recalled that she had been lying on her right side when he had found her. Disregarding the effects of the crash, he would describe her as kind of cute rather than pretty, not the type to attract looks in a bar or at a party or anywhere else. The generic kid-sister type, which might explain why she also seemed vaguely familiar. Freckles, which made her look way too young to be the lawyer Lowell claimed she was, dusted her nose and cheeks. She looked like a kid, like a teenager. What she definitely did not look like was a junkie, or a drug dealer, or anyone who had dealings with junkies or drug dealers.
So what the hell was she doing with Mrs. Cooper?
“You’re not helping yourself by getting hysterical.” The oldest of the nurses, the one with the short salt-and-pepper hair, sounded stern as she withdrew a thermometer from Jessica’s mouth and looked down at it. “Hopefully, some of this you’re experiencing is just the side effects of all the medication you’re on.”
“My legs?” Jessica’s voice cracked.
“You’ll have to speak to your doctor about that. I don’t want to say anything that might be wrong. But the hallucination is almost certainly from the medication.”
“Not a hallucination! Someone attacked me. ”
It was then that Mark caught a glimpse of her left hand. The back of it was torn and bright red with oozing blood. It took him a second to realize that the wound had resulted from the IV being torn from her flesh. His gaze shifted to the tall silver pole resting cockeyed against the wall between the two beds, where it had clearly been shoved with some force.
If what she claims is true, the evidence to prove it is right there.
“One time when they had me on morphine after surgery I imagined I was surrounded by a pack of wolves,” the orderly said. “Scariest thing that ever happened to me.”
Mark was on the move. His target was the bag of fluid that still hung from the IV pole. And the tubing that was attached to it. Whatever had happened in that room, those items would tell the tale. But even if she was right on the money and there had been a man in her room—in other words, if an attempt on her life really had been made—he couldn’t let anyone outside of their own small group know it. It was something he meant to explore—and deal with, if it proved to be true—privately.
But he didn’t think it was true. In his judgment, such a thing was almost impossible.
“Him! It was him!” Jessica’s voice, high-pitched and panicky, made him turn his head sharply. She had apparently been giving him a once-over, because her gaze flew up his body to his face even as he looked at her. Luckily, because every eye in the room was instantly trained on him, the bag and tubing were now stowed safely out of sight in his jacket pocket.
She meant him, Mark realized with some surprise. She was staring at him, fear plain in her face.
7
Y ou’re wrong, you know.” Keeping his tone deliberately gentle, Mark moved to stand beside the bed, one hand curling around the cold silver bed rail while the other steadied the squishy, half-full bag of fluid stuffed in his pocket. Her eyes were a clear greenish hazel framed by a thick sweep of black lashes, he saw, as they bored into his. Her brows were straight dark brown slashes that at the moment nearly met over her nose because of the intensity of her frown. “It wasn’t me. I was outside in the hall heading for your room when I heard you scream. My name’s Mark Ryan. I’m a Secret Service agent. I was there at the crash site, remember? I found you.”
Her shoulders, which had been rigid with tension, slumped. Her features softened fractionally as some of the fear that had sharpened them seemed to ease. She blinked and collapsed back against the pillows, although her gaze didn’t leave his face and she still frowned.
“I remember.”
“We all saw him running down the hall while you were screaming,” said the nurse who’d been pushing the
So what the hell was she doing with Mrs. Cooper?
“You’re not helping yourself by getting hysterical.” The oldest of the nurses, the one with the short salt-and-pepper hair, sounded stern as she withdrew a thermometer from Jessica’s mouth and looked down at it. “Hopefully, some of this you’re experiencing is just the side effects of all the medication you’re on.”
“My legs?” Jessica’s voice cracked.
“You’ll have to speak to your doctor about that. I don’t want to say anything that might be wrong. But the hallucination is almost certainly from the medication.”
“Not a hallucination! Someone attacked me. ”
It was then that Mark caught a glimpse of her left hand. The back of it was torn and bright red with oozing blood. It took him a second to realize that the wound had resulted from the IV being torn from her flesh. His gaze shifted to the tall silver pole resting cockeyed against the wall between the two beds, where it had clearly been shoved with some force.
If what she claims is true, the evidence to prove it is right there.
“One time when they had me on morphine after surgery I imagined I was surrounded by a pack of wolves,” the orderly said. “Scariest thing that ever happened to me.”
Mark was on the move. His target was the bag of fluid that still hung from the IV pole. And the tubing that was attached to it. Whatever had happened in that room, those items would tell the tale. But even if she was right on the money and there had been a man in her room—in other words, if an attempt on her life really had been made—he couldn’t let anyone outside of their own small group know it. It was something he meant to explore—and deal with, if it proved to be true—privately.
But he didn’t think it was true. In his judgment, such a thing was almost impossible.
“Him! It was him!” Jessica’s voice, high-pitched and panicky, made him turn his head sharply. She had apparently been giving him a once-over, because her gaze flew up his body to his face even as he looked at her. Luckily, because every eye in the room was instantly trained on him, the bag and tubing were now stowed safely out of sight in his jacket pocket.
She meant him, Mark realized with some surprise. She was staring at him, fear plain in her face.
7
Y ou’re wrong, you know.” Keeping his tone deliberately gentle, Mark moved to stand beside the bed, one hand curling around the cold silver bed rail while the other steadied the squishy, half-full bag of fluid stuffed in his pocket. Her eyes were a clear greenish hazel framed by a thick sweep of black lashes, he saw, as they bored into his. Her brows were straight dark brown slashes that at the moment nearly met over her nose because of the intensity of her frown. “It wasn’t me. I was outside in the hall heading for your room when I heard you scream. My name’s Mark Ryan. I’m a Secret Service agent. I was there at the crash site, remember? I found you.”
Her shoulders, which had been rigid with tension, slumped. Her features softened fractionally as some of the fear that had sharpened them seemed to ease. She blinked and collapsed back against the pillows, although her gaze didn’t leave his face and she still frowned.
“I remember.”
“We all saw him running down the hall while you were screaming,” said the nurse who’d been pushing the
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