Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty

want him. Why was he doing this to her? Fearing he was moments away from forcing her to admit her attraction, she panicked. She tilted her chin up, putting her lips mere inches from his, thinking he’d panic, too, and step back.

      “We kissing now?” she said, her tone dripping with belligerence. The only reaction she received was a miniscule tightening of the skin around his eyes. And…a flicker of hurt?

      “Do you want me to kiss you?” It sounded like a threat, and for the first time ever, she saw resentment in his gaze…directed at her. He cupped her cheek and drew his thumb pad over her lower lip. “There was a time I couldn’t kiss you even if I’d wanted to. Couldn’t speak, lift a finger, or even wiggle a toe. Couldn’t hold you when you’d cried.” He dropped his hand to hers, gripping it. “Or squeeze your hand as you cried at my hospital bedside.” Charlie’s gaze moved from her lips to her eyes, and she saw his resentment fade. He was back to looking like the man she’d come to rely on. Just Charlie. Supportive, kind, strong Charlie. “I’m not that person anymore, Cynthia. Stop pushing me away.” After a last glance at her lips, he turned and sat in the corner again, leaving her breathless and confused.

      Pushing him away? Is that what he thought she was doing? She was trying to save their friendship.

      If she’d been alone in the room, she’d be clutching her chest, trying to settle her skipping heart. The man had a way of devastating her without even trying. There was a time, he’d said. Yes, she remembered it well. Watching her grieving parents struggle though burying a son, consoling a daughter, moving on with their lives. And Charlie. Sitting with him as he fought his paralysis and emotional hell as he suffered in a body that had become a prison of pain.

      She remembered hours of resting her cheek on his hand, clutching his fingers, because they were the only part of him not bruised or abraded. She’d read aloud the complete works of Edgar Rice Burroughs in his hospital room. It took the whole Tarzan series and the John Carter of Mars series for Charlie to regain control of his limbs. They’d celebrated by starting Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and Charlie was sitting up by the time she’d reached Smaug hoarding treasures in the Lonely Mountain. Then her mother died of a heart attack almost a year to the day Terrance died, and her father stroked out two days later, leaving Cynthia alone.

      Charlie became her security blanket. She’d become his burden. She owed him an apology, but couldn’t go there. So she settled on a less explosive olive branch. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand back. The paper crinkled under her butt, reminding her that they were back in a hospital again, holding hands.

      Charlie’s cheek kicked up, but his eyes were sad. “Yeah? For what?”

      “For always being there for me,” she said. He winked, and that was all it took to make her feel weepy.

      A discreet knock on the door was a welcome distraction, and prompted Charlie to move away from Cynthia. Dr. Josephine Kepler stepped inside, making the small room feel even smaller. She was young, with dark hair twisted into a messy bun. Her white smock’s lapel was adorned with multiple ribbon pins.

      “Good news,” Dr. Kepler said, her gaze directed at her clipboard. “CAT scan results indicate no concussion. No thrombosis, no fluid retention beyond what would be considered normal for minimal bruising. There’s swelling around the laceration, but it’s to be expected. It should remain tender for about a week, but scabbing indicates you’re healing quickly. You’re young, healthy.” She glanced up from the clipboard and flashed her brown eyes at Cynthia. “How exactly did this happen?” The doctor glanced at Charlie, as if maybe she was about to ask him to leave the room for privacy’s sake.

      “The gym last night. Sparring.” Cynthia put up her fists and jabbed, illustrating sucker punches. “Ironic, right? Every injury I’ve ever had resulted from training, rather than using my skills to thwart bad guys.”

      “Bad guys, huh?” Dr. Kepler smiled. “You were doing weapons training?”

      “What?” Cynthia said. Dr. Kepler’s smile faded, and then she exchanged glances with Charlie again.

      Charlie cleared his throat. “Cynthia, your laceration, and the bruising around it, is consistent with a pistol-whipping.”

      “Ah. Yeah. That’s what I get for training with a newbie.” Cynthia donned a sheepish grin as she visualized a few more sucker punches…at Charlie’s jaw. Why had he kept that from her?

      The doctor handed Cynthia a CD in a clear plastic case. “A copy of your CAT scan. I’ve written the name of a specialist on the disc, just in case you develop further symptoms.”

      Good news dispensed, the doctor left, and moments later Cynthia hooked her Kate Spade pocketbook over her elbow, intent on getting the hell out of there. When she and Charlie stepped through the ER’s automatic glass doors into the parking lot, she threw him a glare.

      “Pistol-whipped?” she said, not slowing her gait. “I was pistol-whipped, and you didn’t think I’d be interested? I thought I’d fallen and hit my head.”

      “You had dirt all over you. You did fall.” When they’d reached his black Charger, he opened the passenger side door and waited for her to slide inside before closing it again.

      When he was behind the wheel, she threw her hands in the air and then let them drop. “I was pistol-whipped. Someone got the jump on me. Don’t you think that’s something you should have told me?”

      “I needed you at the ER. If I’d told you that, you’d have fought even harder to skip it.”

      She tugged at her seat belt and buckled in. “You’re so damn controlling, you drive me crazy. This is good news. Someone else was at the crime scene with me, and probably killed those men.”

      “We already knew that. The killer hit you over your head—”

      “I didn’t know, because someone failed to tell me I was pistol-whipped.” She compressed her lips as he slipped the key into the ignition. “Maybe with my gun, too. We should dust it for prints.”

      “No blood on the grip, so unlikely,” he said, putting the car into gear. “I looked when you tried to hand it over. Remember? When you thought you were a murderer?” He grimaced, looking all I told you so, as he checked his mirrors.

      “It was discharged. Maybe someone other than me shot it. There could be prints. We need to check, access IAFIS. Charlie, we have to try.” He nodded, keeping his foot on the brake, holding her gaze as he waited for an opportunity to merge into traffic. “The vics were Coppola snitches,” she said. “Benton won’t lack suspects.”

      “I’ll do it myself so we don’t flag anyone’s attention.” He drove, turning the wheel. “What are you thinking? Revenge killings?”

      “Maybe, but the Coppola syndicate is as much a family as a business, and Dante Coppola turned state’s evidence, so why kill his underlings for doing the same?”

      He glanced at her. “Call Benton and tell him we’re on our way. And nothing else.”

      “You are so bossy. Tell me to breathe. I dare you.” She pulled her seriously charge-deprived iPhone from her pocket, plugged it into his car charger, and dialed. “People will wonder why we’re arriving together.”

      “Benton already knows I brought you to the ER.”

      “Exactly,” she said. “People will wonder.” Charlie shook his head. He wasn’t saying it, but she knew he was thinking Who cares? “No one knows we know each other, Charlie. Everyone believes we’re acquaintances. And work acquaintances, at that.”

      He kept his eyes on the road. “Whose fault is that?”

      “I’m not assigning blame.” Benton wasn’t picking up.

      “I am.” He glanced at her, before shifting lanes.

      “Don’t be like that,” she said. The call went to Benton’s voice mail. She disconnected the line. “I keep my private life private for