Undercover with the Enemy Page 3

  They entered the gym and he set the case down for her. “I’ll just be a moment, Heather. I need to make a quick call.”

  “All right.”

  A call to one of the local flower shops would be heard by his people—who kept a tap on his line for just that purpose—and they would set up a meeting with Edison. That would start the wheels turning in discovering the answers to the questions that had been bothering him the most since the moment he’d laid eyes on his new physical therapist. Who exactly was Heather Buchanan? What the devil was she doing here so suddenly? And did she have something to be afraid of?

  He checked his watch and decided to order the flowers to be delivered tomorrow, which would translate to a meeting at 5:00 p.m. today.

  One way or another, he was going to find out everything there was to know about Ms. Buchanan because instinct told him that her presence here was no accident. He considered that pounding pulse point in her throat again. Hell, the research could prove interesting as long as he kept his focus where it needed to be.

  Then he frowned furiously. Damn! He was already thinking up excuses not to maintain his distance from the lovely therapist. So much for willpower. He really was going to have to find out what had happened to Miguel. Soon.

  By the time Gabriele returned to the gym, Heather had managed to gather the tatters of her professional reserve into place. “I’d like to test your sensory level first,” she said, her words clipped and all business. Studiously avoiding his unsettling gaze, she focused on the work at hand. “I’m going to touch your leg lightly with a needle in several spots, and I want you to tell me whether I’m using the dull or sharp end of the needle. Then we’ll do a test for temper ature sensitivity, and I’ll get you to distinguish between hot and cold. All right?”

  “Sure.” She could feel his gaze on her face. Probing. Astute. As tangible as a touch. And much too intelligent. How long could she hope to fool him?

  No! She wouldn’t think about that. She needed to concentrate on learning what DiMona wanted to know and then get out of both Gabriele’s and DiMona’s lives. DiMona wanted to know everything about Court Gabriele from the details of his medical condition—a violation of patient confidentiality, but she really didn’t have much choice—to whom Court met and when. Fine, she could handle that. Then, with any luck she’d leave here and never see either one of them again.

  “Why don’t you sit on the table?” She indicated the massage table in one corner of his private gym. She wondered if it, like much of his extensive exercise equipment, had been in place all along, or whether he’d had it specifically installed at the clinic’s behest as he had the parallel bars.

  He moved toward the table without comment.

  He had good legs, she noted, long and straight. Solid thighs. Nice knees, not knobby. Well-defined calves. They were even nicely tanned beneath the fine dusting of dark hair.

  Ever mindful of DiMona’s desire to know everything, she allowed her curiosity free reign. “You have a nice tan, Mr. Gabriele. Are you an outdoor sports enthusiast?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose you could say that,” he responded as he got settled on the table. “Swimming, hiking, golf, the occasional tennis match.”

  She pulled a chair up before him where she could sit comfortably to examine him. So far, so good. Now, if she could only forget the presence of the man and focus exclusively on his injured leg, she’d be fine. But, of course, she couldn’t do that.

  “What about you?”

  His voice startled her. “I’m sorry. What about me?”

  “Do you like outdoor sports?”

  She nodded. “I like hiking. I used to like fishing with my father when I was little.”

  Okay, first she had to verify that his damaged leg was still cold to the touch in comparison with his healthy one. Reaching out, she gently laid her hands over his knees.

  Her palms tingled as an intense current of sexual awareness passed between them. She was suddenly acutely aware of the texture of the fine dark hairs on his legs, of the faint scent of his aftershave, of…him. Everything about him. Focusing with difficulty on the medical examination she was supposed to be conducting, she gritted her teeth and moved her hands slightly, seeking the spot on his thigh where the temperature differential faded. There. But moving her hands had only intensified the sensation in her palms. Embarrassingly, she felt herself begin to flush. Not for the first time in her life she cursed her fair complexion. Damn it anyway. She was being sabotaged by hormones and pheromones.

  She removed her hands rather hastily, managing to stop just short of jerking them back.

  “Is something wrong, Heather?”

  Heather swallowed and grimaced inwardly. She should have known he was much too perceptive not to notice. “I—I” she stammered, seeking a believable response. “It’s just a little warm in here.”

  “Is it?” Was it just her, or did his voice hold a quality of intimacy that should not have been there?

  She felt her flush intensify and kept her head down. “I think so. Yes.” Heavens above! What was the matter with her? Court Gabriele should have been just another patient. She should have been able to maintain her professional distance despite the situation. But he wasn’t, and apparently she couldn’t.

  Perhaps her own fear of the situation was heightening her perceptions. That was probably it. And somehow, she’d just have to find a way to work around that.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” His tone was definitely suggestive. “So, what do you think?”

  “What do I think?” she echoed in confusion.

  “My leg,” he clarified.

  Heather swallowed and concentrated on her work. “As you said, there is still an obvious difference in temperature. Your left knee is warmer. I’ll know more once we’ve finished here.” She reached for her case of supplies. “Look straight ahead, not at what I’m doing. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  She gently touched his thigh with the sharp end of the needle. “Tell me what you feel. Sharp or dull?”

  “Sharp,” he replied without hesitation as he rubbed briefly at the spot. She moved the needle nearer the knee area and he frowned, concentrating longer on his response this time. “Dull, I think.”

  They continued the process for a few minutes, covering the thigh, knee and calf area. After a few minutes of testing, she made some notes on his chart.

  “Well,” he prompted. “What’s the verdict?” Any suggestion of intimacy that may have been in his tone earlier was gone. He sounded authoritative and impatient.

  “You have sensation, but it’s not distinct.” She glanced at him but quickly lowered her eyes before she could be unsettled by his piercing look. “You can tell when you’re being touched, but you often have trouble differentiating between a sharp and a dull feeling—particularly in the knee area. Let’s try hot and cold.”

  She put the needle carefully back into its case and withdrew the warm-and-cold Gel Packs. She laid the warm one over his knee. “Warm or cold?”

  He frowned, concentrating. “I can tell it’s there because I can sense the pressure, but that’s all. I can’t feel it.”

  Heather nodded and switched Gel Packs. “This one?”

  After a moment, his expression cleared. “Definitely cold.” She removed the pack and made a note. “Uncomfortably cold,” he added, reaching to rub his knee again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Even after you took it off, it was as though the cold just kept going deeper and deeper. The same thing happened when I picked up a cat and it dug its claws in. Even after I put it down, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling of claws digging in.”

  Heather nodded. “That’s a pain echo. It happens sometimes when the nerves seem to short-circuit, broadcasting the same message over and over again. Which means that some of the surface nerves are still working, and they’re probably trying to compensate for the ones that aren’t.” She paused, rubbing his knee hard to warm it. “Is that better?”

  H
e nodded. “Much.”

  Removing her hand, she considered his wounded leg thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised that cold bothers you. Damaged nerves do tend to be sensitive to cold. I’m a bit concerned, though, that you couldn’t sense the warmer pack. You’ll have to be careful. You could burn yourself quite badly without realizing it.”

  “I’ll be careful.” His tone was definitely impatient now. “It’s the strength I’m concerned about. I need a leg that won’t collapse on me without warning.”

  Heather nodded. “All right, Mr. Gabriele, we’ll focus on that for the first while. We’ll try the stationary bike first, shall we? To see how much range of motion you have?”

  “Court.”

  Heather looked up in confusion, confounded by the single word coming out of nowhere. “What?”

  “Call me, Court. Remember?”

  Heather considered. She really didn’t want to become any more familiar with him than she already was, but she’d already seen enough of Court Gabriele to know that he was a very obstinate man. She’d be better served saving her energy for more important battles. “All right, Court.” Then, with a gesture of her arm she indicated that he should proceed to the stationery bike.

  “Do you have dinner plans, Heather?”

  She whirled to look at him, stunned by the question, hoping to perceive some indication of his motivation from his countenance. “Not really. Why?”

  Leaning on his cane, he met her gaze with an impenetrable look of his own. “We have dinner at seven. Or did Ernest tell you?”

  Oh, that’s all it was. She felt foolish now for having read anything more into a such a simple question. “No,” she murmured. “No, he didn’t.”

  Gabriele nodded, studying her for a moment as though seeking something in her face. “I have a formal dining room, but I seldom use it. Too pretentious for small gatherings. I hope you won’t be disappointed if I ask you to join me in the breakfast nook for dinner tonight.”

  “Of course not. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Will you?” He eyed her with a curiously intent expression, and Heather received the distinct impression that there were nuances to this conversation that she’d missed entirely.

  Chapter 3

  Oh, Des, what did you get us into? Heather asked silently as she stood in the room to which she’d been shown, staring out at the luxurious textures of Court Gabriele’s professionally landscaped yard. Flowers in vibrant hues of color set against a palate of varying shades of green drew the eye like a magnet, but the picture in her mind’s eye was a totally different one.

  She remembered the choking fear of receiving a call from the hospital advising her that her brother had been admitted. She remembered rushing down there, only to find out that his injuries—rather than being the result of an accident—had been deliberately inflicted. As a warning. She remembered Des struggling to tell her what had happened while still attempting to protect her from the truth. But there was no protection, no reassurance to be had.

  With his handsome face distorted by bruises, one of his eyes swollen shut, and his thick black hair half concealed by white bandages, Des barely resembled the younger brother she’d raised for the last ten years. “Who did this?” Heather had demanded of him as soon as he was able to talk.

  He’d tried to wave away her question, grimacing at the pain of the movement. “Nobody you know, Sis. Some people…people that I owe money to.”

  For an instant she could only stare at him, trying to understand. But, try as she might, understanding refused to come. “Money! How could you owe money to people who would do this to you?”

  Des had closed his eyes tightly. “God, why can’t I ever do anything right? I only wanted to help. To earn some money so that you wouldn’t have to work so hard.” He’d opened his eyes then, fixing his gaze on her with a new light of determination in his eyes. “Look, just don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

  But Heather wasn’t prepared to let it go that easily. “Desmond Buchanan, you will tell me what is going on, and you will tell me this instant. Do you understand? Because I’m going to find out. One way or another.”

  Avoiding her gaze, he stared out the window next to his bed. Finally, he shrugged. “Okay. But you aren’t going to like it.”

  Heather frowned. “I don’t like it now.”

  He stared at the bedcovers, avoiding her eyes, and began. “You know that I wasn’t getting very good grades.” Heather made an affirmative noise, and he continued. “Well, with you working so hard to put me through college, I couldn’t afford to flunk out. So, I started taking meth…you know, just to get through exams and stuff.” He looked toward Heather then, as though to gauge her reaction. But she was too stunned to react. Her baby brother, the child she’d all but raised, was taking drugs! “I didn’t think I’d get hooked on them, Heather. Please believe that.”

  Heather could only look at him in stunned amazement. How could her brother have become an addict without her realizing it? Of course they’d scarcely seen each other except in passing the last few months. She’d been busy working as many hours as she could in an attempt to drag them out of the financial hole they’d gotten themselves into. Or rather that she had gotten them into by relying on credit cards to take up the slack in their finances. And she’d been making headway. But at what cost?

  When Heather didn’t respond, Des continued. “Well anyway…the meth was expensive, you know, and I couldn’t afford it on the kind of money I was making at the tire shop. A friend suggested that I might want to go into business for myself. You know, sell the stuff on campus.”

  This time Heather couldn’t control her reaction. “You started dealing drugs!”

  “Not much. Just enough to earn some extra money.” Des’s expression was guilt-stricken and remorseful, but neither guilt nor remorse could reverse the deed.

  Heather could only shake her head. “My God! What were you thinking?”

  He flashed her a resentful look. “I was thinking that I couldn’t let you down again. I’m tired of failing at everything I do.”

  It was a familiar litany and Heather couldn’t allow herself to be drawn down the same old self-pitying path. “All right! All right! Just forget that for the moment. Just who is it that you owe money to? And, how much?”

  Des stared sullenly down at the blanket. “I owe it to a guy named Herrera. He’s my supplier.”

  “How much?”

  Des swallowed, then looked at Heather with tears in his one good eye. “Ten thousand,” he murmured.

  Stunned, Heather sank wordlessly down onto the chair next to the bed. Ten thousand! It might as well have been ten million. There was no way she could come up with that kind of money. Her credit was stretched to the limit, and she knew her bank would not extend credit without adequate security. Security which she didn’t have.

  “I wish they’d just killed me last night, and got it over with,” Des said bitterly.

  “Don’t say that!” Heather ordered sharply. Her mind raced as she tried to find a way out of the predicament. “How long did they give you to get the money?” she asked.

  “A week.”

  Not long enough. She shook her head in despair. “What did you do with the money, Des? Maybe we can sell what you bought with it, or…”

  “I didn’t buy anything, Sis.” Avoiding her gaze once more, he stared out the window. “I bet it on a horse race. The race was supposed to be fixed. That’s what they told me. I figured I’d at least double my money. But…”

  “You lost it,” Heather concluded for him.

  He nodded miserably and she saw the tortured, lonely child beneath the facade of the bruised nineteen-year-old young man. Once, long ago, she’d failed him. He’d called her for help, and she’d muddled everything. She’d spent her life trying to make it up to him. To be mother and father and sister. But somehow, she’d never seemed quite equal to the task.

  Now, if she didn’t help him get out of this, she stood to lose the on
ly family member she had left, the only person in the world she loved. Leaning forward, she lay her hand over his. “We’ll get through this, Des. Somehow. I’ll think of something. In the meantime, I’ll speak with the doctor about getting you some help.”

  That had been three weeks ago. Des was healing now, and the rehab center was helping him kick his drug habit. Heather just hoped that the cost, to both of them, would not be more than they could live with.

  Her watch alarm beeped, jerking her back to the present with a jolt. It was almost time to call in and retrieve her voice-mail messages. Time to pick up any further instructions DiMona might have left for her. Time to pay for her brother’s life. And, since she’d been told not to risk calling from here unless she could be certain that no one could listen in on the call, that meant finding the nearest pay phone.

  She found a convenience store about a mile down the road from Court’s place that had a pay phone. She’d just completed her call and discovered with a sense of relief that DiMona had left her no further instructions, when she heard the scrape of a shoe on pavement.

  “Something wrong with the phone in your room, Heather?”

  She whirled. Court! “Oh,” she gasped, placing a hand over her pounding heart. “You startled me.” What was he doing here?

  One of his thick, black brows inched up, but his predatory golden eyes never wavered. “Really? I’d never have guessed.” His gaze flicked to the pay phone and back. “I asked you if something was wrong with the phone at the house.”

  “No. No, of course not,” Heather replied as her mind raced for a plausible explanation. “I was just planning on shopping for a few things and remembered that I’d forgotten to let one of my friends know that I wouldn’t be home for a while. I thought I’d better call while I was thinking of it. I wouldn’t want to forget again. She’s the type who might call out the National Guard if she thought I’d gone missing.”

  He studied her for what seemed like an aeon although it was probably no more than a minute. And, as he looked deep into her eyes, Heather had the impression that he was trying to see straight through to her soul. Her heart began to pound as she ruthlessly resisted the almost overpowering urge to look away from his gaze. If only he wasn’t so…magnetic…so dangerous. If only she didn’t have to fear him.