. Only, think of the entire hospital, or maybe the Transplant Department, as the patient. As a doctor, you’re already used to that sort of investigation. This is simply on a grander scale.” A more dangerous one, though he was determined not to let her experience that firsthand. In the wee hours of the morning, when he’d tried to catnap in the basement break room, he’d decided on that course, with one addition: he was going to do his damnedest to convince her that HFH in general—and investigations in particular—wasn’t for her.

It was what Tony would’ve wanted him to do.

“So our symptoms are as follows,” she began, ticking the points off on her fingers. “First, there’s an increase in transplant deaths. Second, supply shortages are reported to Transplant Director Talbot and Assistant Director Hart.”

Rathe thought she might have lingered on the second man’s name and he scowled. That was another thing about working with women. They couldn’t keep their minds on business.

She blew on her coffee again, and Rathe forced himself to glance around the near-empty café. They weren’t being overheard. And he was a hypocrite, watching her make love to a cardboard cup while he preached to himself about women and their inability to focus on the job.

He gritted his teeth and gestured for her to continue.

“They’re missing antirejection drugs. Suture kits. That sort of thing.” Another finger joined the first two. “And third, I saw two men leave Transplant with a full laundry cart, even though the linens hadn’t been changed out. They loaded the cart into a van rigged with life support and then…” She glared at him. “Thanks to you, I don’t know what happened to the hamper from there.”

Annoyed, Rathe fired back, “Thanks to me, you didn’t break your neck trying some damn fool stunt in an attempt to—” He stopped himself. “Never mind. We’ve already covered that and you promised not to go down there again without me.” He fixed her with a look. “Right?”

“Sure. Whatever.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m scheduled to observe a rare-type kidney transplant in a little less than an hour. If we’re done here, I’m going up to my office to read over the rest of the material Talbot left for me.”

Done? They hadn’t even started yet, but Rathe didn’t argue the point. It was probably a good thing their covers would keep them separated for the most part. At night he could investigate the depths of the hospital, where he was positive the real machinations were occurring. During the day, he could keep watch over her and make sure she didn’t get too close to the danger he could feel fermenting below the surface of this case.

And sleep? He’d never needed much of that. Like Tony had always said, I’ll sleep plenty when I’m dead.

“Dream well, old friend,” Rathe murmured to himself, forgetting for the moment that Tony’s daughter sat opposite him.

“What was that?”