A Dose of Murder (9 page)

He grinned.

My nerves crackled.

“I said I did my homework. Doc Taylor is new to the practice and about your age. I put two and two together—”

“And concluded I'm sleeping with him?” Oh . . . my . . . God.

The corner of Nick's lip curled at the same time my internal temperature spiked to one hundred four. A few more degrees and I'd be peacefully dead so as not to have to face the embarrassment of what I'd just blurted out.

“Actually, I put together that you might have worked with him at Saint Greg's or something along nursing lines. Sex wasn't my first thought.”

That meant sex was one of his later thoughts.

I shoved a mouthful of salad between my lips, nodded for no good reason and turned to look away.

Speaking of sex . . .

My mouth dropped open (this was becoming a bad habit). I forced myself to swallow, and couldn't take my eyes off the doorway.

Before the thought that Mr. Suburban had just waltzed in could materialize, I heard Nick mumble, “Shit.”

I turned my gaze to him.

He was glaring at Mr. Suburban and cursing under his breath.

When my mental faculties returned, I asked, “You know him?”

“Jagger.”

“Oh my God!”

“Shush!”

I hadn't meant for that to come out so loudly, or out loud at all. But Jagger? Adele's Jagger?
Of course, Pauline
, I told myself. How many
Jaggers
could there be in this world? And didn't the guy have a last name? Or was that his last, and he needed a first?

What did it matter?

He'd had time to get himself a Coke and bag of Wise potato chips while I had my mental meltdown. I looked back to Nick, who was watching every move Jagger made. “What's a Jagger?”

Nick chuckled. “Good way to put it.”

It was the only way I was capable of asking right at the moment. Jagger had on his black parka, sunglasses he'd shoved on top of his head to cover the dark hair, and I could swear he had a tan since the last time I saw him. Oh God! Had he seen me at Tina's close enough to recognize me now?

Something told me that Jagger was also astute when it came to women. Not being vain, I wondered if I'd made enough of an impression on him that he'd recognize me.

Please, God.

I looked back at Nick. Now, Nick was nice-looking, but Jagger was . . . damn it all, an instant orgasm. Had to do with him being good-looking in a more rustic, outdoorsy,
dangerous
kind of way. Where Nick dressed as if he'd stepped out of a Fortune 500 club (and reminded me too much of Vance, “stability” and Pauline Sokol's old life), Jagger looked as if he'd stepped out of a forest with a giant buck in tow—still alive.

Vance was boredom and solidity.

Nick was class.

Jagger was sex. Walking sex.

I wiped a droplet of drool from my chin and smiled at Nick as best I could. He'd been staring at me as if he could read my mind. What a thought. I felt flushed. “So . . . how . . . you know him?”

“Jagger and I go back to the military. Gulf War. We flew sorties in February of ninety-one”—he looked off into the distance as if he could see something I couldn't—“Desert Storm. Air bombardment. Four hundred killed in an air-raid shelter in Baghdad. I took a desk job in Intelligence after that. Jagger separated soon after and became a PI. Seems investigative work fits ex-military pretty well. Never talked much after he left the service, and I don't know if he still works for himself.”

I could only stare. Wow. They'd both left what they must have loved because of the accidental loss of civilian lives. War casualties but no less hard to take. But why the rivalry?

And what the heck was Jagger doing here?

I finished my salad and sipped on my water to give Nick time to compose himself. Not that he looked all that flustered, but I hated dredging up a past that for him must not have been too pleasant. I envied that he'd done so much in his life while I'd lived in Hope Valley since birth, except when I'd attended college in Hartford.

He finished his coffee and looked across the room. I turned to follow his gaze.

Jagger was sitting with Eddy Roden.

This was getting confusing. “What does this Jagger do?”

Nick looked back to me. “You would have been better off to go with the ‘What's a Jagger' question,” he commented.

“Why would he be here to see Eddy? You don't suppose they are friends?”

“Jagger only has enemies.”

Yikes! “But they're talking as if they didn't just meet.” I could see Eddy grinning, leaning near as if telling Jagger some private joke. Eddy was sleazy. I remembered him as being nerdier in nursing school. He got up and walked toward the door.

“Go tell your buddy goodbye.”

“What?” At first I thought he was talking about Jagger. Then I realized he wanted me to talk to Eddy for the case. I took my empty tray in my hand and forced myself to stand after making sure Jagger was still in his seat.

Our eyes met. Damn!

Talk about looking through someone. No, talk about mentally stripping someone. Okay, that was me trying real hard to strip Jagger. His eyes were boring into me. I turned away and still looking at him, tripped on something—and smacked right into Vance.

“Pauline? What are
you
doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What
am
I doing here?” Over Vance's shoulder I could see Nick staring at me. When I turned away, I caught Jagger's glare.

“What am I doing here?”

Vance looked annoyed. I've seen that look many times, so it didn't take any special skills to read his body language. “Yes, Pauline. You're acting weird. What are you doing here?”

“I . . . came to see
you
, silly.” Good one!

Vance looked suspicious. “You came to have lunch with me?”

I looked down at my tray. There sat my empty salad dish and empty water cup. “I wanted to surprise you.” I'm a master of that emotion today. “Yeah. I . . . see ? I have a dish ready to get a salad and cup of water too. I could only guess at the time when you'd get to have lunch, so, here I am.” I swung around to see if Eddy had left.

Whew. He had. All I needed was him coming over to ask why I was eating a second lunch. Despite Vance being the flustered one now, he followed me to the lunch line, where I got a second salad—low-cal dressing this time—and another cup of water. I looked back at the table to see Nick was gone.

Well, he did say he had some business to attend to.

So much for my surveillance lesson today.

Across the room I saw Jagger get up and walk toward the tray return. Good. All I'd have to do was chitchat with the Doc, then get in my car and head over to Tina's. Headstrong Polack that I am, I decided I could do a bit on my own again. I refused to think about what a bust my first trip to Tina's had been.

After my second glass of water met up with all the coffee, I did, in fact, have to excuse myself from the table. Vance was used to that, and I wasn't the least bit embarrassed with him. After you've slept with someone, you don't worry about potty breaks. He was about done anyway. “It was nice having lunch with you. I have to get back to work. See you.”

As I grabbed my tray, he added, “Maybe we can do dinner again this weekend.”

I sucked in a breath and thought of Jagger and Nick. “Yes, I'll need
that. . . 
. Dinner, that is.” I scurried toward the door. The cafeteria was bustling with employees and patients now. When I pushed the elevator button, the doors opened immediately. I didn't stop to look behind in case Vance had followed me. Instead, I plowed headfirst into the elevator—and smack-dab into—Jagger.

I've never fainted in my life, but sure as hell tried to right then.

Still coherent, I heard the doors close behind me and turned to see that no other soul had gotten in. Damn.
You are a professional, Pauline
, I scolded myself. So, I pushed myself away from his granite chest and stood tall. Well, as tall as my five six could get, next to what had to be his six three. Suddenly my urge to pee dried up. “Sorry.”

He nodded.

Good. Maybe we could get to the ground floor in silence. I yanked at my hair to help hide my face in case he might recognize me. Then I shut my eyes for a second and asked Saint Theresa to have the elevator get down in warp speed.

The damn thing stopped!

My eyes flew open. I knew that not enough time had elapsed to get to the ground floor. There stood Jagger—with his hand on the emergency stop button.

Guess Saint Theresa was busy.

Okay, I know all prayers are not answered and there's always a good reason. If
this
guy was going to attack me in the elevator—that may be good reason enough.

“What were you doing outside Macaluso's house?”

Not even a “Hi, I'm Jagger.” I leaned back and decided he was too mysterious to want to have sex with—in person, that is. Being practical, I decided I'd stick with fantasizing about him. “I . . . What were
you
doing there?” When in doubt repeat a question or at least confuse the hell out of your attacker. Truthfully, I didn't consider Jagger an attacker. Not physically, at least. Not since Adele and Nick knew him. I'll bet Goldie did too. Besides, as mysterious as he appeared, he didn't seem like a wacko or a threat.

“I asked first.”

I was tempted to say, “So what?” but decided not to get into an argument. The guy looked as if he was packing. Not that I knew much about that, but I knew a bulge like that in his jacket wasn't from a wallet. Maybe I was a natural at this job. The observation part anyway—thanks to my nursing skills. I tried to ignore my heart racing and my fingers tap dancing against my sides.

He stood, waiting.

I couldn't say I was on a case. There had to be some rule that an investigator had to remain anonymous, so I said, “I went to school with Tina.” Besides, he must know Eddy, and if I said what I was doing, he could tell Eddy, and Eddy could tell Tina. Then I'd be out of my payment. I thought about that as I continued to examine his appearance.

He had to work out to have pecs like that. Even with a jacket on, I could tell the guy was built. There was some magnetism kicking in. One exercise fanatic to another.

Jagger looked at me. His left eyebrow rose. His teeth gritted, and I think he growled. “What the hell does that have to do with you sitting outside her house watching her shovel?”

“Good question.” A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek. Suddenly I realized it wasn't because of my infatuation with this guy. The elevator wasn't moving. In my sexual fantasy about Jagger I'd momentarily forgotten my phobia—claustrophobia. My pulse sped even more. My gut tightened, sending much-needed blood to my vital organs to keep me alive during an anxiety attack. But feeling the elevator at a standstill with the door shut, I felt as if those vital organs would explode.

That thought about fainting was getting all too real.

There was no air in here. Well, no fresh air. A ringing started in my left ear, and then collided in the center of my brain. I tried to take a deep breath. No luck.

“You all right?”

My hands started to tremble more. The sweat now poured down my cheeks. I felt cold, then flushed. Then cold again. My heart had to be hitting the inside of my chest, at the speed it was going.

“Hey. I asked if you were . . .”

Suddenly his arms were around me. The elevator darkened, spun, and then winked out.

“We're on the ground floor.”

The voice floated on a current of air. A deep, sexier-than-hell voice. I felt a hand brush the hair from my clammy forehead.
It felt nice
, I thought, as I tried to open my eyes.

A man stood above me. Not just any man.

Jagger.

The elevator door was open. I looked from him to the lobby and realized I was on the carpeted floor of the elevator.

“Here.” He took my shoulders and lifted me to a sitting position. “Take a few deep breaths.”

I nodded and did. A musky aftershave hit my nostrils. I turned to look into his eyes. Where I'd seen specs in Nick's, there were none noticeable in the darkness of Jagger's.

“Let's get you up and out into the fresh air. You're not pregnant, are you?”

I looked at him as if he were nuts, and started to say “I've only slept with Doctor Taylor about twice a year and he uses the most expensive condoms,” but decided it was none of Jagger's business and merely shook my head. A crowd had gathered around the elevator.

“Diabetic?”

“What?” He hoisted me up, held my arm and walked me toward the door.

“Diabetic. Are you a diabetic? Have epilepsy? Some other illness?”

“What
is
this? Some verbal physical exam?” My cheeks flushed when he looked at me. His hand rubbed low on my back.

“I'm only trying to figure out what happened back there.”

Oh God. I'd either have to lie about having a physical disease in which case God might see fit to actually giving me one or tell the truth. Pauline Sokol, good Catholic girl. “
You
caused it.”

Jagger let out a deep howl of a laugh. By now he'd opened the door and a cool blast of air hit us. Felt wonderful, yet I shivered since my hair was damp.

“I believe that's the first time a woman has fainted over me—that I know of.”

I pushed away. “This woman fainted because
you
locked her in a closed . . . elevator—”

“Christ.” He looked genuinely sorry, mixed with a little pissed. At himself, I was guessing. “You passed out because I stopped the elevator?”

“Everyone has a phobia. I'll bet even you do.” Not in a million years did I believe that.

He leaned near in a naughty-boy sort of way and grinned. “When you discover what it is, let me know.”