RITA HERRON
UNDER HIS SKIN

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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For Kim Nadelson: my former editor who still reads me

even though she doesn’t have to!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Grace Gardener hesitated outside Detective Parker Kilpatrick’s hospital room, nerves fluttering in her stomach. She had to find out who had murdered her brother.

The police were wrong. Bruno had not killed himself. He wouldn’t take his own life. Not and leave her alone.

Ever since her parents’ murder twenty years ago, she had practically raised him. And he had vowed to find out the truth about their deaths. Had that investigation gotten him killed?

Maybe Detective Kilpatrick could help her.

Although he was still recovering from the terrible fire that had put him in the hospital, he was alert, and he could ask around.

She had to be careful and guard her emotions, though. For some insane reason, the detective rattled her nerves. But she refused to get involved with a detective, not after losing two loved ones to the job.

For heaven’s sake, he’d only been with the Savannah Police Department a short time and he’d ended up at death’s door, and now in the hospital.

With a shudder, she remembered the night they’d wheeled Parker into the ER. He’d been injured trying to save a woman’s life in a fire. A hero, but he’d suffered second-and third-degree burns, had a collapsed lung and crushed leg. Had nearly flatlined. She’d held his hand and called to him, urging him to fight for his life, and miraculously they’d revived him.

And when he’d opened his amber eyes and looked at her, even glazed with pain, she’d felt an odd chemistry between them. A chemistry she hadn’t felt with a man in a long time.

She clenched her hands; she was the delirious one. She’d simply connected to him because of his close call with death, the excitement of bringing him back and knowing that she would play a part in his recovery.

But he’d barked at her over the next few weeks and thrown her out of his room more than once, refusing her help. Still, she’d held on to her patience because she’d understood his frustration.

He was an alpha male who liked being in charge, and he’d been robbed of his independence. Her brother and father had been tough as nails like him, and would have responded the same way to being physically incapacitated.

Remembering them again sobered her, so she knocked on the door. When she heard his gruff voice, she stepped inside. For a brief moment she paused, her breath catching at the sight of him standing on his own. He was over six feet and had powerful shoulders, now encased in a dark blue T-shirt that emphasized his muscular physique. Thick, wavy dark brown hair framed an angular face constantly darkened by beard stubble, and though a scar ran along his temple, his face, thank God, had not suffered burns.

She remembered seeing him half-naked when she’d tended to him, and her stomach quivered. Even in a hospital gown, he was the best-looking masculine specimen she’d ever met. She’d wanted to soothe his pain, to heal him with her hands, and had admired his fierce determination and insistence that the doctors were wrong, that he’d show them all and walk again.

“What are you doing here?”

A small smile tilted her lips at his surly tone. “Nice to see you, too, Parker. I just dropped by to check on your progress.”

His jaw tightened, and a flicker of something that resembled pain flared in his eyes as he walked toward her. He wasn’t using the crutches, although he probably should be. “I’m fine, as you can see. Now you can go.”

“Ah. I forgot you don’t like company.”

“I’m a cop, not into chitchat.”

Right, the cop part. He was antsy to get back to the job. To put his life on the line again to save others.

And possibly end up right back here or worse, dead like her brother and father. She still didn’t understand what drove them to put themselves in danger, and make their loved ones worry and suffer.

She spotted the newspaper on the bed, noted the story about the missing bodies from the morgues and the story about the body she’d found at the graveyard the night before when she’d stopped by to visit Bruno’s grave.

Nightmares of the man’s blank eyes staring at her in death haunted her all night. “I see you’re keeping up with the crime in Savannah.”

For a moment concern warmed his eyes. “Yeah, I saw the story. Are you all right?”

She nodded, moved by the slight tenderness in his husky voice. “I hope they find whoever left his body. That poor man didn’t deserve to be desecrated like that.”

“My partner’s on the case. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. He’d just given her an opener. “I spoke with Captain Black about my brother’s death. But he said they still don’t know anything. And I’m not convinced that he believes me.”

He shrugged, drawing the T-shirt tighter across his massive chest while the cotton running shorts he wore slid down to reveal his flat stomach. Dark hair was broken by patches that had been singed off, and scars discolored the bronzed skin, but they were healing.

“Captain Black is a good guy. He’s trying to find out the truth, Grace. So what are you really doing here?”

She stared at him for a long moment, debating over whether to leave or ask for his help like she’d originally intended. If she did ask, would he tell her to stay out of it as his captain had, or would he help her?

PARKER SILENTLY CURSED himself for his rudeness. Grace Gardener had dragged him back from the brink of death, and while he’d been trapped like a sick animal in ICU, her gentle hands had tended to his injuries and helped him with routine tasks that no man wanted a woman’s help with.

The very reason he could barely look her in the face.

He wanted her bad. Wanted her like a man wanted a woman. To strip her clothes, feel her curvy body naked and writhing beneath his. Wanted to hear that sultry voice whispering his name in the heat of passion, not sympathy.

Yet she’d seen him at his most vulnerable. Thought of him as the poor, sick, scarred, crippled man who needed to lean on her small frame just to walk to the damn bathroom.

A big man like him shouldn’t be leaning on anyone, much less a female half his size.

The reason he had to get rid of her. If she stayed much longer, looking so soft and sweet, making him need her in other ways than as a physical crutch, he’d make a fool out of himself.

“Go home, Grace. You helped patch me up, your job is over.”

She nodded. “I just wanted to see how the leg was doing.”

His mouth thinned but he shrugged. “I’ll be jogging out of here soon.”

She laughed softly. “I’m sure you will.”

The conviction in her voice offered him hope just as her comforting words in the ER had. As if to contradict him though, his leg suddenly seized up. A sharp agonizing pain split his calf and bolted up toward his spine, and sweat broke out all over his body. He felt dizzy and gritted his teeth, praying she’d leave before he did something embarrassing like pass out on her. Or end up on the floor where he’d have to crawl back to the bed.

She obviously saw the pain he desperately tried to hide, and eased toward him. “Sit down, Parker. You’ve probably been overdoing it again with your therapy.”

He had been pushing himself beyond the requirements but was determined to get back on his feet, literally.

The pain intensified, the room growing fuzzy. In spite of his resolve, he gripped the metal rail of the bed to steady himself and tried to move toward it. She was beside him in a flash, slid one hand beneath his arm and helped him take the agonizing steps back to the bed. She said nothing as he lowered himself onto the mattress, but when he tried to lift his injured leg to stretch it out, the muscles were so knotted and bunched, that he had to bend over to work out the spasm. She stooped and began to massage the muscle, her fingers deftly working magic. Then she helped him straighten his leg on the bed. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and she offered a tentative smile, then once again kneaded his cramped calf.

He clenched his jaw to keep from moaning and wiped sweat from his upper lip, battling the need to order her to stop, but her hands felt so damn wonderful that he couldn’t bear to ask her to quit. Like he had so many other times, he wanted those hands on him in other places. Places that hadn’t been touched in forever.

You’re a weak man, his father had told him as he’d tried to beat some sense into him.

Damn it, he was right. And Parker hated it.

A knock sounded at the door and one of the surgeons who’d operated on Parker, a lean, ash-blond man named Dr. Wilson Whitehead, poked his head in. He glanced at Grace and his brows arched as if he was surprised to see her in the room, especially sitting on the side of his bed rubbing Parker’s leg.

“Parker?”

Parker pushed Grace’s hands away and crossed his arms. She stood, a flash of contrition in her eyes as if she’d been caught behaving unprofessionally when she’d simply been doing her job.

“Grace?”

She nodded in greeting. “Dr. Whitehead.”

Again, a look of question darkened his eyes, and Parker’s senses jumped to alert. The doctor was interested in Grace. Were they involved?

Humiliation crawled up his spine for even thinking she might be attracted to him. A gorgeous woman like her probably had men chasing her all the time. Healthy men like Dr. Whitehead with a boatload of money, men who could wine and dine her, not a scarred guy with a bad attitude and a life that had no room for anything but tracking criminals. A job that would only put her in danger.

“What’s going on?” Parker asked.

Dr. Whitehead stepped farther into the room and approached the bed. His gray eyes bore into Parker’s, serious and filled with the same professional detached expression that he wore when he’d informed Parker he’d never walk again.

He had bad news. Just how bad?

Parker’s patience disintegrated. “I asked you what the hell is going on.”

Dr. Whitehead stuffed his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. “I’ve reviewed your last tests, and they’re not good. You’re not healing as well with the new tendons as I’d expected.”

Not news to him. He wanted to heal faster, too.

“I’ve just learned that we have a tissue recall,” the doctor continued. “The tissue you received is part of that recall.”

“What’s wrong with the tissue?” Parker asked.

“It wasn’t processed properly. That may be the reason for your lack of progress.”

“So this new tissue might work better?”

“Exactly.”

“This means another surgery?”

“Yes, another transplant.”

Parker grimaced, the reality setting in. More surgery meant an extended hospital stay, a longer recovery. More rehab.

A more lengthy leave of absence before he could return to work and be a whole man.

He cut his gaze toward Grace and wondered if she’d known, if she’d come because she felt sorry for him and wanted to see how he’d handle the news.

Not because she liked him personally.

Hell, he’d take the surgery if it meant a chance his leg might recover.

But he wouldn’t accept Grace’s pity or delude himself into thinking that she might be attracted to him—not ever again.

Chapter Two

Grace saw the wheels turning in Parker’s head. Frustration lined his face, as well as pain, and the realization of what another surgery meant.

A setback in his recovery.

Yet the hope that the unhealthy tissue was the reason for his slow progress also glittered in his eyes. And the bad tissue had to be removed. That was a given.

He angled his face toward the doctor. “Do you really think this surgery will make a difference?”

Dr. Whitehead gave a clipped nod. “Yes. The contaminated tissue most likely caused the irritation in your leg, the constant discomfort and the subsequent infection.”

Parker seemed to assimilate the doctor’s comments, then he released a heavy sigh full of resignation. “All right, when do we do it?”

“The sooner, the better. How about first thing in the morning?”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Dr. Whitehead nodded. “I’ll talk to the nurses and make sure they have you prepped and ready.”

He grimaced. “Great.”

Dr. Whitehead turned to her. “Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Walk out with me?”

“Sure. Just give me a minute.”

Parker’s amber eyes pierced her. “Go, Grace. Guess I’d better rest up before the next carving.”

Her heart squeezed for him. But how many times did he have to tell her to leave before she got the message?

Besides, how could he help her now? He would need rest, to recuperate…

She was on her own.

“All right. Good luck tomorrow.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “I’ll stop by to check on you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s my job,” she said defensively. Although she knew she was lying. There were other nurses just as capable. She didn’t have to follow up on his recovery, didn’t have to visit him. Didn’t have to even think about him once he left her care.

But occasionally a patient got under her skin. And while she’d tended to Parker, she’d started to care for him. She not only wanted his help with her brother’s case, but she wanted to see him heal, to regain full use of his leg, because she admired him. She’d never seen a patient so determined to beat the odds and regain his mobility. Any part she played in that progress gave her a sense of accomplishment.

He picked up the newspaper, effectively cutting her off, and she sighed. The most difficult cases were the most challenging, but the most rewarding.

But she wouldn’t throw herself at the man, not when as soon as he recovered, he’d return to the police force. To a job that she hated. One that would most likely get him killed.

So she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

“I was surprised to find you visiting Parker Kilpatrick,” Wilson said.

Grace hesitated. The doctor had expressed interest in her more than once. Had hinted at lunch a couple of times, but she’d managed to avoid a direct rejection.

“I like to follow up on my patients,” she said.

“Are you sure it isn’t because he’s a cop?”

His question rubbed her the wrong way. He knew she’d suffered over her brother’s death. “I take my job very seriously, Dr. Whitehead. Parker has had a tough go of it, and I want to see him make a full recovery.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Grace. You’re a wonderful nurse.” His smile softened. “That’s one of the qualities I admire most about you. That and your legs.”

Buttering her up with a compliment should have made her feel good. Instead she took a step backward. Although she normally didn’t date people she worked with, she had entertained the idea of going out with him.

But a few moments earlier, when she’d seen him standing beside Parker, she had been drawn to Parker instead. Even though he was injured, struggling to recover, and had scars, Wilson Whitehead paled in comparison.

“How about dinner?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m really tired tonight.”

“Grace—”

“Maybe another time, Wilson.” She rubbed her temple, feigning a headache. “I’d better go.” She rushed away before he could respond.

She was tired, and wanted to get to bed early for the morning shift. Whether Parker wanted her nearby for his surgery or not, she intended to be there.

And if he did recover, maybe he’d take her brother’s case. Until then, she had to dig around on her own.

PARKER CURSED as Grace shut the door. Damn it, he shouldn’t have been so brusque, but knowing she’d seen him at his weakest was more than he could bear. And now the thought of undergoing another surgery, more rehab….

He slammed his fist into his pillow, wanting to vent his rage.

But he’d been taught control, he had to exert it now. Irritated at himself for his outburst, he reined in his temper. He refused to give in to despair.

He would endure the surgery, the pain afterward, then walk again, and he’d do it without those cursed crutches.

Maybe the contaminated tissue had impeded his recovery, and this new surgery would do the trick. Then he could resume his life.

He was nothing without his work.

Frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t help with the body-snatcher investigation, he hobbled off the bed, then slowly shuffled over to the small desk in the corner of the room. At least the rehab facility at the Coastal Island Research Park offered more than a plain hospital room, and they had wireless Internet services. Since many of the patients required long-term care, the center encouraged patients to continue their work if possible, and had provided accommodations to ensure that possibility through modern technology.

He booted up the computer, then accessed the police databases and searched for stories about the missing corpses to see if there were other similar cases in the South or across the States. Several cropped up, so he methodically accessed each one.

The stories of necromancy made his skin crawl—two had occurred in Savannah four years earlier, three in Atlanta, and numerous others in New Orleans and across the States. Most had been solved, although one case in the hills of North Carolina had never been closed.

A satanic cult in the Tennessee mountains had also stolen bodies to burn as a sacrifice. A case in eastern Kentucky noted a serial killer who dismembered corpses after he killed the victims—the killer had been tried and convicted, and was now on death row.

Some bodies had been stolen from morgues around Halloween for pranks. Other cases involved stealing comatose patients for organs to sell on the black market.

A schizophrenic man in North Carolina had stolen corpses because he swore he heard voices telling him to turn them into vampires.

He paused, rubbed his hand over his face. Even though he’d been a cop for years, the depravity of humans still stunned him.

Having read about the questionable projects a few doctors had been involved with at CIRP, he ran a search for medical purposes for which a corpse could be used. Research experiments and medical educational facilities topped the list. But those bodies were donated to science, not stolen. There was no report indicating they had a shortage of donors for either.

Knowing any one of the above could be the motive for the current body snatcher, or that they might be dealing with yet a different scenario, he made a note of the various motives.

One of the nurses poked her head in. “Mr. Kilpatrick?”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Whitehead suggested I give you a sleeping pill to help you relax before your surgery tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a pill.”

She shrugged. “All right, but I’ll be in to get you bright and early.”

Her cheerful smile irritated him. “Fine. I’ll be here,” he mumbled. As if he’d be anywhere else.

He checked the morgues housing the bodies for reports of impropriety but found nothing. In spite of his resolve to work, exhaustion wore on him. Another downside of his injuries; he’d yet to regain his stamina. And he would need his energy to force himself to endure the agonizing therapy following tomorrow’s ordeal.

Within seconds after his head hit the pillow he faded into sleep, but images of Grace’s blue eyes flashed into his mind. He didn’t need her at his side, but he couldn’t help but wish she’d show up anyway. Just hearing her voice before he went under the knife would give him comfort.

DARK STORM CLOUDS HOVERED in the sky, obliterating the moon and stars as Grace drove to Tybee Island and the cottage her parents had owned. Thunder rumbled and lightning crisscrossed the darkness above the palm trees, signs of an impending storm.

Grace hated storms. There had been a terrible one the night her parents died.

Worse, all the Halloween decorations in town and on the island reminded her of the ghost stories and legends of pirates and lost souls in the area, adding to her paranoia.

She tried to focus on the reason she’d moved back to the cottage—because it was so peaceful. She craved the lulling sound of the ocean in the background, the warm fall air, the smell of the marsh and the sway of the palm trees in the late-night breeze. During the summer months when most of the cottages were inhabited, either by homeowners or renters, the island came alive with bikers, joggers, walkers and children. But fall sent vacationers home, and the island felt isolated, even deserted and eerie at times.

Especially at the end of the street tucked back into the cove where she lived.

Tonight, in light of the ghouls and goblins hanging on door fronts and trees, the recent wave of vandalism and stories of missing corpses, she felt on edge, as if someone was watching her. Someone who was waiting in the shadows, ready to leap out and grab her.

Maybe she shouldn’t have returned to her parents’ home. It had stirred all kinds of memories. But pleasant ones mingled with the sad. The rare times when her father had taken vacation days, rented a fishing boat and taken her and Bruno fishing in the inlet. The crabbing expeditions in the marsh. The long walks on the beach searching for sea turtles and shells. Building sand sculptures and flying kites in the spring.

Although her parents hadn’t died in this house, she thought about them more and more since she’d returned.

She parked in the clamshell drive, lifted her hair off her neck to let the breeze brush her skin as she let herself in the cottage. The wind chimes on the front porch tinkled, and inside, lavender and cinnamon scented the air. Remembering the figure running into the woods the night before at the graveyard, she paused in the doorway, listening for an intruder. What if the man in the woods thought she had seen him?

What if he came looking for her?

Chapter Three

Shivering, Grace flipped on the TV and checked the news while she ate a salad. Maybe they’d found the culprit and he was in jail now.

The report was already midway: “Tonight, we’ve had another case of what the police believe to be vandalism.” The camera panned to a cemetery outside of town. “Someone flooded the graveyard by Shiloh Church, saturating the ground so badly that several feet of dirt washed away and caskets have risen to the surface. A Halloween prank or is someone robbing graves now?”

Grace frowned and waited to see if they mentioned the corpse from the night before, but the reporter spent most of the segment on interviews at the church scene. Sighing, she chided herself for worrying, took her salad plate to the sink, rinsed it and stuck it in the dishwasher, then stepped outside on the back patio. The smell of the marsh assaulted her, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore filled her ears. But thunder rattled her nerves, and the wind brought the whisper of her brother’s voice.

“Help me…”

She froze. She must have imagined the words, had been thinking about Bruno too much lately because of these missing corpses.

That and the fact that his killer had never been caught.

Suddenly exhausted, she went back inside, stripped her clothes and slipped into a cool, cotton nightshirt. For a brief moment she allowed herself to think about Parker Kilpatrick, and imagined him beside her, watching her undress. Imagined him smiling as he ran his hands over her bare breasts. Imagined him erasing thoughts of dead bodies and replacing them with an erotic night of lovemaking.

But the image of his frown when he’d told her to leave returned, drowning out the fantasy, and she crawled into bed, reminding herself that nothing could happen between them.

He was a cop. She’d lost her mother and the two most important men in her life, everyone she had ever loved, to the job, and she refused to take the chance on that again. Besides, he wasn’t interested in her.

Feeling claustrophobic, she left the window open so she could feel the breeze and hear the waves during the night and soon fell into a deep sleep.

But rest didn’t come. Instead nightmares of her childhood did.

THE STORM RAGED outside, shaking the walls and beating the thin windowpanes. She was seven years old, huddled in bed with her teddy bear, trying to drown out the noise by covering her ears with her hands. Her little brother had gone to a friend’s for the night, and she wanted to climb in bed with her parents, but her daddy told her earlier she had to be a big girl.

Her chin wobbled as she fought tears. Suddenly a loud boom split the air. The storm?

It sounded like thunder. No…someone had screamed.

Her heart pounding, she slipped from bed and padded toward the door to the den. Mommy would hold her and make everything all right. Would keep her safe from the storm, and tell her the screams were all in her head.

But when she peered through the crack in the door to the den, she saw her parents hovering together on the sofa. Her mommy was crying.

Then she saw the other man. A big guy in black clothes with a ski mask over his face. He was waving a gun at her parents.

Another streak of lightning fell across the room and he shoved her father back onto the sofa and pointed the gun at his head.

Her mother screamed, then a gunshot blasted the air. Blood splattered the floor and walls. Grace closed her eyes and sank to the floor in horror, then covered her ears as a second shot blasted.

Without looking she knew her parents were dead.

TIME TO GO under the knife.

Parker grimaced as the first strains of daylight stole into the hospital room. In spite of his resolve not to get involved with Grace Gardener, he searched the faces of the nurses for her sea-blue eyes. Another nurse prepped him for surgery and when she started to give him a shot to relax him before they transported him to the operating room, he finally accepted that Grace wasn’t coming.

She had given up on being his friend. He’d driven her away.

Good. He didn’t need or want her hovering over him. Doing him any favors. Smiling at him like he meant something special to her when she probably treated all her patients the same way.

Besides, he knew she wanted answers about her brother’s death. Answers he didn’t have. As soon as he’d joined the precinct, the serial arsonist had struck and he and his partner had been swamped with the case.

But when he got back on track, he’d investigate and see what he could find out about Bruno’s death. All he’d heard when he’d replaced the investigating cop was that Bruno had committed suicide, although some of the locals suspected he hadn’t killed himself. He’d been found with a bullet in his head and had fallen over a cliff. They wouldn’t have a body if a storm hadn’t washed it back in. Which made him suspicious.

That was probably the only reason Grace had been so friendly. She wanted his help.

Still, he felt a tug of disappointment in his chest that she hadn’t dropped by to see him this morning. Hadn’t he learned? People only used you when they needed something. Promises were only words that were broken.

The medicine kicked in and his head became fuzzy, the room a kaleidoscope of beige on white that swirled in a drunken haze.

Suddenly two blue circles appeared in the haze. Grace’s smiling eyes. Then her angelic voice penetrated the fog, calling his name.

“You’re going to do great, Parker,” she whispered. “And when this is over, you’ll heal just like you want. One day you’ll walk out of here and we’ll never see you again.”

He smiled, or at least he thought he did. His face felt funny, as if it was melting clay, and his lips seemed gluey, his tongue thick as if it was swollen inside his mouth.

“I’ll see you when you wake up.” She squeezed his hand and he tried to squeeze back to let her know he heard, that he appreciated her visit, but he didn’t know if he’d actually moved his fingers.

Then they were rolling him into a room with bright lights. The operating room. A mask slid over his face. Faces blurred, voices became a rumbling echo, distant and indiscernible.

Slowly the world faded into nothingness, where he dreamed about death. He was being buried but someone had stolen his body from the casket…

GRACE TRIED NOT TO WORRY about Parker during the surgery—after all, this was routine compared to the condition he’d been in when he’d first been admitted. But something about the tissue recalls disturbed her.

What exactly was the problem with the initial tissues? Although the hospital was affiliated with CIRP and took advantage of all the cutting-edge techniques, it had an impeccable reputation. The area had become a hubbub of high-tech medical research, and patients came from all over the States to utilize the latest treatments available. Sometimes in desperation, they agreed to new treatments offered through the research projects as a last resort.

But these tissue transplants were fairly common. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with the hospitals but with the tissue banks.

She spent the morning tending to other patients, and when the orderlies wheeled Parker to ICU after he was released from recovery, she rushed to check on his condition. He was breathing fine, his vitals were normal, and he had come through the surgery with flying colors. He didn’t need her, just a nurse to take care of routine tasks.

So why did she stay close to his side all morning? Why did she run every time she heard his breathing turn erratic or hear him moan in pain?

Furious with herself, she allowed another nurse to help him walk the first time. And when they transported him to a regular room, she was relieved. No more making a fool of herself over the man. He was on his own.

Still, the questions concerning the tissue transplants needled her. When she stepped into the hospital lounge for a midmorning cup of coffee, two surgical nurses hovered together in low conversation. “So far, we’ve had at least twenty patients affected,” one of the nurses said.

“The hospital will get flack for this,” the other nurse muttered.

“I just hope the police don’t ask questions,” the first nurse said.

“Why would they?”

“With this many patients involved, and with one of them a cop, the press will have a heyday. There’ll probably be lawsuits.”

Suddenly they spotted her and clammed up. But the rest of the morning, their conversation haunted Grace.

When she slipped into the hospital cafeteria for lunch, she spotted Dr. Whitehead and his colleague Dr. Nigel Knightly in deep conversation. She grabbed a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of sweet tea, half hoping to avoid Wilson Whitehead, but he cornered her and insisted she join them for lunch.

Dr. Knightly had performed Parker’s surgery so she decided to broach the subject of the tissue transplant with him. “The surgery with Parker Kilpatrick went okay?”

“Yes, it was a success,” Dr. Knightly said.

“This tissue was checked prior to surgery so we don’t expect any more problems,” Dr. Whitehead added.

She sipped her tea. “Did you get any more details on the recalled tissue?”

Dr. Knightly shrugged. “It wasn’t processed properly after extraction. That causes infection, rejection in some cases, and in one case now the patient has reacted, become septic and a limb had to be amputated.”

“Where do you think the problem originated?” she asked, digging for more information.

Dr. Whitehead arched his blond brows. “Why are you so interested, Grace?”

“Patients ask questions,” she replied quickly. “Sometimes they’re afraid or hesitant to go to the doctors. I just want to be prepared.”

He studied her for a long moment as if assessing the truth of her statement, then offered a small smile. “The problem didn’t occur in our hospital, that’s for sure. Probably an inexperienced or sloppy lab technician who didn’t know what he was doing.”

And since more than one hospital received tissue from designated tissue banks, other facilities and patients might be affected. “Then the problems might be far more widespread than our hospital here. Have the necessary parties been notified?” Grace asked.

The doctors exchanged an odd look, then Dr. Whitehead covered her hand with his. “Yes. Now, don’t worry yourself over this, Grace. We have the situation under control.”

She tensed at his patronizing tone. And the strange look in Dr. Knightly’s eyes sent a tingle of nerves up her spine. They obviously didn’t want her asking questions about the transplants.

THE NEXT WEEK passed in a blur of pain, physical therapy and frustration for Parker. Not wanting to grow addicted to the medication, by midweek he refused the pain pills.

By Friday, his leg felt remarkably better than after the first surgery.

He walked the halls with the help of one crutch instead of two, and hoped to be transferred to the rehab facility soon.

The only downside to the transfer was that he wouldn’t get to see Grace every day. Pathetic though it was, he looked forward to the five-minute, drop-in visits that she’d carved out of her busy day for him.

Unfortunately while he’d been laid up, several more bodies had been stolen from different morgues, two of which were involved in pranks. Three others had gone missing, only to be discovered later at a different morgue or funeral home. The coroner’s office had argued improper tagging and blamed a shoddy body-moving service.

Tests were being run to see if any trace evidence had been left on the bodies.

He’d also heard whispers about other patients being brought in for tissue replacement surgeries. One man had died from an infection.

He shuddered, knowing he should be grateful. And he wanted to repay Grace by finding out the truth about her brother’s death.

Dark storm clouds cast a gray fog over the sky, the rolling thunderstorms mirroring his mood. He hadn’t been out in days and missed the sunshine on his face and the fresh air.

The barometric pressure seemed to affect his knee and made it ache. Thunder burst into a roar, and the power flickered off then back on, making him think about the hospital and potential problems if a power shortage occurred. Backup generators would kick in, but what if they lost a patient during the time that took?

Funny how he never considered those issues before he’d been imprisoned in the facility. He had too damn much time to think. Which he’d been doing a lot of. The problems with the tissue banks disturbed him. He’d heard rumors that one of the doctors might have known about the problems but used the tissue anyway.

He was taking a final spin around the hospital wing when he spotted Grace approaching him. She looked tired and agitated but so beautiful his gut tightened, and arousal speared him. At least that part of him hadn’t been injured. The only pleasurable sensation he’d experienced lately.

Unfortunately he couldn’t assuage the ache.

He had to spend all his time and energy on getting better. Returning to his job was all that mattered.

HE CHECKED the toe tags on the stiffs in the crypt, choosing the one that had been preordained for his mission, a John Doe. It was past midnight, the place was deserted, and although corpses didn’t faze him, being inside the cold room alone at night reminded him of the chilling stories his grandmother told about ghosts rising from the dead.

The heavy scent of formaldehyde and other chemicals blended into the icy air, the shadows casting ominous shades of gray across the chalky-white pallor of the deceased. Sometimes he thought he heard their voices calling from the steel tables, heard whispers of lost ones trying to rise again.

Dressed in surgical scrubs, he blended in with the other staff members as he zipped up the body bag and pushed the gurney through the side door for transport by the body movers.

There would be no rest for him tonight, though. He had work to do and only hours to perform his tasks. He’d better get started.

Chapter Four

Parker sucked in a sharp breath and walked toward Grace, proud of his progress, that he could stand upright instead of having to look up at her from a hospital bed. He’d also asked Bradford Welsh, his partner, to get him Bruno’s file so he could study it while he was recuperating.

“You look amazing,” Grace said.

He nodded, pride filling him. “The leg is feeling better.”

“Obviously the healthy tissue made a huge difference.”

Something about her tone disturbed him. “Yes. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”

She frowned. “You heard about some of the other patients?”

He nodded. “One dead of infection, and three lost limbs.”

Her eyes flickered with worry. “That never should have happened.”

He frowned. “What’s wrong, Grace?”

She glanced around the nurses’ station, then lowered her voice. “Are you up for a walk to the coffee machine?”

He’d pushed himself to the limit with his therapy this morning, and his leg was throbbing, but damned if he’d admit it. “Sure.”

She began walking down the hall, obviously slowing her gait to match his. Irritation nagged at him, but he wrestled it under control. “Okay, what’s on your mind?” he asked as they settled in a deserted corner with coffee.

“I probably shouldn’t say anything. The hospital staff doesn’t want gossip.”

“Did someone ask you to keep quiet?”

“Not exactly. But I can’t help but wonder if someone here knew the tissue was faulty and used it anyway.”

He sighed. Hadn’t he wondered the same thing? “You have a name?”

She shook her head. “Nothing definite, just hints here and there. Everyone is very hush-hush.”

“That’s no surprise. They’re probably concerned about lawsuits.”

“And criminal charges now with this man’s death,” she murmured.

“What do you think happened, Grace?” he asked bluntly.

Her troubled gaze met his, then she took a long sip of her coffee. “I’m not sure. We get the tissue from tissue banks. One of the physicians said he thinks that’s where the breakdown occurred. It was processed improperly, probably by a technician who didn’t know what he was doing.”

“But you have another theory?”

“His speculation makes perfect sense. But those missing corpses have me perplexed. I know some have been used in pranks for Halloween, but the others…”

His skin prickled. “What about them?”

“Sometimes we have live donors, but often tissue is taken from the deceased.”

Suspicion twitched at him. “You think the missing corpses are being used to extract tissue?”

“I don’t know, Parker, it’s just a thought.” She chewed her bottom lip. “There’s something else. When my brother was killed, his body went missing for two days. Eventually it turned up at a different morgue. The coroner said that it was a clerical error, but now I’m wondering…”

“Wouldn’t the autopsies show if tissue was removed?”

“Yes, although some tissue might be removed after the autopsy.”

“Didn’t the ME check the bodies after they were recovered?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just going off on a tangent. Trying to find something that isn’t there.”

“Like the fact that you don’t believe your brother killed himself?”

She gave him a withering look. “I know Bruno wouldn’t take his own life. The bullet in the head sounds like a professional hit to me. Maybe he was investigating some kind of mob crime.”

“Grace, I saw Bruno’s file. He left a suicide note. They analyzed the handwriting and it matched your brother’s—”

“Someone could have forced him to write that, and you know it.” She knotted her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles turned white. “And then for his body to go missing…”

“What did the coroner say after they recovered his body? Had it been mishandled?”

She reluctantly shook her head. “They said it hadn’t.”

Parker twisted his mouth in thought. Unless the police hadn’t told her. Sometimes they withheld details of a crime from the family and press to use later in case of an arrest.

Besides, if she was right and her brother hadn’t committed suicide, then she might also be correct about the hit.

“My partner thinks there’s a group of teens stealing the bodies,” Parker said. “He found a pentagram painted on the lawn of a local church, and dead animals left around it. They may be using the corpses in some kind of ritualistic ceremony.”

“I read something about that in the paper,” she admitted. “Sounds feasible.”

Parker wanted to console her, but didn’t know how. Not unless he found the truth. “I’ve requested the police reports on your brother’s death.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I’ll find out what happened to him, Grace. I promise.”

The relief in her eyes made his chest squeeze, although guilt plagued him. Family members always wanted to deny that one of their loved ones would commit suicide, but it happened. Men, even cops, folded under pressure.

He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn’t dare. Because touching her once wouldn’t be enough.

And he had no illusions that she wanted anything from him but answers about her brother’s case. After all, he was weak. A scarred man.

Lying in bed helpless he might have fantasized about having a woman in his life on a permanent basis.

But when he returned to the job, that was not an option.

THUNDER POPPED OUTSIDE, and lightning crackled, streaking the dark sky with jagged lines that jarred Grace from her seat.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, then glanced at Parker and saw him watching her. Good heavens, she must look like a ninny.

Still she moved away from the window. Tried to forget that all week she’d felt as if someone was following her. That she wondered if the man she’d seen in the woods at the graveyard might be after her.

If the person who’d killed her brother might want her dead because she wouldn’t leave the case alone.

She wanted to confide in Parker, but the man had enough on his plate right now. He would probably think she was paranoid if she confessed her fears.

At least he was going to look into her brother’s death.

Not that he could do a lot while recovering, but he could ask questions, maybe convince his partner to help him. She certainly hadn’t gotten anywhere on her own.

Curious about the tissue banks and the possibility of a cover-up, she decided to dig around a little after she walked Parker back to his room. She’d subtly questioned other nurses and Dr. Whitehead again, but he assured her that the hospital administrator was investigating the matter and would inform them of the results when he found the source of the problem.

So why did she sense they were hiding the truth?

Having a cop for a brother and father must have made her suspicious of everything. She didn’t trust anyone.

Parker’s face materialized, but she reminded herself that he was a detective, as well. Cops kept secrets, even from people they cared about. Her brother had. And so had her father.

Those secrets had gotten them killed.

Remembering the body she’d seen in the graveyard and the figure in the woods, she shivered. He’d been painted so grotesquely that he was probably part of a prank, but still the police weren’t sure. And they weren’t telling her anything.

Maybe she could sneak into records and find the man’s autopsy. Maybe she’d find Bruno’s and check it out, as well. She especially wanted to see the report the coroner had filed after Bruno’s body had been recovered.

Unable to rest for the questions needling her, she headed toward the records department. A crowd filled the elevator, so she waited for another. But the power blinked off, then on again, and she panicked. No way she’d get trapped in the elevator, so she darted into the stairwell.

She’d made it to the second-floor landing when the sound of something scraping broke the silence. She froze, her breathing vibrating in the quiet. Was someone in the stairwell with her? Maybe behind her?

She turned to look, but the lights blinked off again, pitching her into darkness. She swallowed hard as thunder roared, and prayed the lights would be restored immediately. But the stairwell remained cloaked in a black fog. The scent of some kind of chemical and stale air permeated the space. Then the sound of a shoe padding softly on cement broke the silence. Someone was in the stairwell with her, and they were coming toward her.

“Who’s there?” she called.

No answer.

The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end, and she called out, but again no answer. The footsteps drew closer, louder. Ominous.

Panicking, she gripped the handrail and began to feel her way down the steps. One step, two, three, her heel caught the edge and she stumbled. Her heart pounding, she grabbed the rail and steadied herself, breathing heavy. The footsteps sped up.

She had to hurry. But the whisper of a breath bathed her neck, then someone shoved her from behind.

She screamed, clawing for the railing, but her hands connected only with air.

Then she lost her balance and went careening down the staircase.

Chapter Five

Grace’s questions about the tissue transplants aroused Parker’s curiosity. Although Bradford had informed him about the Coastal Island Research Park and some unethical projects that had taken place, stealing dead bodies to remove tissues seemed far-fetched. Captain Black and Detective Clayton Fox had investigated the center for over a year. Fox had gotten too close to one case and they’d performed a memory transplant on him. For months he’d actually believed he was a guy named Cole.

Police had also exposed another experiment where children had been trained and brainwashed to be spies. A twin identity experiment had taken one of the participant’s lives, and a few months back, someone had poisoned unsuspecting people with a chemical that caused depression, delusions, agoraphobia, and eventually lead to suicide. Bradford’s wife and brother had also been subjects of a study on paranormal abilities.

Then again, the painted corpses definitely read like teenage pranks.

But worry nagged at him. He didn’t like the fact that the paper had printed Grace’s name as a possible witness to a crime. Or that they’d revealed that she was pushing the police to find her brother’s killer.

Besides, a cop would most likely eat his gun versus a bullet to his temple.

He had to know more about Bruno’s cases.

The bullet to the head fit the MO of a professional hit. Or had the killer meant to make it look that way?

Grace’s conviction that her brother had been murdered drove him to pick up the file Bradford had dropped off earlier. He flipped it open and began trying to decipher the man’s handwriting to review his past cases. Someone Bruno had arrested might have harbored a vendetta against him.

Parker jotted down the names of three convicted felons Bruno had arrested the previous year for burglary, a handful of others for petty crimes, a gang who’d robbed a bank, a woman who’d poisoned her husband with antifreeze, and a husband who’d killed his wife and kids with a gas leak.

Parker would check each of their whereabouts to see if one of them or a family member had threatened retribution after their arrest or incarceration.

According to Bruno’s notes, the brother of the man convicted of killing his own family had insisted the man was innocent and had gotten violent after the sentencing.

Parker booted up his computer, accessed the police database, and discovered the man still lived in Savannah, and that he had been arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. A .38.

The same type of gun that had killed Bruno.

Surely Captain Black had investigated the man.

He phoned Bradford and asked. “Yeah, we questioned him,” Bradford told him. “But he had an alibi for the night Bruno died. Why are you so interested?”

Good question. “His sister’s my nurse,” he admitted. “She asked me for help.”

“The sister?”

“Yeah. I know she’s talked to the captain, that she insists her brother didn’t kill himself.”

A long tense second stretched between them. “We all want the truth,” Bradford finally said. “But I’m not sure we can trust everything Grace Gardener says.”

Parker chewed the inside of his cheek. “Why not? She seems intelligent, sincere.”

“You don’t know about her past?”

“No.” But his partner’s tone jump-started his suspicions.

“Grace Gardener’s father was a cop. At age seven, she saw her parents gunned down in front of her very eyes.”

Oh, hell. “What about Bruno?”

“He was five, spending the night at a friend’s house for a birthday party. Grace went into shock and had to undergo counseling.”

“What are you saying? That Bruno’s sister is not stable?”

Another pregnant pause. “That she might be in denial. A trauma like that affected both of them. I heard Bruno say that he felt guilty for not being home during the murder.”

And that guilt could have driven the man to suicide.

“Did they find the parents’ killer?”

“No,” Bradford said. “But Bruno insisted he would.”

“Maybe he did,” Parker said. “And the killer murdered Bruno to silence him.”

And if he did, and Grace kept nosing around, the guy might come after her, too.

GRACE TRIED DESPERATELY to regain control, but lost it as she tumbled down the cement steps. She screamed, throwing out her hands, her knees slicing painfully into the sharp concrete edge, but the dark inside of the stairwell blinded her and she couldn’t see the rail. Whoever had pushed her had hit her with such force that she pitched headfirst, unable to stop until she reached the next landing, slamming into the wall.

She panted for a breath, her body trembling with shock as her muscles protested the awkward position, but she fought to rise to her knees.

She had to get up, run, escape…

But suddenly her attacker gripped her by the throat from behind. She tried to scream for help, but his fingers bit into her neck, cutting off her voice. Gasping, and struggling to pry his fingers away, she tried to remember the self-defense moves Bruno had shown her.

Lashing out, she brought one elbow up and slammed it backward into his chest, at the same time clawing at his hands. He grunted and momentarily loosened his hold. She swung backward again with her other elbow and knocked him down.

Her pulse racing, she pushed to her hands and knees, but a sharp pain splintered her ankle as she attempted to put weight on it and she nearly collapsed. Sheer determination drove her upward, though. He grunted and reached for her, but she lunged forward and stumbled down another step, pawing at the wall to guide her in the dark. The stench of stale air and sweat assailed her, making her break into a sprint. Another step. Another. She had to reach the next landing, make it into the hall…

Behind her, footsteps thudded ominously, making her chest pound with fear. Her ankle throbbed, and she hit the step edge and nearly fell, but managed to connect with the railing. Footsteps grew closer, and self-preservation took hold. She shoved the hair from her face and felt along the wall, heart racing as she stumbled to the door. Frantic, she pushed it open and fell into the corridor, tasting blood as she cried out for help.

The lights suddenly flickered on. She squinted, disoriented for a second as her eyes adjusted to the light. The hall was empty, and she jumped up and barreled around the corner. When she spotted the nurses’ station, she dived toward it.

“Help me!”

Doris, one of the head nurses on the second floor, jerked her head up. “Grace?”

She staggered toward the desk. “Someone attacked me in the stairwell. Call security!”

Doris’s eyes widened in shock, but she immediately catapulted into motion and punched the security alarm. Grace leaned against the desk, trembling and trying to steady her breathing.

Doris raced around the edge of the station. “My God, Grace, are you all right?”

She nodded and wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand.

Doris slid an arm around Grace’s waist. “Come on, honey, you need to sit down. I’ll get a doctor.”

Grace nodded, and Doris helped her to a chair behind the desk, then called one of the ER physicians.

A security guard rushed up. “What’s going on?”

Doris gestured toward Grace. “Someone attacked Grace in the stairwell.”

“He pushed me down the steps,” Grace said.

The guard flipped on his radio and reported the attack. “Secure and check all stairwells.” He turned to Grace. “Did you get a look at your attacker?”

She shook her head no. “The lights went out and it was so dark I couldn’t see anything.”

The guard gave a clipped nod, then turned and moved to the stairwell. He removed his gun and inched inside, then disappeared down the steps.

The next few minutes passed in a blur for Grace as Dr. Stoddard, one of the residents in ER, escorted her to an exam room. He examined her, took her vitals and cleaned her knees and hands.

Dr. Whitehead strode in, looking worried and agitated. “Good God, Grace. I just heard. What happened?”

She was still shaking, and hated the quiver to her voice but couldn’t control it as she relayed the details of the attack.

Who would hurt her? And why would someone try to kill her? Because she’d been asking questions about the tissue transplants? Because she’d been pushing the cops to investigate Bruno’s death?

Or because she’d possibly seen a murderer in the graveyard the night before?

PARKER WANTED TO TALK to Grace. Find out more about her parents’ murder.

But would she want to discuss it with him? Had Bruno discovered some new evidence that had gotten him killed?

He accessed the police department files and skimmed the details of that crime. Mr. and Mrs. Jim Gardener had been murdered in their home one night around midnight. Their seven-year-old daughter had witnessed the brutal shooting.

The crime photos depicted the bloody gore in vivid clarity. Blood and brain matter had splattered all over their bodies, the sofa and walls.

Grace had seen it all….

His stomach knotted, but he read on.

According to the papers, after the attack, she’d been terrified the killer would find her so she’d hidden in the attic inside a trunk filled with old clothing. She’d stayed there for hours, until morning, terrified and shivering. She’d fallen asleep, had awakened certain she’d had a terrible nightmare. But when she’d tiptoed down the stairs and looked into the den, her parents had been lying in a pool of blood and she started screaming….

He imagined Grace as a small child, innocent, sweet, trusting—her world shattered by the vicious slaying of her parents. How did a child survive an ordeal like that and be normal? How had she grown into such a caring person, nursing and taking care of others, when she’d lost so much to violence at such a young age?

He zoned in on the facts of the crime.

The Gardeners had been shot at close range in the head by a .38 automatic—the same type of gun that had killed their son. The similarity raised a red flag. Coincidence or not?

He didn’t like coincidences.

Unless Bruno’s killer wanted the cops to think that the same person was responsible, to throw them off track.

He fished through all the information he could find on the arrest in the Gardener case and realized that the police had never found any substantial leads….

No wonder Grace didn’t want the same thing to happen to her brother.

Had he been murdered, instead of taking his own life?

A commotion in the hall made him jerk his head up, and he put his computer aside, climbed from bed, then walked to the doorway. When he opened it, he saw two security guards rushing down the hall. Several nurses hovered in the central nurses’ station visible from his door.

What in the hell was going on?

A bad premonition twisted his insides and he hobbled to the knot of nurses, their hushed whispers and agitated expressions alarming him more. He searched the faces for Grace, but didn’t see her.

One of the RNs noticed him and frowned, her thick eyebrows pinching together. “Mr. Kilpatrick, all the patients need to stay in their rooms right now.”

He straightened. “What’s going on?”

“One of our nurses was attacked, and the security guards are searching the building.” She took his arm. “Please, they asked us to keep all patients out of the hallways until they’ve swept the facility.”

His heart pounded but he didn’t budge. “Who was attacked?”

She shot the other nurses a frantic look as if to call in reinforcements. “Grace Gardener.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Is she all right?”

A young nurse’s assistant closed the distance between them. “They took her to the ER. Someone tried to choke her.”

Parker’s blood ran cold. He headed to the elevator but the RN grabbed his arm. “Please, Mr. Kilpatrick—”

“Detective,” he barked as he glared down at her. “And you’re not going to stop me, miss. I’m going to see Grace right now, so step aside. This is a police investigation.”

She bristled, her shocked look turning to anger at his tactics. But he didn’t give a damn. He had to make sure Grace was all right.

Then he’d find out who in hell had assaulted her and shove his fist down the bastard’s throat.

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