Virginia Kantra - Guilty Secrets

Only she wasn’t confessing anything, and she no longer looked for forgiveness from the church. From anyone.

“What’s the problem?” Reilly asked.

Nell jerked her head toward the door. Reilly followed her across the room. She felt his gaze on her back like a hand.

She turned to face him, torn between apology and irritation. “You have to leave. You’re making my patients nervous.”

Reilly glanced back at the child’s mother, watching with undisguised curiosity from the row of chairs. “I was just making conversation.”

Was she being unfair to him? “You were asking questions.”

“So?”

“So, they think you’re a cop.”

“Not me,” he said. “My brother.”

Nell nearly groaned.

She liked cops. Most cops. Most of the time, nurses and cops were on the same side of the fence, separated from the public who depended on and distrusted them. They shared the same exhaustion, the same frustration, the same brand of black humor. But at this moment, with Ed Johnson frantically counting units of Vicodin, Meperidine and Oxycodone in the back room, Nell regarded the police with the same deep misgiving she felt toward…well, toward the press.

She moistened her lips. “Your brother is a police officer?”

Reilly nodded.

“Here in Chicago?”

He cocked his head. “Yeah. But we don’t talk much, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

She stiffened. “I’m not worried.”

“Scared, then.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

Reilly shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Prove it,” he repeated, his gaze steady on her face. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

Hello. That came totally out of left field. He’d flirted with that child’s mother more than he had with her.

“Why?” Nell asked suspiciously.

He raised both eyebrows. “You need a reason to have dinner?”

“I need a reason to have dinner with you. I don’t know you.”

“You can get to know me over dinner.”

She shook her head, at least as flattered as she was intimidated by his invitation. “Thanks, but—”

“I write a much better story when I’m familiar with my subject.”

“I am not your subject.”

His eyes laughed at her. “So, we’ll talk about your clinic. I’ll even bring my notebook.”

He stood there, smiling and sure and annoying as hell. She had to get rid of him without tipping him off or pissing him off.

“Fine,” she said abruptly. “I’m out of here at seven.”

“Long day,” he observed.

“Yes.” And then, because she needed to have the last word, she said, “And now it will be a long night.”

His smile spread slowly, making the heat bloom in her cheeks.

“We can hope,” Reilly said.

She was late.

Nell’s bag slapped against her hip as she turned to tug the clinic door closed. Her purse was stuffed with printouts of all the prescription medicines donated by pharmaceutical companies and their reps, all the drugs purchased and all the painkillers dispensed by the pharmacy in the past three months. Tonight she’d crunch the numbers and reassure herself that there were no slipups, no mistakes in the clinic’s accounting of controlled substances.

She couldn’t afford a mistake.

Not another one.

Reilly was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the clinic, one shoulder propped against the dirty brick. He straightened when he saw her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in concern. Or suspicion.

Nell stitched a smile on her face that would have done justice to a corpse at a wake. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”

“That’s a reporter’s trick,” he observed.

She tested the door handle to make sure it was locked. “What?”

“Answering a question with another question.” Reilly smiled winningly. “Cops do it, too.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Nell said. Her bag weighed on her shoulder, heavy as conscience.

“You’re late.”

“We had a little excitement at the end of the day.” She’d spent the past half hour closeted with Ed, painstakingly checking and rechecking his inventory numbers.

Reilly strolled toward her. “What kind of excitement?”

She shrugged. “Our ultrasound machine is on the fritz.” That much, at least, was true. “One of our patients has a possible fibroid, and I had to convince her to go to the E.R.”

“Is that bad?”

“It is if she decides not to make the trip. Most of our patients aren’t poor enough to qualify for Medicaid, but that doesn’t mean they can afford a visit to the emergency room.” She looked at him pointedly. “We really need new diagnostic equipment.”

Reilly stuck his hands in his pockets. “Is this a date or a fund-raising drive?”

“You invited me to dinner to talk about the clinic.”

“I invited you to dinner,” he agreed. “Do you want a ride or would you rather follow me in your car?”

“I don’t have a car,” Nell said.

Reilly started walking along the sidewalk. Sauntering, really. “We’ll take mine, then.”

He was too agreeable. Slippery, Nell thought ominously. And way too confident, the kind of man who equated sharing an after-dinner cup of coffee with after-dinner sex.

She stopped under a street light. “I don’t get into cars with strange men.”

Reilly stopped, too. “That’s going to make getting to the restaurant difficult.”

Nell offered him a crooked smile. She didn’t want to alienate him. She just wanted to keep things on her terms. On her turf.

“Not if we walk,” she said.

He rocked back on his heels, surveying the street, three- and four-story apartments over storefronts protected by iron bars and sliding grills: a used bookstore, a TV repair shop, a thrift store with a baby swing in the window. On the corner, the Greek market had closed for the night, the fruits and vegetables carted inside, the wooden shutters pulled down to the counters.

“You know someplace to eat around here?”

“I know a lot of places,” she said. “Do you have a problem with walking?”

He looked at her, his eyes blank, his mouth a tight line. And then he flashed another of his easy smiles.

“Not if we walk slowly. I’m basically a lazy bastard.”

Nell sniffed. She’d been on her feet all day. “I’ll try not to jog.”

“Then lead the way.”

She was very conscious of the grate of his shoes against the concrete, the whisper of her rubber soles. The gutter was littered with last fall’s leaves and last week’s trash. Bare trees raised black branches to the light. A car prowled by, its stereo thumping. A woman called. A television spilled canned laughter through an open window. By a Dumpster between two buildings was a furtive movement, quickly stilled; something, human or animal, foraging in the dark.

Nell shivered and pulled her cloak tighter.

“What’s with the Red Riding Hood getup?” Reilly asked.

“What? Oh.” She glanced down at her long red wool and then over at his safari jacket. “Fashion advice from the crocodile hunter?”

“Hey, my jacket’s practical. Lots of pockets.”

“My cape is practical, too.”

“No pockets,” he pointed out.

“It’s warm.”

“So’s a down parka.”

“Warm and recognizable,” she amended.

“Is that important to you? Being recognized?”

She didn’t want him to think she was after publicity for herself. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“It can be,” she answered carefully. “Sometimes if I’m working late, or I have to go out at night, the cape is useful. Like a uniform.”

“Because you might be asked to help somebody.”

Nell hesitated. “Yes.”