Guilty Secrets

Chapter 2

The bartender at Flynn’s knew Nell by name. He waved her to a booth at the back and drew her a Harps without asking.

Sliding into the booth, Nell watched Reilly lever himself awkwardly onto the dark vinyl bench opposite. His legs bumped the center pedestal. His mouth tightened.

Concern stirred. Purely professional concern. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He glanced around. “Nice place.”

So he didn’t want to talk about himself. That made a change from most of the men she knew.

His sharp reporter’s gaze took in everything. Flynn’s was a neighborhood establishment, with a long polished bar, a wide-planked floor and a wall lined with bottles. Foil shamrocks and limp crepe-paper streamers hung from the TV, week-old relics of St. Patrick’s Day. Fiddles and drums played through the speakers. The air was wreathed in cigarette smoke, sharp with the scents of hops and malt, rich with frying potatoes and grilled onions.

Nell’s mouth watered. She’d skipped lunch again today. She inhaled, closing her eyes in pure appreciation.

Her pint clinked on the table.

“What’ll you have?” the waitress asked Reilly.

“Club soda,” he said. “Thanks.”

Nell opened her eyes. He wasn’t drinking.

Which meant, of course, that he was working.

Which meant that she better pay close attention, or he was going to gobble her up like a side of home fries.

“I’m sure you have questions,” she said.

“A couple.”

“I left the statistics in my office.” Except for the ones in her purse. Stuffed with papers, it burned against her thigh. “But I can give you general information on the demographics of our patient base.”

A muscle moved at the corner of Reilly’s mouth. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to order now or later.”

“Oh.” That kind of question. Flustered, she scanned the menu. “Fish and chips, please.”

Reilly handed both menus to the waitress. “I’ll take the steak. Medium rare.”

Red meat, Nell thought as the waitress’s white blouse disappeared into the darkness at the back of the bar. At least he didn’t eat it raw.

“So, what are you doing at the Ark Street Clinic?” Reilly asked.

Penance, Nell thought.

“I see patients,” she said. “I also recruit doctors, hire staff, schedule the nurses, write grant proposals and—”

“This isn’t a job interview, Dolan. I didn’t ask for your résumé. I want to know what you’re doing there.”

Nell set down her pint. There was no way in the world she was confessing the demons that drove her to shark-mouth Reilly, the reporter. But she could certainly talk about the importance of her work.

“Call me Nell,” she said. There. That sounded friendly and forthcoming. “The Ark Street clinic provides top-notch care for a segment of the city that would otherwise go untreated. We have a growing immigrant population in our area. More and more employees—especially in low-paying and part-time jobs—aren’t getting insurance through their employers. And with the recent budget cuts—”

“Yeah,” said Reilly. “I read the flyer. Very nice. What did you do before?”

“I was a trauma nurse.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Why did you leave? It can’t have been the money.”

Nell was stung. Not just by his assumption, but by his attitude. “How would you know?”

His gaze flicked over her. “No car. Cheap watch. Old shoes.”

Even though he couldn’t possibly see them under the table, Nell curled her feet beneath the bench. He saw too much.

And actually, her job paid pretty well. But she had debts. Some of them were monetary. And the rest…She picked up her pint and took a long swig.

“Can’t you accept that some people are motivated by a simple desire to help?” she asked.

He considered that, his long fingers laced on the table in front of him. He had a surgeon’s hands, tapered, the nails neatly trimmed. “Nope,” he said.

Forget the hands. Nell frowned. “That’s a very cynical position to take.”

“Realistic,” Reilly corrected. He moved his drink aside for the waitress, who set their plates on the table. “Most people are motivated by self-interest, fear or greed,” he continued after she left. “And the ones who tell you differently cause most of the world’s problems.”

Nell stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, arrested by the discrepancy between his flippant tone and the bitter look in his eyes.

“Spoken like a frustrated idealist,” she said.

“Not an idealist. Just frustrated.” He flashed her a Big Bad Wolf grin loaded with innuendo.

Nell felt a buzz. Not a beer buzz, either. This was more like sexual static. Cheap thrills. His attitude was completely unacceptable. Too pointed. Too personal. Too sexual. But his persistence was flattering.

She straightened against the high-backed vinyl seat. She had too much at stake to let herself be diverted by the promise or the threat of sex. Even if it had been twenty-two months, five days and…but who was counting?

She made an effort to drag the conversation back to a clinical, professional level.

“You have to admit that there are caring, committed people in the world who do make a difference,” she said. “Our volunteers—”

“Don’t you believe it,” Reilly said. “More harm is done by zealots, by people with a cause, people with good intentions, people who frigging care, than all the bad guys in the world.”

She sat back. “Wow. Are you speaking from personal experience here?”

Reilly met her eyes without apology. “Yes.”

Nell dragged a French fry through the ketchup on her plate. She didn’t want to know, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to know him. But the caretaker in her recognized and responded to the flat echo of his pain.

“Who hurt you?” she asked softly.

Reilly raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to turn this interview around on me?”

Her heartbeat quickened. “I thought the purpose of this dinner was to get to know one another better.”

He watched her. “If that’s what it takes.”

There was that buzz again, that jolt, that thrill. These were deep waters. And she was about to wade in over her head.

Unless—oh, God, that would be embarrassing—unless she totally misunderstood him.

“For you to get a story,” she clarified.

“For me to get you into bed.”

Nell caught her breath. Okay, she hadn’t misunderstood.

“Gee,” she said dryly. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, studying her with those hooded, knowing eyes. “You’re annoyed. But maybe you’re interested, too. Are you interested?”

Interested, offended, tempted, threatened… She wrapped her hands around her cold mug to keep them steady. “Are you always this blunt?”

He smiled, baring straight, white teeth. “It’s one of the principles of good journalism. ‘Don’t waste words.’”

She struggled to swim against the pull of his sexuality, the warm, lazy current in her own blood.

“Doesn’t your paper have some kind of restriction against journalists having sex with their subjects?” she asked.

“Probably. If you were underage, or if I put pressure on you to sleep with me so I didn’t trash your clinic in my column, that would be a breach of conduct.”

Was he serious?

“Are you actually suggesting I have sex with you to get good publicity for the clinic?”

“No.” His eyes were bright and very blue. “Would you?”

Would she? Her mind whirled. She’d slept with men for worse reasons. Not recently, but—

“Of course not,” she snapped.

Reilly smiled. Satisfied with her answer? Or pleased that he’d finally gotten under her skin?

“Then it’s not an issue,” he said. “Once I file the story, I don’t have any rules against taking you to bed.”

Nell sucked in her breath and almost choked on her beer. She should definitely switch to water.

“I do,” she said when she could speak. “Have rules, I mean.”

His gaze dropped to her hands on the tabletop. “You’re not married,” he said.

“No.”

“But you used to be,” Reilly guessed. “To a doctor?”

Nell glared at him. “So?”

The reporter leaned back consideringly. “So you put the jerk through medical school. Right? And then he…what? Wasted your youth? Cut up your credit cards? Broke your heart?”

Worse. Much worse. Her ex-husband, Richard, had ruined her career, violated her trust and smeared her integrity. None of which she was about to explain to a been-there, done-that, wrote-about-it reporter.

“Something like that,” Nell said coolly.

“Figures,” Reilly said.

She lifted her chin. “Why? Do I strike you as some kind of human doormat?”

“Nope. But your ex was a doctor. I don’t like doctors.”

Nell smiled ruefully. “I don’t like them myself sometimes.”

“You have a problem with the doctors at your clinic?” Reilly’s tone was easy. His eyes were sharp.

Oh, no. Nell’s stomach lurched. This is what happened when you let yourself be drawn along on the tide of sexual attraction. Some lean and hungry reporter swam up and bit off your head.

She was not letting herself be pulled into a discussion of problems at the clinic. Not with her purse beside her, stuffed with the evidence of possible drug diversion. She resisted the urge to pat it, to make sure her lists and printouts stayed safely tucked out of sight.

“Our volunteer physicians are dedicated to our patients’ care,” she said.

Reilly grinned, making it personal again, undercutting her best professional facade. “Is that the company line?”

“It’s the truth,” she said stiffly.

“Maybe. Or maybe all you doctors stick together.”

They did. Oh, they did. Nell remembered being called into the chief of staff’s office after he had discovered Richard’s drug addiction. The hospital administrator had been desperate to propose a way to protect his senior anesthesiologist.

And Nell, shaken, guilty, had agreed to…had agreed.

She looked up from her half-eaten French fries to find Reilly still watching her. “I’m not a doctor,” she said.

“You dress like one.”

Here was her chance to turn the conversation, to steer it back to her work and the clinic.

“I wear the lab coat because patients like it,” Nell said. “Nurse practitioners can provide the kind of basic primary care—diagnosing illnesses, treating injuries, prescribing medications—that used to be available only from a physician. But most people are more reassured by a white coat than they are by an explanation of my qualifications.”

“So why not go to medical school yourself? Get the credentials to go with the coat?”

“I have credentials,” Nell said, more sharply than she intended. “I like being a nurse. And medical school costs money.”

“Which you would know, since you put your husband through, right?”

Nell didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.

“Did you two have kids?”

Enough was enough.

Nell pushed her plate away and leaned her elbows on the table. “You said this wasn’t a job interview.”

“It’s not.”

“Really? Because all these personal questions sure sound like you’re interviewing someone for a girlfriend position. And I’m not interested in applying.”

Reilly sat back and signaled for the check. “Do you mind telling me why?”

“You can’t accept I’m simply not attracted to you?”

Unexpectedly, he reached across the table and caught her hand in his. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. His gaze sought hers. Nell forced herself not to pull away, not to show any reaction at all. But he had to see the color that crept into her face. He had to feel her pulse thrum under his touch. His thumb stroked the soft inner skin of her wrist.

He released her abruptly and smiled. “Nope. I won’t accept that.”

Jerk.

“Fine,” Nell said crossly. “There are still those ethical considerations we talked about. You are writing about my clinic. It would be awkward, at the very least, if we became personally involved. But the biggest reason is that my work demands all my energy. I simply don’t have time for a relationship.”

Not now, when her bag was bulging with data that could destroy her and her clinic.

And not with him. The last person she needed screwing up her it’s-all-under-control life was a hardboiled reporter who saw far too much and asked way too many questions.

“That’s reasonable,” Reilly said.

Some of the tension leached from Nell’s shoulders. She even smiled. “I’m glad you agree.”

“I didn’t say I agree,” he corrected. He dropped a bunch of bills on the waitress’s tray. “I said it was reasonable.”

The predatory glint in his eye made her nervous.

The March moon was a clear, cold disk in the sky, its white light lost in the orange glare of the street lamps. Frost glittered on the concrete and tinseled the windshields of the cars lining the curb. Nell’s breath escaped in puffs as they walked.

And walked.

Joe set his jaw. His ankle had started throbbing before they even reached the restaurant. Ice and elevation, the doctors said. Yeah, right. Like Nell wouldn’t have noticed if he’d stuck his foot in her lap during dinner.

He slung an arm around her shoulders for support. She was slight and strong and smelled faintly of disinfectant. Her hair tickled his cheek.

“Warm enough?” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” she said crisply, not turning her head. “Put your hands in your pockets if you’re cold.”

Despite the pain in his ankle, Joe bit back a grin. “Yes, Nurse Dolan.”

She shot him a sharp look and kept walking.

Hell. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He had to slow down.

Joe made a show of digging in his pockets. “Mind if I smoke?”

Nell slowed her steps to match his. “Not if you don’t mind my reciting statistics linking smoking to lung cancer, heart disease and emphysema.”

“Go right ahead.” He stopped. Thank God. Balancing his weight on his left leg, Joe shook out a cigarette. His third today. He cupped the end and lit it, dragging the blessed smoke into his lungs. Heaven.

Nell narrowed her eyes at him. “You really should quit.”

Joe exhaled slowly, savoring the rush of nicotine. “I’m cutting out one vice at a time, thanks.”

“Really?” She arched one eyebrow. “What have you given up today?”

She was teasing. Maybe even flirting. He couldn’t tell. But her question howled through his soul like the wind through a ruin.

Joe shivered, shaken by the memories of the past twelve months. His mother’s worried eyes. His brothers’ bafflement. His boss’s frustration.

What had he given up?

Too damn much.

He shook out the match and stumped along, forgetting for a moment to disguise his limp. “I was going to go without sex tonight,” he said. “But if you want to change my mind, sweetheart, I—”

Instinct stopped him. Instinct or some habit of observation honed in war zones across Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

Three young toughs loitered in the block ahead of them, beside the line of empty cars. Joe was too far away to make out their gang colors, but he recognized the aggressive confidence in their moves, the casual menace of their posture. Trouble carried itself the same, in Chicago or in Gaza.

Their symbols were anchored on the right: caps tilted, a pocket inside out, a buckle worn to the side. That meant their gang, whatever it was, was affiliated with the Folks nation. Joe tried to recall what his brother Mike had told him about the Folks, back in the days when the Reilly brothers talked easily about everything. More spread out than their rival nation, the People, gangs in the Folks were quick to defend their territory lines.

Automatically, Joe looked for an open business, a bodega, anyplace with lights. Witnesses.

Nothing.

Hell.

He put a hand on Nell’s arm, mentally calculating the distance back to Flynn’s. He’d never make it. Could she? He registered the exact moment the boys spotted them, saw the nudge and the shove, felt the stirring of their interest like something nasty poked with a stick.

He and Nell should cross the street. Now.

Too late.

The toughs uncoiled from their stoop and sauntered toward them. Two walked abreast, blocking the sidewalk. One slid between the parked cars to the deserted street, cutting off escape in that direction.

Joe felt the anger cruise through his veins. Anger and fear. The taste of it was sour in his mouth. He wasn’t carrying a lot of money. He didn’t care much about his life. But the woman with him…

He crushed his cigarette underfoot, damning his unsteady balance, and put Nell firmly behind him.

The gang members prowled closer, making no attempt to be silent or subtle. Light gleamed from their chains, their belt buckles, their eyes. Joe shifted his weight to take their attack.

And then Nell’s clear voice piped behind him, “Benny? How’s your mother? Are her bunions still bothering her?”

The two boys in front of Joe stopped, confused. Nell stepped forward, smiling, and took Joe’s arm.

“Benny’s mother works in retail sales,” she explained. “So she’s on her feet all day. She was in a lot of pain when she first came to the clinic.”

She smiled again at the taller of the two toughs blocking the sidewalk, holding Joe’s arm tight against her breast so he couldn’t swing, couldn’t move without hurting her. He could feel her heart pounding against his arm.

“How is she?” she asked again, her tone relaxed and solicitous. “Are those new shoes helping?”

The young man looked down at the sidewalk and over at his friends. “Yeah,” he said finally. “She’s doing okay.”

“Good,” Nell said. “You tell her to come see me if she has any more problems. She can come after work. We’re open until seven Mondays and Thursdays.”

The gangbanger shuffled his feet. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You’ll tell her?” Nell pressed.

The tough standing next to him, the one with the tattoo on his cheek, snickered.

Benny silenced him with a glare. “Yeah. I’ll tell her.”

Nell nodded. “All right. Good night, then.”

She started forward, still hugging Joe’s arm so that he had no choice but to fall into step beside her. Pain lanced his ankle every time his foot hit the pavement. He could feel the faint tremor of Nell’s body as she pressed against his arm.

But her steps never faltered. In the orange glare of the streetlights, her red cape gleamed like a military cloak, like an archangel’s wings.

No one followed them.

Joe shook his head. It was almost enough to make a man believe in miracles again.

Chapter 3

Melody King turned twenty-four today, and the nurses were throwing her a party on their lunch break. The office manager had had few opportunities to celebrate in her young life, and few people to celebrate with. A runaway at seventeen, an addict at eighteen, pregnant and in rehab at twenty, Melody had come to Nell straight from community college.

Nell had known she was taking a risk in hiring the inexperienced single mother. But, fresh from her own humiliation at the hospital, Nell had been determined to provide the younger woman with a second chance. And today, watching Melody’s thin face light in the glow of a single candle, Nell prayed her gamble had paid off.

As Melody cut her cake, Nell kept an eye out the window for the police. After checking and rechecking the lists last night, she’d called them herself this morning. But what would her discovery mean to the nurses crowding around Melody’s desk? What would her decision cost her?

“Cake?” offered Billie.

Nell’s stomach lurched uneasily. “No, thanks.”

“Nice flowers,” Lucy Morales said, nodding at the daisy bouquet by Melody’s computer. “Who are they from?”

Melody blushed. “Dr. Jim.”

James Fletcher, volunteer pediatrician, acknowledged stud muffin and all-around good guy. His offering raised eyebrows and knowing grins around the nurses’ circle.

“It’s not like that,” Melody insisted with quiet dignity. “He’s just being nice.”

“Bet that’s your favorite present, though,” teased Lucy.

Nell came to the office manager’s rescue. “No, her favorite present is from her other admirer. Show them, Melody.”

Proudly, Melody showed off the birthday card her three-year-old daughter had made at day care.

“Pretty,” Billie approved. “Trevor’s nine, and I swear that boy still can’t be trusted with scissors.”

Billie’s nephew Trevor had sickle-cell disease. His mother couldn’t afford health insurance, and Billie brought the boy to the clinic for treatment.

While the nurses oohed and aahed over the card, Nell asked quietly, “How’s Trevor doing?”

Billie smile was strained. “He’s managing. That’s all we can hope for, right? We all manage.”

A black-and-white police car pulled to the curb by the fire hydrant. Nell’s pulse kicked up.

One of the nurses glanced out at the flashing lights. “Wow. This is turning into quite a party.”

“I’ve got it,” Nell said.

“If they’re cute, offer them some cake,” Lucy called.

Nell hurried to open the front door as two officers—solid, uniformed, with matching gaits and hair-cuts—climbed out of the car and approached.

“How’s it going, Nell.” The first cop wiped his brow with his forearm before resettling his checkerboard hat. “Heard you had a little problem.”

“Hi, Tom.” She smiled. One of the beat cops, Tom Dietz had worked with Nell on a domestic-violence awareness program last year. She liked him.

“Nell Dolan,” she said, offering her hand to the younger man looming beside him. She didn’t remember meeting him before, but his rugged good looks were vaguely familiar. A definite cake candidate. “And you are…?”

The second officer’s grip was warm and firm, his smile friendly. “Mike Reilly. Nice to meet you.”

Her mouth dried. He couldn’t be.

They think you’re a cop, she’d said to Joe Reilly yesterday.

Not me. My brother.

Nell’s heart banged against her ribs. She could deal with this, she told herself. She could deal with anything.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said faintly as she led them away from Melody’s birthday party and back to her office cubicle, crammed in behind a wall of filing cabinets. “I think I know your brother.”

“Yeah?” The young cop looked delighted. “Will or Joe?”

Her last hope wheezed and died like a patient taken off the respirator.

“Joe,” Nell said. “The reporter?”

Mike Reilly beamed. “That’s Joe. He was with the Seventh Marines when they entered Baghdad. Did you read his—”

Tom Dietz rolled his eyes. “When you’re done with the stories from the front, Reilly, do you mind if we take a preliminary statement?”

The young man flushed. Nell smiled at him.

Joe Reilly’s brother. Oh, dear.

The last thing she wanted compromising her PR efforts was an investigation into drug theft. The last thing she needed complicating an investigation was lousy PR. The police and the press, working together, could piece together a picture of her past that could destroy everything she’d worked to create.

Tom leaned against an overflowing file cabinet and pulled out his notebook. “Why don’t you tell us what’s missing?”

Nell took a deep breath. “Drugs. I wrote out a list.” She fumbled in her pocket and offered it. The page trembled. “Schedule Three and Four painkillers, mostly. Narcotics. Darvon, Vicodin, a lot of Tylenol with codeine… I wrote them all down.”

Mike Reilly took the paper and studied it, his face suddenly hard and not so young.

“Any Schedule Twos?” Tom asked.

Methadone, he meant. Morphine. Oxycodone, rapidly becoming the most abused drug on the planet. An eighty mg tablet had a street value of up to eighty dollars.