Celia didn’t even get a look at the man attached to the voice before he clamped a hand over her mouth, blocking anything but a muffled protest.
“Scream,” he said in a low voice. “I dare you.”
For a second, the challenge made no sense. And Celia was too scared to attempt to force it to. But then the man eased back just enough to give her a view of his other hand, and she didn’t have to think about it anymore. It wasn’t a challenge; it was a threat. His fingers were clasped around a syringe, one thumb poised on the plunger. And the syringe itself was stuck through a rubberized injection port.
Oh, God.
She had no clue what was in the needle, but the possibilities were endless, and not one of them let Celia come out alive on the other end.
“Do you understand?” the man asked.
Celia nodded—the barest incline of her head.
“Good,” said her attacker.
He eased back, but only a little. As if he thought the needle wasn’t quite enough to buy her silence. It made a silent, hysterical laugh bubble up. But that didn’t escape any more than a scream could have done. Sound was an impossibility. It had all evaporated into fear-induced dryness in the back of her throat.
Even when her assailant pulled back more, then settled into the hard-backed chair beside her bed, and stared at her expectantly, all Celia could do was blink back at him. He was dressed in scrubs, but she knew beyond any doubt that he wasn’t a doctor or a nurse or a medical professional of any kind. Because the moment her eyes landed on his face—acne-scarred and clean-shaven—a vivid memory sprang to life.
This man, with a gun in his hand.
This man, with a gun pressed to a stranger’s head.
This man, pulling the trigger.
“Nothing to say?” His voice cut through the memory, and Celia had to bite back a gasp.
She lifted her eyes and shook her head. Who was he to her? Who was he to Xavier? Looking at him, she was certain he wasn’t her son’s father.
Ten years too young.
The thought wasn’t a vague assumption. It was something she knew. Whoever Xavier’s father was, he was older than this man. Older than Celia herself.
She breathed out, unsure if it was a relief to know that detail or not.
“Are you listening to me, Celia?”
She jerked her attention back to the man’s face—he clearly assumed she knew him—and made herself answer in as sure of a voice as she could manage. “I’m listening.”
“Then maybe you’re not listening well enough,” he replied. “Because if you don’t tell me where your son is, I’m going to make sure you don’t leave here alive.”
His statement made her realize something: he didn’t know that Xavier was in the hospital. Celia squared her shoulders and made sure to keep both her face and her voice devoid of the hope that washed through her.
“I’d rather die than let you get your hands on him,” she said evenly. “But it doesn’t matter. Because even if I wanted to tell you where he was, I couldn’t. He’s with social services.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “You want me to believe that? Social services took him, when his mother is alive and well and capable?”
“They didn’t take him from me,” Celia replied. “I was unconscious. He’s got no family. Who do you think watches kids in a situation like that?”
He studied her for another moment, then leaned back and said, “He’s got family. His dad would be more than happy to ‘watch’ him.”
Her heart tried to plummet toward her stomach. And when she responded, it was like her mouth was on autopilot—saying things she wasn’t consciously aware of, but which she knew were true as soon as they left her mouth.
“Xavier doesn’t have a dad,” she stated. “The man you work for has never had that title. And he lost any chance he ever had of earning it the moment he laid a hand on me.”
“Self-righteous, aren’t you?”
“Completely devoid of morals, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got loyalty, and I get paid. And if you can’t tell me where the kid is, then I guess I’ve got no use for—”
He cut himself off and stood abruptly, yanking the syringe with him. And the moment he was on his feet, Celia saw why he’d made the sudden move. A nurse—not Jane—was stepping into her room.
“Hi, Miss Poller. I’m here to check your vitals,” she said, then frowned as she spotted the scrubs-clad man. “Oh. Doctor... Um. Sorry. I don’t think we’ve met?”
“Wrong room,” the man muttered, brushing roughly by the nurse to exit out to the hall.
Celia let her body sag. He wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t risk being caught and identified. She was sure of it for the same reason she was sure of everything else—her memory told her so, even if it wouldn’t tell her why.
The nurse stepped closer, concern playing over her face. “Are you feeling all right, Miss Poller?”
“I’m fine,” Celia lied. “Just tired.”
“All right. Well you just let me have a quick look-see, and then you can rest.”
“Thank you.”
Celia closed her eyes and let the nurse do her thing. Where were Remo and Xavier? She prayed that whatever had delayed them had also kept them out of the sights of the unknown man.
Not unknown, she corrected silently. Not exactly, anyway.
Whoever he was, he worked for Xavier’s father. And not in a pleasant way. God, why couldn’t she just remember?
“There you go, Miss Poller,” said the nurse.
Celia dragged her eyes open. “How am I?”
“Everything looks good. Better than good, actually. I’m impressed.” The other woman clicked her pen, then tucked it into her pocket and patted Celia’s knee. “You can go ahead and get some shut-eye. The doctor will be here in the morning. Sound good?”
“Perfect.”
The nurse excused herself, and Celia waited until she was gone, then counted to thirty before throwing her bedding aside. There was still no sign of Remo and Xavier, and she couldn’t shake the nervous feeling that her unwanted visitor might’ve found them. She had to act. She swung toward the various monitors, reaching out to touch the nearest one—the automated IV drip. As she ran her finger over the buttons, it occurred to her that she knew what each one did.
Strange.
But she wasn’t going to question it. Not at the moment, anyway.
She keyed in a sequence, and the IV monitor beeped once, and went silent. Carefully, Celia pulled up the tape from the infusion site on her hand, then drew out the needle. Blood beaded in its place, and she quickly swiped it away, while at the same time scanning the room for a change of clothes. It was all well and good to free herself from the tubes, but it would all be for naught if someone noticed she was walking the halls in nothing but an open-backed robe and her underwear. She heaved a relieved sigh when she spotted her jeans and T-shirt peeking out of a bag near the window. But as she started to stand, a shelf just outside the door caught her eye. It was piled with folded garments, and it brought a better idea to mind. Scrubs. The man who’d invaded her room had been dressed in them, and the nurse had barely blinked when she saw him. She hadn’t even commented on his presence.
Celia pushed to her feet, ignored the slight bit of dizziness that occurred as a result, and moved toward the door. Following a quick, careful glance up and down the hall—neither her assailant, nor Remo and Xavier were in view—she snagged a stack of fabric at random. She tossed it on the bed, relieved to find she had everything she needed. Pants, a top, and a mask and cap.
Moving as fast as her aches and light-headed state would allow, she discarded her robe and slipped into the scrubs. She tied her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, then snagged her purse from the nightstand. She winced, though, when she noted again how damaged the bag was. And after a quick glance revealed that there was nothing but the library card inside, she decided to simply toss it in the trash. With that done, she slid her feet into her shoes, then counted off three slow breaths. She took one more look around the room, then moved out into the hall. It was still clear.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
A bubble of dread made her stomach churn, but she ordered herself to stop. She had to assume the best until she had a reason to think the worst.
What had Remo said about where the pudding was? She thought he’d mentioned going down the hall and around the corner. But which way? Celia flicked a look back and forth. At one end, there was a T and an elevator. At the other, she could just see the nurses’ station. Her gaze hung on the latter. Surely Remo would’ve mentioned having to pass it, if that’d been the direction they had to head.
No time for second guesses.
Celia swung the other way and took five self-affirming steps. But as she lifted her foot for a sixth, she very nearly tumbled over. Because the elevator doors slid open slowly, and inside were Xavier and Remo. The blue-eyed man was smiling and held two pudding cups in his big hands. Oddly, Celia’s son was wrapped in a hospital blanket and seated in a child-sized wheelchair with a book in his hands. But it wasn’t that concerning fact that made her nearly fall. It was something far more frightening.
Coming into view and approaching them at a leisurely pace from one side of the T—seemingly unaware that the kid he wanted was right there—was the man who’d threatened her.
Remo glanced down at the kid and put his hands on the wheelchair—a “special ride” offered to him by one of the kitchen staff who’d had to dig out a pudding from the depths of dry storage—and prepared to exit the elevator. Before he could make a move, though, he spied a small, female figure hurrying their way. Her quick pace gave him pause. Frowning, he watched her stop abruptly in front of the last room in the hall, grab a chart from the door, then start his way again. Her eyes came up just long enough for Remo to catch sight of them before she dropped her gaze down to the chart. She offered him the barest hint of a nod, and he did a double take.
Celia.
In spite of the different clothes and strange behavior, he was a hundred percent certain it was her. What was she doing out of bed? Why the hell was she dressed like she was about to head into surgery? And why was she darting toward the elevator like it was life-and-death?
Remo hung back, waiting for an explanation. She didn’t offer him one. In fact, she said nothing as she ran through the doors, pressed her back to the rear of the car, and lifted the chart to block her face.
For a second, Remo was too surprised to say anything. He stared dumbly at the back of the chart, his mouth open a little. Before he could quite collect himself, a man’s voice drew his attention back to the elevator doors.
“This your floor?” asked the newcomer.
Celia’s foot came out and tapped Remo’s ankle hard enough to make him wince.
What the hell? Then he clued in.
Whatever the gray-eyed woman was up to, it had everything to do with the man who was currently holding the elevator doors open. Who was dressed in scrubs and looking expectantly at Remo.
“Your floor?” the man asked again.
Remo cleared his throat and quickly formulated the most obvious lie. “Not us. Just having a little ride for fun before we head back to peds.”
The man inclined his head, then stepped into the elevator and lifted a hand to press a button. He stopped when he saw that each and every one was already lit up.
“Hope you’re going down,” Remo joked.
“Sorry!” Xavier added immediately. “I pressed them all!”
Remo held his breath, waiting for the man to look down and notice the kid. For him to notice anything. But he just grunted and stepped away from the panel.
The seconds ticked by, the stop at each floor so tense it was almost painful.
Celia continued to stare at her chart, flicking the occasional page and scribbling with a pen.
Xavier stared down at the colorful book one of the nurses had given him, either unaware that they should’ve gotten off, or just not caring that their trip was five times as long as it should be.
Remo just kept his eyes on their companion. Who was he? Not Xavier’s father, or he would’ve recognized his kid. So someone acting on the father’s behalf? It was impossible to get a good read on the guy. The scrubs he wore obscured his clothes, and his face was expressionless. He said nothing through the entire ride, not even pulling out a cell phone for a glance. When they at last reached the lobby, and the man stepped off, it took a big chunk of Remo’s willpower to wait for the doors to shut before he rounded on Celia to demand some answers. When he did finally turn her way, though, the words stuck in his throat. Celia’s face was ashen, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. Automatically, Remo abandoned words and reached for her. Before his hands could get to her, she flipped the chart over. His gaze dropped to it, the words she’d scrawled there stopping him from speaking or acting.
Somewhere to talk, she’d written.
He lifted his eyes up to meet hers. She clearly didn’t want to expose herself yet. Remo silently nodded his understanding—and his agreement—then turned back to the panel. He juggled the puddings, then pressed the button that would take them back to the family room he and Xavier had used before. And thankfully, without having to stop at every floor, the trip was over quickly. In under two minutes, the doors were sliding open. Remo stepped back to let Celia exit first, and she shot a grateful look in his direction as she brushed past and headed straight for a nearby bathroom.
Remo resisted an urge to watch her go. Instead, he looked away, dropped the pudding into Xavier’s lap, then grasped the wheelchair handles and gave them a nudge.
“Hey,” the kid said, as the chair bumped from the elevator onto the linoleum. “This is the wrong place.”
“Not the wrong place,” Remo corrected. “Just a different one.”
“My mom’s gonna worry.”
“Don’t worry, buddy. I think she knows where we are.”
“Good. Because she really worries.”
To that, Remo said nothing. He was starting to believe that Celia had a damned good reason for her particular brand of concern.
But what is it?
He was eager to find out, but—if he was being honest—he was getting pretty damned worried himself. He was tired as all hell, too. He’d been awake for nearly twenty hours, and the lack of sleep was starting to mix unpleasantly with the roller coaster of stress.
With a suppressed sigh and a dramatic pop-a-wheelie that made Xavier squeal, he pushed the wheelchair into the family room.
“Okay, my friend,” he said. “What’ll it be? Cartoons? Another puzzle? Or you just wanna read that book some more?”
Xavier’s little forehead creased thoughtfully, then cleared abruptly as his face lit up. “Mommy!”
Remo looked up. Celia stood in the doorway, hesitating for only a second before she stepped in and bent down to envelop her son in a hug. Her eyes stayed on Remo, though.
“This is a nice little space,” she said, her silent question clear. Is it safe?
“Nice, private little space,” he amended. “This part of the floor is being renovated next week, so it’s more or less a ghost town.”
Celia nodded, then turned her attention to her son.
“All right,” she said, her voice full of real-sounding cheer. “There has got to be a story behind your new wheels.”
Remo stood back. He was only half listening to Xavier as the kid launched into an excited explanation that involved spilled puddings and lost puddings and new puddings. Most of his attention was on the boy’s mother. She’d stripped off the top layer of her scrubs, and now wore just the wrinkled bottoms with the pale yellow T-shirt she’d had on when Remo found her on the side of the road. His heart dipped at the memory. He hoped to God yanking herself from her hospital bed and running through halls wouldn’t set her back. But she seemed to be in an okay state. Better than she’d been in the elevator, for sure. As she continued to talk to the kid, her eyes were clear, her face a normal shade of pink.
“Remo?”
He blinked, realizing he’d missed something.
She smiled up at him, but it wasn’t quite as cheerful as her voice. “I just told Xavier that you and I were going to talk on that couch out in the hall for a minute so we don’t disturb him while he finishes his book.”
He nodded. “Yeah, sounds like a fair plan.”
He gave the kid’s hair a tousle, then followed Celia out. She pointed to the couch she’d mentioned, and as they sat down, Remo noted immediately that it was really more of a two-seater. Or maybe a one-and-a-half-seater, factoring in a man of his size. No matter which way either of them shifted, they still touched. Shoulder against shoulder, hip against hip. When Celia sighed and lifted her fingers to brush a wayward strand of hair back from her face, her hand brushed Remo’s, and a little flick of electric attraction sent his mind slipping back to the brief kiss they’d shared.
Was Celia thinking about it, too? Had she thought about it as many times as he had already? If Remo was being honest, it’d dominated his mind through the whole chocolate pudding retrieval. Her lips on his had been warm and sweet. As quick as the contact had been, it had also been heated in a way he hadn’t felt in as long as he could remember. His conscience had nudged a few times, suggesting that he might be walking a line. Reminding him about ethics. Professionalism. The nudges had been surprisingly easy to override, though. Sitting so close to her right then told him why. It felt good and natural to be near her. And Remo was the kind of man who believed that what felt like the right thing...usually was the right thing.