Covert M.D.. Jessica Andersen

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.”

      It was a low blow, aimed at what her father had laughingly called Rathe’s Methuselah complex. Though only ten years her senior, the HFH superoperative had always acted twice that.

      He narrowed his eyes and scowled. “There won’t be an investigation. I’m calling Wainwright in the morning and having you reassigned. This is no place for…” He gestured as though the words were unnecessary.

      “This is no place for a woman?” Nia clenched her fists at her sides. Though the HFH Head Office didn’t discriminate, there were a few old warhorses who did. Rathe, who’d been in the field more than fifteen years already, considered himself one of them.

      “This is no place for Tony’s daughter!” He grabbed her by the arms and shook her as though she was eighteen years old again and he’d caught her prying into his field notes. “For God’s sake, Nadia. You know this isn’t what your father wanted for you. What would he say?”

      Righteous anger speared through her. “He’s dead. The last thing he said on this earth was, ‘Where’s Rathe?’” And for that she had hated them both.

      Emotion darkened his eyes, though she wasn’t sure that it was remorse. He spread his hands. “Nadia, for what it’s worth, I’m—”

      “Don’t,” she interrupted, not willing to hear the apology, not willing to let him think that a betrayal of such magnitude could be scrubbed away with a few words. “Don’t bother. You’re right, this isn’t the time or the place for personal conversations. We have a job to do.”

      She turned and stalked toward the freight elevators at the far end of the subbasement.

      “Nadia.” His voice seemed to caress the word, bringing back memories best left unremembered.

      She stopped and glanced back, steeling herself against the sight of him, strong and virile, an image that could have stepped out of her aching, mindless dreams.

      Or her nightmares.

      “I prefer to be called Nia now. Nadia is a child’s name, and I’m not a child anymore.” She lifted her chin, daring him to comment. “We have a meeting with the heads of the Transplant Department at 9:00 a.m. sharp—don’t be late.”

      This time she didn’t look back, not even when he called her name. They had three hours until the meeting. She’d need every minute of that to prepare herself for the case.

      And to armor herself against the disturbing presence of Rathe McKay.

      BY NINE THAT MORNING, Rathe was back to walking upright as he stalked through Boston General, but his temper hadn’t mellowed much.

      It was temper, he assured himself. Temper that had his blood surging through his veins with a tricky tingling sensation. Temper that had him feeling more alive, more engaged than he had in months or maybe longer.

      Temper.

      What was Wainwright thinking, partnering him with a woman trainee? He didn’t work with women. And even if he did, Nadia French was the last girl he’d choose.

      Rathe shook his head, annoyed. No, that wasn’t right. This was about her being a woman, not about her being Tony’s daughter or about a mistake he’d once made in an airport hotel.

      His refusal to work with the opposite gender was based on logic and experience. Period. There was nothing personal about it, and nothing personal between him and Nadia.

      Sure, his first glimpse of her had been a kick in the gut, a surge of warmth and energy, but that was only basic man-woman biology. His yang approving of her yin. Nothing personal.

      Her thick, dark hair was shorter than he remembered. In fact, she was shorter than he remembered, as though his mind had decided her scrappy personality couldn’t fit inside such a tiny shell. He’d remembered her eyes right, though. Dark brown, swirling with darker promises, they used to look at him with adoration, as though he was the hero he’d once thought himself.

      Now they shone with anger. That was personal. And it was unacceptable in a partner.

      Already five minutes late for the briefing, Rathe ducked into a windowed alcove and punched his superior’s number into his mid-wave cell phone, a high-tech HFH toy certified safe for use in hospitals. When Jack Wainwright answered, Rathe wasted no time with pleasantries. “I want her off the case. Now.”

      There was a rumble of amusement. Jack had trained Rathe himself, back before a stray bullet had landed the older man behind a desk. There was respect between the two but little reverence. “McKay. I didn’t expect to hear from you until at least nine-fifteen. The meeting can’t have even started yet.”

      “It hasn’t. I met my partner in the laundry room at 2:00 a.m. this morning. She was getting a jump on the case. She doesn’t seem to get that investigators never, ever go Lone Ranger.” It was HFH policy, and might be enough to convince Jack to pull her off the job.

      “You were there, too, so don’t pretend you give a damn about policy.” Jack’s shrug carried down the line. “I know you don’t work with women, McKay, but it’s not like you two are in the middle of a war zone. It’s a bit of petty drug trafficking at a well-funded urban hospital. Enjoy it.”

      Rathe gritted his teeth, knowing the cushy assignment was Jack’s way of saying he thought Rathe needed a break from the real action. “She’s a liability.”

      “No, she’s not. She’s a transplant specialist, she’s fearless, and she was requested by name.” Jack’s voice hardened into a direct order. “Use her. Teach her. This is what the next generation of HFH investigators looks like, McKay. Get used to it.”

      The phone went dead in Rathe’s hand, and he scowled.

      Enjoy it. Get used to it. Jack’s words replayed in his mind as he jogged up the stairs to the sixth floor, which housed the Transplant Unit.

      Fine. They thought he was burned out? He’d show them. He’d make this the fastest, cleanest investigation they’d ever seen. And he’d do it handicapped with a female partner.

      He hit the top of the stairs, and an echo of heat reminded him that it wasn’t that simple.

      His partner was Nadia French. Nia. Tony’s daughter.

      Rathe had wanted to see his old friend one last time, had ached to apologize, to forgive and be forgiven and to hold Nadia when her father died.

      But sometimes a man had to break a promise to keep a promise. And so he had stayed away.

      Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the doors into the office of the director of transplant medicine.

      “You’re late.” From her chair on the visitor’s side of the lake-size desk, Nia frowned at him. “I’ve already told Dr. Talbot about the men with the suspicious laundry hamper, and the van with the—”

      “I’ll