An Eye for Danger (34 page)

"You called mine a chariot. This one's a race car." He popped the front wheels off the floor, sputtering his lips like an Indy car gunning for trouble, and I laughed, so happy to see him in any mood other than sulking.

After he stripped me of wires and tubes, I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted me off the bed and slipped me into the chair. Oddly, a few seconds revisiting an embrace with Sam felt as strong as the morphine killing my pain.

"Sorry, my muscles don't work too fast," I said, embarrassed for seeming clingy, as he pulled my arms free of his neck. We entered the hall, and I held the blanket to my braless chest.

"That's Daniels," said Sam, nodding to the suited man at my door. "From Michigan. He likes pudding cups and world peace. But he never smiles." Sam leaned to my ear. "Former Secret Service. Very hush hush."

Daniels cleared his throat as if to admonish Sam's reveal. Sam then pointed me down the hall toward another dark-suited man with brown, stumpy hair atop a cue-stick head. His ears curved outward like satellite dishes.

"And that's Higgins from Oh-hi-ho," continued Sam. "He's the mean one. Eats nails. His career goal is world domination."

Higgins growled, clawing the air and protruding his thick, rubbery bottom lip. He laughed, like that was his best impression ever. "Go Bears," he said, opening the door for us.

I shrank in my chair as we rolled past my alma mater colleague into Sam's room. Sam popped the wheels, spun my chair around, and then landed my chair so I faced the window.

"Mine's a corner unit," he said, "so I got a better view. But the company's not as good." He shrugged and turned his back to the window, leaning against the ledge.

For a while I stared at the near-bare maples outside, their arms reaching wide, their boughs as stiff as Sam's silence. "When is someone going to tell me what's really going on?"

"Can't say much. Still figuring things out. How much do you remember?"

"Pieces. Some clear, some hazy." Since waking, I'd been gluing together my jigsaw memories, the picture growing clearer every day: my attack, the Buckleys' apartment, our argument, our confessions. The explosion. Yet what I recalled most was not the fear or pain of Sam's betrayal, but the longing I'd felt for him, the passion that had blinded me from his true identity. My regrets I kept to myself.

"Wasn't sure you hadn't erased it all," he said, tension rippling his brow. "Head injuries can wipe out memories. Even important ones. Even people." His gaze came off the floor and held onto me.

"You think I could forget a night like that?"

He frowned.

"The sex was…ahhh."

Sam hitched a smile. "Hoped you'd remember that part. You've only been awake three days, but you've been asleep three weeks. The wait's been killing me."

"Three weeks," I whispered, thinking of Sam's partner and the humor the phrase had taken on then. Not so funny now. No one had told me. Three weeks of my life I'd never get back. Like the three years I'd already wasted.

Sam knelt at my side. "Ramsey said you needed the sleep, the time to heal. Time she needed to figure out what was wrong. Time we needed too, frankly."

I cocked my thumb toward the door. "You mean FBI."

"You still pissed about that?"

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. I should be happy to be alive."

"I wish being with me was the only thing you remembered."

My eyes closed, and I welcomed memories of Sam's face hovering over mine, the plush velvet bedding, my body tingling with his touches as he moved inside me. "I also remember you tearing open my robe in the truck and ogling me." I laughed.

His brows sank. "You were covered in blood, Jules. I thought you'd bleed out before I could get you to a hospital. And we couldn't trust paramedics to keep you safe. Or Stone. So I had to make a decision. I was gambling with your life."

"Because you think Stone set the bomb," I said, but Sam shook no. I sighed with relief. One less betrayer meant one less bogeyman in my life. "But you know who did."

"Got an idea, but I can't say yet. Need you to be patient. To trust me." He exhaled, waiting for an affirmation I struggled to give.

"Like I'm walking out anytime soon." I attempted a smile, but Sam lowered his gaze. "Maybe Troy set the bomb before he attacked me."

"Goon like him sets fires, not bombs. He's well trained, just not that smart."

"At least Stone's not the one." I huffed. "To think I picked out a puppy for his sister."

"Jules, Stone doesn't have a sister. He's an only child."

I shielded my eyes with my hand. Of course he didn't. That bastard. I dreaded to think what had happened to the puppy, if Stone had truly ever adopted her. Sam must have thought me the prize pig of fools.

"Hey, he works people, and not just you." Sam pulled my hand down. "He's refined it to an art. Even got me a few times. Frankly, I'm not feeling too bad about that concussion I gave him."

"I'm surprised he didn't report you."

"Not with his ego on the line. I don't think he even knows I'm the one who hit him. Trust me, that would create a whole other explosion."

So their rivalry swung both ways. What kindling had started that fire, besides Stone's illustrious ability to manipulate and Sam's penchant to con?

Then I noted Sam's tanned arms were dotted with scabs and his old burn bore a patch of pink new skin. "You seem well-healed for a guy with the corner suite."

"Besides a concussion," he said and exhaled dramatically, "I cracked another rib. And my lungs were still pretty cloudy, so Ramsey pumped me full of drugs and offered me a room. Penthouse view, she said. Liar." He smiled, played with the hair that fell over my cheek. "Now I'm like your college roomie. And this is a coed dorm."

He leaned over my wheelchair toward my face, but I clenched my jaw.

"Sam..."

"Okay, okay. I'm part of your security detail. Now can I kiss you?"

"No. I also remember our fight. Don't lie to me, I know I'm in custody."

"Jules, we're here to protect you, not arrest you. You didn't kill anyone. Ever."

I pulled back my hand when Sam tried entwining our fingers. "I need to see Max."

"He's fine. I told you—"

"You've told me nothing. No one tells me anything." I shifted in my chair, my lower back muscles cramping.

Sam's hand landed on my shoulder. "You'll see Max soon. Let's just focus on getting you better."

"At least tell me where he is." I knew Sam well enough that he wouldn't surrender Max to animal control or a shelter. Still no answer. "What, did you put him in witness protection?"

"No, but that's funny." Sam stared at the floor, not laughing.

My mind flashed to the agents double-teaming us, the constant whispers, our back-to-back hospital rooms, the ongoing detail Sam's partner mentioned. The "system" Sam mentioned.

"Oh, my God. I'm in witness protection."

"Not exactly," he mumbled. "There's a process."

I spun my chair for the door. Like hell if I was jumping from one prison into another. But with one brake set, and my weak arms, the wheelchair turned right into the bed rail. "Shit."

"Can you just be patient for once," he groaned as he turned my chair back to him and set the brakes, his hands gripping the arms like he meant business.

"God, I could just slap you, Sam Wainwright."

"Fine. Prove it." He stepped back, hands on his hips. "You heard me, get your ass off that chair and come give me a licking. We both know I got it coming."

Boy, did he. I lurched with my shoulders, but my lower half didn't comply. I closed my eyes, commanded my feet to the floor, then looked to find my legs holding back even a quiver. I tried pushing off the chair arms, gaining height to give me momentum, but my legs were noodles beneath me.

"Come on, take your best shot," said Sam. "Or walk to that bed, and I'll make love to you right now. Hell, we can go all night with those agents guarding the door."

My eyes watered as I sank down in my chair. "This isn't funny."

"No. No, it's not." He crouched beside me, stroking my hair back.

"I need the truth, Sam."

With eyes cast downward, he nodded, and I could feel him building courage to dishevel whatever peace of mind I had left.

"Your shoulder was dislocated. They could reset that." He pulled away from me, his voice low and firm, like he was delivering a report to his superior. "You were admitted to surgery to remove shrapnel and stop internal bleeding. But the head injuries were... complicated. Fluid buildup on the brain was potentially fatal. They had to drill a hole in your skull to release the pressure. Christ." He released his breath, but his fingers continued digging into his own skull. "You just weren't settling down. Your EKG was all over the map, and my voice only made you spike worse, so they wouldn't let me see you. Finally, Ramsey put you under, which felt even worse. 'Induced coma,' she called it. Said they knew what they were doing, but that word scared the shit out of me and I fought against the decision. Putting you asleep went against everything I promised you." He crossed his arms over his rigid chest, clamped his jaw. "But I'm not family, so they wouldn't listen. I had no rights, no say what happened to you."

His position was all too familiar. I remembered fighting for Luke's remains so I could dispose his ashes in the ocean the way he'd wanted, only to be refused by his doctors and parents, who'd approved a Catholic ceremony for their atheist son. Then I returned home and spiraled into a hole so deep I didn't want out, till Ramsey threw me out.

"My legs, Sam."

His Adam's apple bobbed. "She said the part of your brain that was under pressure doesn't affect motor control. A whole team of doctors and they're still fucking clueless."

"So why can't I..." But the answer came to me clear as day. And I didn't want to hear that word from Sam. "She should have told me herself."

"Ramsey doesn't have the heart to give you bad news. Didn't realize how far back you two went. Or how soft she is for you. She calls every day, demands constant reports from staff. Visits you at night when she thinks we're both asleep. She's been waiting till your condition improves for a better chance at finding answers. But she suspects."

"Don't say that word. I know what psychosomatic means. I'm not losing my mind, Sam. Why would I not want to walk, after everything that's happened to me?"
And why would Sam want to be with a broken body?
Reality was setting in, gripping at my stomach in bitter waves.

He crouched, reached out his hand. "We'll find a specialist. Maybe California or Europe."

I watched his fingers squeeze my leg, felt nothing. I poked and pinched at my thigh. Then I slammed my fist onto the muscle. Nothing. I hit one leg, then the other. And again.

"Jules, stop." Sam's hand came down on mine. "Hey, knock it off."

I reeled back and slammed my fist into his chest. His body caved politely, recovered easily. I wanted to keep striking till his body hurt. Till he, too, burned with numbness and desperation.

Sam patted his chest.
Bring it on.
But once had been plenty. Twice would make me cry.

His warm hands landed on my shoulder. This time I didn't refuse his embrace as he pulled my head to his shoulder.

"When you said you needed time to figure things out, you meant us," I said.

"Hell, no." Sam peeled away, looking me in the eye. "You're the only one I am sure of."

I let my cheek lie in his palm, my head a little dizzy. "I remember candlelight," I said, laughter catching in my throat. "Must have taken you an hour to light all those votives."

"Burned a few fingers getting those damn little wicks to catch."

"And we were laughing."

"We were, weren't we." He hummed as he rested his head in my lap and I ran my fingers over his puppy-velvet hair, recalling the warmth of his scalp under my fingers that night, the rocking of his body into mine. Wrapping my legs around him. When I could still feel my thighs.

"And now there'll never be a night like that again."

His head came up. "Don't say that."

I pinched at my eyes to keep them dry. "I'm not crazy, Sam."

"No one's saying that." He pulled my hand from my face. "What are you so afraid of?"

"I don't want to talk anymore. I want to go back to my room." Dredging up the memories felt like drawing an overfilled bucket from a well, and my shoulders sagged under the weight of them.

"You didn't kill Luke. Hey, look at me. You didn't cause the explosion. A bomb did."

"My apartment, I remember." My palm rested on my stomach as if that would stop the metallic taste growing thicker in my mouth.

"No. In the car with Luke. And in your apartment. Both." He gripped my arms, lowered his voice. "Listen to me. They buried the case. They thought someone was trying to kill Luke, because of his job in software. But someone was trying to kill you. We know that now, because they tried again and nearly succeeded. And they're not going to stop till they do. I'm not supposed to tell you, but you deserve to know. The bombs were made by the same person. The same trigger device, the same explosives, the same MO. Jules, don't you get it now? You're the key. You've got to tell me everything you know."

A cold sweat washed over my face. Two bombs, one Troy. Sam was right: they'd try again, and maybe my luck would give out.

"Take me back to my room." I couldn't stop squirming.

He scanned my face, set the back of his fingers to my brow. "You feel clammy."

"Hurry."

"Okay, okay." He unlocked the brakes.

"I can't wait. I need to go to the bathroom."

He paused, grimacing. "Don't worry about that."

"I'd prefer the nurse help me."

He flashed his eyes to my left side. "You can go anytime you want. There's a bag attached to your leg." Sam seemed embarrassed to tell me.

Looking down at the bulge under my blanket, the story came together. I'd been so drugged, I hadn't thought about the bathroom issue before, and my legs were so numb the bag strapped to my thigh was invisible.

But I wasn't squeamish about such things, and I was about to say as much when I realized Sam wasn't embarrassed, he was disappointed. He'd expected me to miraculously feel my legs again, step out of my chair for one of his sexual enticements, or to rush to the restroom on instinct. My shoulders sank. Reality was setting hard for both of us: I may never walk again.