Joanna Wayne - Big Shot

“As soon as he has a minute. If you’ll wait near the trauma unit nurse’s station, I’ll come for you when he’s ready.”

Jane’s voice had taken on a somber tone that set his nerves on edge.

“I’ll be there,” he said. Waiting. Worrying. Agonizing over what Dr. Levy would have to say and unable to do one thing to change it.

* * *

“M S . S INCLAIR IS EXHIBITING symptoms of a severe brain concussion.”

Durk breathed easier at Dr. Levy’s pronouncement. He was familiar with concussions, having experienced two of them while playing quarterback for the Oak Grove Wildcats. But his had been mild, and the only symptoms he remembered were a headache and vomiting all over his uniform.

“What symptoms?” he asked.

“She lost consciousness for several minutes during her exam and she is experiencing AMS—altered mental status. In Ms. Sinclair’s case she’s combative, pushing the medical team away when we try to examine her. She keeps yelling about being in a car wreck.”

“She was doing that when they brought her in,” Durk recalled.

“She’s also unable to answer simple questions or state her name.”

“Is that normal with a severe concussion?”

“It’s not unusual, especially immediately following the trauma.”

“Can you give her something to help her focus?”

“We don’t want to give her any meds at this point. Drugs would affect her neurological functioning and we want to keep a close check on those for the next few hours.”

“Exactly what do you mean when you say neurological functioning? Are there other injuries?”

“She has a relatively small hematoma behind her right ear and two cuts in her scalp that will need to be sutured. But nothing else to be concerned about.”

“What about her blood pressure? The paramedic mentioned that it was roller-coastering when they rolled her in.”

“That was most likely the result of having been Tasered. We’re monitoring that. It shouldn’t present a continuing problem.”

“And that’s it? No life-threatening injuries?”

“That’s all we know at this time. We’re in the process of scheduling a CT scan to see if there are other issues.”

Durk’s apprehension climbed again. He was fairly certain that CT scans were not the norm for a concussion. “You must have noticed some indicator that this could possibly be more severe than a concussion?”

Dr. Levy pushed his small-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’re very perceptive, Mr. Lambert.”

“But not particularly medically astute,” Durk said. “Still, I get the feeling that you’re not totally convinced that the concussion is the worst of Meghan’s condition.”

“In truth, I might have ordered a CT scan in this case just because of the severity of the concussion. But your assumption is correct. One of our residents noticed a small bruise, sometimes referred to as a battle sign, behind Ms. Sinclair’s right ear during the examination. It can indicate a fracture to the skull. It’s something we need to check out.”

“Then it’s still a matter of wait and see?”

“For now. If you’ll leave your cell phone number with Jane, I’ll call you when we know more.”

“Good, because I won’t be leaving the hospital until I hear from you.” If then. “But why this sudden decision to share Meghan’s medical information with a nonfamily member?”

“Lucy Delmar got back to us immediately. She gave us the information we needed and faxed us a release form with your name included. I can’t thank you enough for your help with that.”

“Thanks.” So Lucy had come through for him. He had an idea that her husband had convinced her to do that. He’d make sure he thanked him, as well. And he’d make a point of keeping in touch with them until Meghan was fully recovered.

He had to believe that would be soon. It was the only way he could face this without having his own spell of AMS.

Sitting and waiting had never been his style, but this time he didn’t have a choice.

When Dr. Levy left, Durk gave his cell number to Jane and then tracked Pam down again. Armed with his aunt’s room number, he made his way to the elevator.

A few hours ago, he’d been anticipating a week’s vacation at the ranch with nothing more challenging on his plate than deciding whether to take a sunrise horseback ride or sleep until noon.

Now he had a murder to contend with and a detective that clearly wasn’t convinced of his innocence. Yet all Durk could think about was Meghan Sinclair. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be exactly where he was two years ago.

His heart couldn’t take that again.

* * *

S AM S MART PACED the E.R. hallway, racking his brain to figure out how and why Durk Lambert had ended up at a murder scene. Not only was he CEO of Lambert Inc., but his family owned the oil and gas company, along with the Bent Pine Ranch and several smaller subsidiaries related to drilling operations.

Having accidentally encountered Meghan as she was being wheeled into the E.R. didn’t explain his actions, especially when he hadn’t even seen her in two years. There had to be something Sam was missing here.

Not that Meghan wasn’t the kind of woman who could get under a man’s skin and make him do crazy things. She was spunky, analytical, insightful. Not to mention incredibly sexy.

She’d have made a great homicide detective had she chosen to play by cop rules. Instead she was the frequent bane of the DPD, usurping their authority and making them look incompetent.

Sam had tangled with her himself on more than one occasion. And, yeah, he’d experienced a few pangs of lust while trying and failing to best her.

But a man like Durk Lambert had gorgeous socialites at his beck and call. Hell, the man had probably been in and out of bed with dozens of young hotties in the past two years. Not that Sam faulted him for that. He’d have done the same had he been in Durk’s shoes—or boots as was the case now.

That was another thing that concerned Sam. The cops had described the bloody clothes Durk was wearing when they encountered him at Meghan’s office. Expensive clothing, the kind a wealthy oil executive would be expected to wear.

Yet now he’d shown up at the hospital dressed like an everyday cowboy. Faded jeans. Goat-roper Western boots. A knit pullover shirt that could have come off the rack at any department store in Dallas.

If Durk was trying to give the impression that he was just a good old boy out to help a friend, Sam wasn’t buying it. Yet his story about visiting his aunt had been true. Sam had wasted no time checking that out.

He doubted Durk was the loyal friend he played at being, but that was not a good enough reason to blame the night’s violence on him.

But you could never be sure. Men with the kind of assets and power that Durk possessed had a tendency to believe they were above the law.

Maybe Durk had been trying to get back into the saddle with Meghan and discovered that Ben had replaced him. He could have fought with her and then killed Ben. The story about Durk’s handling the murder weapon for his own protection could be just a clever cover-up.

But that was a long shot at best. Meghan Sinclair had countless enemies, dangerous criminals who’d thought they were home free until she showed up. The list of suspects with motives to get back at her was practically endless.

He figured they were looking at just one suspect for both crimes, but he’d keep an open mind about that. Anyway you called it, his best bet at catching their killer would be for Meghan to identify her attacker.

But would she?

Or would she choose to bypass the police and go after the bastard herself? Sam planned to make damn sure she didn’t. He would not be outsmarted by her. Not again.