Jessica Andersen - Covert M.D.

The sound of an engine and the rhythmic beep of a truck backing into the loading dock told her that “wait” was the better option. Darting behind a half-open door, she pressed her eye to the crack by the hinge and congratulated herself on a fine hiding spot.

She’d be a good investigator. No matter what certain people thought, she was going to make it. It had been her dream for nearly ten years now, ever since she’d first heard the stories about a swashbuckling HFH doctor saving the world.

“Come on, let’s get it loaded and get out of here. This stuff gives me the creeps.” Short Whiny Guy’s voice preceded him onto the loading dock. Cadaver Man, looking grayer in the half-light, unlatched the back of the laundry truck and ran up the door. Nia froze.

That was no laundry truck.

An empty gurney was secured to one side. Equipment sprouted from every flat surface and dangled from the ceiling. A faint white mist wafted out, as though the air-conditioning had been turned from “chill” to “preserve.”

“Ay-uh. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting for his things, would we?” Cadaver Man, who hadn’t spoken up to this point, gave a ghastly grin that was at odds with his down-home Maine accent.

Nia’s pulse raced. Her first night on the job and she already had a huge break. If she got on that van and figured out where it was headed, what it was doing, then she could solve the case in a single night.

Score one for Nia French.

Short Whiny Guy pushed the laundry hamper across a narrow ramp and into the cleared center of the cargo area. The cart’s dirty canvas and worn wheels looked incongruous amidst so much stainless-steel and high-tech equipment.

“Come on, guys, give me a break here,” Nia whispered, her burst of optimism draining when Short Whiny Guy climbed into the back with the laundry hamper, as though it was his job to watch over the dirty linens. Cadaver Man shut the door and latched it securely.

Damn. Now what was she going to do? Her car was parked in the main garage on the other side of the hospital, so there was no way she could follow the men. Unless…

Her eyes narrowed on the back bumper of the van, which was fitted with a hydraulic cargo lift. The lift was wide and flat, with plenty of hand holds. She could jump right on.

She touched her back pocket and was reassured by the shape of her miniature tool kit. Given the chance, she might even be able to get the van open.

Cadaver Man reached up and pulled the loading dock’s garage door down, but the vehicle was still visible through a smaller opening nearby.

Nia’s heart pounded as the van’s engine started up. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her dark jeans and slipped out from the hiding spot.

“I can do this,” she said, reaching for the latch of the outer door as Cadaver Man ground the gears, searching for first. “I can do this. I can—”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Rough hands grabbed Nia, spun her and shoved her up against the wall, into the deep shadows. She panicked and screeched in terror.

Her assailant was taller than she, though only by seven or eight inches, and his rangy body jostled against hers as they struggled. She shoved against him. “Let me go!”

Oh, God, had she missed a third man? Panic spurted through her veins, and she shot an elbow at her attacker’s chin in a one-two move that her self-defense instructor had assured her should be followed by a knee to the groin.

Her captor blocked the elbow, but his grip slackened. “Nadia?”

She knew his voice instantly, but it was too late to stop the “two” of her one-two attack. She kneed him right where it hurt. Hard.

Rathe McKay, the most famous of HFH’s investigators—and Nia’s first lover—went pale, sank to the floor and wheezed.

Outside, the van revved and pulled away, its occupants unaware of the scuffle behind them on the loading dock.

Nia stood, stunned, as emotions battled within her. Guilt that she’d hurt him. Confusion as to why he’d sneaked up on her and why he was even in the hospital. And above all else, excitement at seeing him again after all this time.

Although his desertion had nearly destroyed her before, he still had the ability to leave her breathless. Because, damn it, even curled up on the floor, swearing, Rathe McKay looked good to her. Real good.

His close-cropped hair was lighter than she remembered, prematurely silver, though he was only thirty-eight. The seven years since she’d last seen him had added new lines to his angular face, making him look older than his calendar age even as they added to his appeal. His wide shoulders and chest spoke of coiled energy, and his arms and legs still boasted the leashed power she remembered, the grace that could carry him soundlessly through rainforests or dance him elegantly through the classiest ballroom.

And his eyes, when he opened them, still stared through her as though he could see into her soul.

“Rathe, I’m so sorry—” Horrified guilt swamped the shock. She offered a hand, but paused when a terrible possibility occurred. She withdrew her hand. “What are you doing here?”

He scowled, though something else moved in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or wariness. Then those abstract emotions were gone, blanked out by the familiar stoniness. “I should’ve known something was wrong when Wainwright wouldn’t tell me who I’d be training.”

Rathe was her mentor? No. Impossible. Her stomach roiled, though there could be no other explanation for his presence at Boston General in the wee hours of the morning. But how had their boss, Jack Wainwright, managed it? Everyone knew Rathe McKay only took exotic assignments overseas. And more important, everyone knew he didn’t work with women.

Nia was one of the few who knew why.

Dismay pounded in her temples. She couldn’t work with Rathe. He would ruin everything.

“No,” she whispered. “This can’t be happening.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Rathe cursed in Russian, his voice dark and rich like the language. “Was that kick for—” he sucked in a pained breath and straightened slowly “—self-defense, or for what happened before?”

The question jabbed right beneath her heart. She wasn’t prepared for this. Wasn’t prepared for him.

“Before?” Though guilt stung—she wouldn’t have kicked him if he’d identified himself as friend rather than foe—she wasn’t willing to apologize again. Wasn’t willing to be vulnerable to him again. She crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling to buy a steadying moment. For all the times she’d thought about seeing Rathe again, this scenario didn’t even come close to what she’d imagined. “Let me see. Would that be before when you took my virginity, kicked me out of your hotel room and disappeared without a word…or before when my father, your best friend, begged you to come visit him on his deathbed and you never showed?”

Eyes dark, Rathe advanced on her, walking gingerly. She stood her ground and lifted her chin so she could glare scalpels at him, though her stomach knotted with nerves and a flare of traitorous warmth. They stared at each other for a heartbeat. Two.

Finally he turned away, muttering, “This is why women shouldn’t be allowed in Investigations—they can’t separate their personal lives from their professional ones.”

And there it was. Rathe McKay’s motto: Women Don’t Belong in the Field. Period.

Denial howled in Nia’s head, in her heart, but she held the emotions in check because, damn it, he was right. This wasn’t the time or place to bring up the past. She had a job to do.

And part of that job was proving to her HFH mentor that she was a capable investigator, fully ready to work in the field.

So she found a frosty smile that hopefully showed nothing of her tumultuous emotions. “You’re right. I apologize for being unprofessional. What’s done is done. Jack Wainwright said he was pairing me with an older, more experienced investigator, so I suppose I should be honored he chose you. You’re as old and experienced as they get.”