Trust No One (20 page)

“Didn’t like getting dragged away from motherhood, did you?” His voice hardened. “If Tasha hadn’t–”

“I need antibiotics for Ben.”

Immediately Jeff’s tone changed. “What’s happening?”

“Gunshot, he’s running a fever.”

“Should he be in a hospital?”

“Probably, but he won’t go. I haven’t been able to shake him.”

“So you tried shooting him?”

“Yes, that would be in keeping with my record, wouldn’t it?” she said grimly. “But I’m not the one who shot him.”

“Who did?”

“No idea.”

“More than likely Tasha,” Jeff guessed. “So what’s up with her?”

Jeff seemed more concerned about Tasha than the injured Ben. MJ decided she’d puzzle over it later. “I don’t have time for analyzing Tasha. I’ll be at the pharmacy in about twenty minutes. I need medicine to get Ben back on his feet. I want to go home to my baby,” she practically growled.

“Yes, Mommy Dearest. I’m on it.” He mocked her angry tone before leveling his voice. “What pharmacy? And then stay in range, we still need to talk.”

Terrific, he was going to call and grill her. She was so not in the mood to be chatty with her former boss.

During the reprieve, she called to check on Angelina again, who was now awake and eating her dinner. Dottie held the phone to her ear. MJ babbled to her little girl in a happy voice, “You eat all your food for Dottie and I’ll be back to get you as soon as I can.” Angelina, having very little vocabulary and no phone skills stayed quiet through MJ’s chatter, until at the end last when she said, “mama”.

MJ’s heart fluttered up and got stuck in her throat. Her smile would have lit the whole small town of Whiddon.

But after MJ disconnected, the silence of the car overpowered her, sucking away the brief moment of happiness. Her body slumped from the effect. She told herself Angel was safe, but the hollow thought didn’t make it any easier to be over a thousand miles away.

Funny how quickly the baby had become a vital part of MJ’s life. But from the first, the little girl starved for affection, clung tightly to MJ, perhaps sensing her as a lifeline. MJ latched on just as tightly and learned exactly what the line in the poem about “an adopted child not being born under my heart but in it” meant.

Of course there had been an adjustment for MJ, learning to deal with a baby, but Angel had been patient as her new mom worked out a routine, which included finding a new place to live, a job and a sitter. Tex and Dottie had been a life saver.

Something else she owed Niko for, MJ realized. If he hadn’t taught her to work on cars, she would have been forced into a life of misery at a desk job.

Niko. Her teacher, mentor, lover. He’d been her lifeline more than once.

* * *

“Good news,” the doctor said. “You should be ready to go home in a couple of days. Of course, you can’t drive yet, so you’ll need to arrange for someone to take you home. And I would recommend a full time nurse for another month. Do you have anyone to call or should we make arrangements for you?”

MJ couldn’t blame the doctor for asking. The weeks she’d been at the hospital, her visitors had been few and far between. Neither flowers nor get-well cards decorated the one shelf in the room. MJ’s business didn’t really promote friends.

“I can arrange it,” she told the doctor, hope battling with despair. Of course she was happy to be going home, but going home to what? Months more of rehabilitation? An empty apartment and an equally empty future? Would she ever work again, ever be allowed to work again? As things stood now, walking was still a struggle, the demands of her job far beyond her reach.

Because of Vista, MJ lay in the hospital bed, fighting emotions as she called in. Vista was footing the doctor bills, and now they could damn well make arrangements to get her home. And full-time nursing care, she noted as the phone rang. Add that to the list.

Jeff’s assistant promised to call the doctor, check on the details, and two days later while MJ watched a morning game show, waiting for the release forms to spring her free, someone walked into her room.

Curiosity turned her head. When she saw him, her heart stalled.

Niko. Here. She swallowed. Stared.

“Hi, stranger,” he said softly, a gentle smile on his face, his intense ice blue eyes more warm than she remembered. His brown hair was shoulder length. He’d worn it long since college. And his body, ripped with muscles, resembled a professional body builder.

Still, she stared. She never expected Vista to send Niko. She hadn’t seen him in years, had only heard about him through reports. She licked her lips, tried to say . . . something. Anything. But her pounding heart interfered with her speech process. She never expected such an emotional impact—had to be because she was at a disadvantage, stuck in the hospital bed recuperating.

He took her hand, brushed a kiss against her lips, and it was her undoing. Tears clogged her eyes, her throat. She blinked, tears leaked out.

With his other hand, he used his thumb to wipe her face, compassion in his gaze, no repulsion for the way she must appear. She’d lost at least twenty pounds, nothing she could afford to lose on her lean frame. Her face looked old, haggard, sunken in. His gentle actions only made her cry harder. She grabbed his shirt sleeve, pulled him toward her. His lips brushed the top of her head this time; she experienced a moment of thankfulness the nurse helped her wash her hair earlier.

“I’ve missed you.” His words rustled through her hair.

She struggled to pull herself back in control. She leaned away. “I’m getting your shirt all wet.”

He released her, handed her the box of tissues on the bedside table, pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” She blew her nose. No delicate way around it. Tears and snotty noses went together. She hated crying. “Doesn’t happen often.”

“I guess you’re overdue.”

She nodded. “Probably.” That was an understatement. She hadn’t cried yet over Keith, over her . . . physical losses. She hadn’t even cried at her parents’ deaths. At least not in public. She’d only cried for them once in the darkness, with her face buried in her pillow. She ended up with a headache to compound the emptiness and realized crying wouldn’t change a damn thing. Then. Or now.

“Time to get you out of here.” Niko left to search for the doctor and the necessary paperwork for her release.

She wondered if she
would
feel better at home. Her apartment had hardly been more than a place to park her few belongings. She rarely spent time there. Another new experience in a list of things she hadn’t planned.

At her apartment building, he helped her up the stairs, and unlocked her front door. “Nice place,” he said diplomatically. “A little bare, but possibilities.”

“You’re telling me yours isn’t bare, too?”

He smiled good-naturedly, unable to deny the truth. “It is. Never there long enough.”

“I guess I’ll have time now, you’ll have to come back to see how I decorate.”

“Okay.”

He took care of everything, ordered food, made sure she ate, even helped her to the bathroom. She hated being weak, hated depending on him, but knew she had little choice, and so was grateful for the help he offered.

That first night home she experienced the nightmare for the first time. Niko came to her room when she cried out. Seeing her shaking, and crying again, he climbed into bed beside her. She spooned against him; he scooted close behind her, arms wrapped carefully around her to avoid her stitches. His warm hard body felt so good, so comfortable. Familiar, even. She went back to sleep with him kissing the back of her head and murmuring soft assurances.

He stayed three days, got her set up with a full-time nurse. Then, as quickly as he walked into her life, he walked out again. Off to another assignment.

She mourned the loss. Cried buckets of tears. For Niko. For Keith. For never being able to have children. And it still didn’t change a damn thing, still left her with a headache.

Eventually she dried her eyes. A few decorating magazines showed up on her doorstep. She decided to decorate.

* * *

MJ entered the cabin, carrying the medicine from the pharmacy and sacks of food she’d bought at a small mom and pop grocery store—enough to last a couple of days. She set the bags on the slick, early American style dining table. No rough pine furniture for Lauryn’s decorating, and apparently Tasha hadn’t changed a thing since she bought the cabin.

With a scan of the main room to make sure nothing had changed since she left, MJ went to the bedroom to check on Ben.

He lay sleeping, an uneasy sleep, his face red, his eyes twitching, his head moving from side to side, his moans interspersed with an occasional muttered, “no”. Obviously having a bad dream. MJ understood all too well, and wondered what gave Ben nightmares.

With a gasp of air, he jerked awake, staring at her with a glazed, confused gaze.

“Bad dream?” she asked from the doorway.

He blinked, frowned, his eyes focused.

She walked over, touched his head, nearly snatched her hand away from the heat.

“You came back.” His voice sounded dry, raspy.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

He didn’t answer.
             

“I brought medicine and some food. I can make you soup or spaghetti rings.”

“Spaghetti rings? What’s that?”

“What it sounds like. A real delicacy. Angel loves them.”

He grimaced. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

“That’s a joke, right? You’ve already been a whole mess of trouble."

“Some girls get all the luck.”

“That’s me, Lucky. Luck just follows me like the smell of cow shit on a boot.” She repeated his words.

He jerked his gaze to her and smiled. “Smart ass.”

He struggled to sit up in bed when she brought in the food and placed it on the night table. He eyed the chair she pulled up beside him. “I think I can feed myself mommy.”

She ignored his dig. “Thought you’d want company.”

Over their meal, soup for him, spaghetti rings for her, she told him about talking to Jeff and they debated when or if Tasha would show up. He managed to eat the soup, but he still looked flushed and in obvious need of sleep. She could identify with the sleep part.

“Now that you have food in your stomach, we can get those antibiotics in you.”

“We can, can we?”

MJ realized she’d slipped into plural pronouns again. “Oh, shut up,” she said as she picked up their empty bowls.

“You ate it,” he said with a touch of admiration in his voice, looking at her empty bowl coated with sauce.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Worse for me was termites in Botswana.”

“I’ve eaten termites. And grubs too. A stir fried dragonfly once. Spaghetti rings are definitely better.”

He looked at her with a new respect. “Maybe.”

Or his eyes could be glazing from the fever.

MJ went after the medicine and water, handed it to him. “Did you do most of your work in South Africa? I thought with your coloring you’d be in the Middle East?"

“I was,” he said before he swallowed the pill. “South Africa was a trip outside the norm.”

“Any family in the Middle East?"

He shook his head. “No, just a hodgepodge of ancestors and I get this coloring.” He set the glass of water on the night table.

Whatever the hodgepodge, the man looked good, aside from signs of being sick. It irritated her that she noticed. Further irritated her that she reacted.

“So what are you doing on an assignment like this?”

He closed his eyes, his long dark lashes fanning against his chiseled cheeks. When he opened them, MJ looked away, not wanting him to catch her ogling him.

He seemed to hesitate, whether to gather strength or gather his thoughts, she wasn’t sure.

“Jeff didn’t want me to retire.”

“And he thought this job would inspire you to keep working?” Disbelief rang through her voice. “This is not a great assignment, y’know.”

“So you’ve told me. Often.” He twisted his lips, perhaps he meant it as a smile but it came out more as a grimace. “He didn’t want me to retire from life,” Ben explained.

She stared, did he mean . . . .

“I was taking too much comfort in Southern Comfort. And tequila.” When he met her steady gaze, he shrugged. “And rum."

Understanding dawned. “Job gone bad?”

“Bad doesn’t describe it.” Pain passed over his face, a pain beyond what a mere gunshot wound would cause.

No wonder he looked so ill; he was injured and going without alcohol. If he’d been drinking enough to alarm Jeff, then Ben had to be missing the booze. Should he be in rehab? Surely Jeff wouldn’t send Ben out if he needed to be in a hospital instead?

Still, MJ knew the perils of a job going bad and doing what you could to forget the pain. “I understand,” she told him.