Covert M.D.. Jessica Andersen

sorry, Daddy,” she murmured as she unlocked the car and slipped inside its interior, which smelled of leather and hospital disinfectant. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for me.”

      But her father’s plans and hers had diverged a long time ago, even before he got sick.

      She backed the Jetta out of her hospital parking slot and drove the vehicle out of the garage, shielding her eyes against the reflected glare of headlights in the rear-view mirror. “Geez,” she muttered over the classic rock on the radio, “I know it gets dark early this time of year, but are the high beams really necessary?”

      The headlights followed her out of the garage and down Washington Street, where she merged slowly with the rest of the “rush” hour traffic.

      It wasn’t until a mile and three lane shifts later that Nia realized the high beams were still just a few cars behind her.

      She was being followed.

      “Nonsense,” she told herself as nerves prickled in her stomach. “The whole apartment building is owned by the hospital. They’re simply going the same place you are.”

      But that didn’t stop her left eye from twitching, as it had the night before when she’d seen the two white-coated men pushing a laundry hamper out of the Transplant Department. And it didn’t stop her heart from picking up a beat in fear.

      She gripped the leather steering wheel tightly as traffic pushed her toward the entrance to the apartment building’s parking garage. Should she drive by and see what Mr. High Beams would do? Or should she park and make a run for it?

      What would Rathe do in this situation?

      “Argh!” She slapped the steering wheel in frustration and turned into the garage. She had purged that silly, teenage question from her head years ago, along with the crush she’d had on her father’s dashing friend. Or so she’d thought. But there it was, reminding her of the man she’d loved at twenty-one and hated not long after.

      Mr. High Beams didn’t follow her into the garage, and Nia felt faintly ashamed for jumping at shadows. A good investigator needed to be tougher than that.

      She parked, climbed out of the Jetta, slung her purse and soft-sided briefcase over her shoulder and tried to stop herself from hurrying to the elevators.

      A voice spoke out of the shadows. “We need to talk.”

      Chapter Two

      Nia gasped and jolted, though the quick thunder of her heart identified Rathe before he stepped out into the light. She took an involuntary step back, snagged her foot on a crack and stumbled.

      He caught her before she fell, one strong hand grabbing her arm, the other curving around her waist and sending a lightning bolt of sensation through her chest.

      “Let me go!” She struggled to get away, not from him, but from the effect he had on her.

      He released her quickly, though kept a hand up to make sure she was steady. A shadow moved across his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Nadia.”

      Nadia.

      It was the name her father had given her, the name he’d called her until the day he died. The memory of it brought a phantom ache to the scar beside her navel, and the threat of tears to her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temples, where the first tendrils of a headache had gathered. It was late, that was all. She wasn’t usually this vulnerable to memories.

      “Go away, Rathe.” Her quiet voice held the accumulated stress of the day.

      Of all the times she’d imagined their reunion…

      “We have things to discuss.” He stood between her and the elevator, though she sensed he wouldn’t stop her from boarding. No, he would just ride up with her, which could not be allowed. He’d had his chance to be a part of her life, a part of her family, and he’d turned it down without even a reply, just a packet of letters marked Return To Sender.

      She shook her head, feeling the echoes of old sorrow, newer frustration. This would never work. There was no way she and Rathe could function together as a team. “We could’ve talked anytime today, you didn’t need to follow me home. Right now I’m tired and I have a full day of surgery to observe tomorrow, so I’m going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

      She moved to brush past him, but he caught her arm and waited until she looked up at him. “Nadia. Nia. I didn’t follow you. Talbot told me where you were billeted, so I waited here for you.” He paused a beat. “Why? Did someone follow you?” When she didn’t answer right away, he shook her. “Nia! Were you followed?”

      She thought of the high beams behind her, the feeling of creeping malevolence they’d given her and the relief she’d felt when she turned into the garage and they moved on by. “No, of course not.”

      “You always were a lousy liar. Damn it! This is all because of that crazy stunt you pulled in the laundry area.” Looking suddenly tired, he released her arm, stepped forward and stabbed the elevator call button. “Come on. We need to set some ground rules. If you keep this up you’ll get yourself killed.”

      “Why are you being like this?” Nia’s voice rose as her frustration moved to the fore. She was tired and confused, and though his presence complicated everything, she wasn’t going to bow out of her first official investigation simply because he wanted her to. “Why are you set on running me off this case? Is it personal? Is it because we were lovers? If so—” she dredged up the words she’d said so many times in the fantasies where he’d come back and begged for another chance “—you’re the one who walked, McKay, not me.”

      Technically he hadn’t walked; he’d sent her back to her father. Somehow that had been worse.

      “This has nothing to do with ancient history,” he snapped, though Nia swore that, for a moment, his eyes dropped to where her snazzy leather jacket hung over her breasts. Heat climbed her cheeks as he continued, “Nothing!”

      “Then what is it about?”

      He paused for a moment, seeming to struggle with the answer. Then he exhaled noisily. “You’re a woman, Nia, and I don’t work with women. You know that.”

      It was one of the stories her father hadn’t told her, one she’d overheard her parents discussing late at night. Rathe’s partner, Maria, had been killed while they were on assignment. Not long after the incident, he had come to live with Nadia’s family for a few weeks. Gaunt and sad-eyed, he hadn’t spoken much. He’d spent most of his time sitting down by the beach with an empty sketchpad on his knee.

      At eighteen, Nadia had known him only from her father’s stories. Though Tony had told her to leave Rathe alone, she had found excuses to wander down by the water. She’d sat on the steps above him, each day bringing a different book, until he’d finally turned around and asked, “What are you reading?”

      She’d blushed and shown him the cover of a travel book about Bateo, wishing it were something more sophisticated. A text from her advanced P-chem class maybe, or a mature story about unrequited love.

      “I’ve been there, you know,” he’d said.

      And though she knew he’d been to Bateo—from the story entitled “The Time Rathe Stopped an Outbreak of Blood Fever”—she had shaken her head and asked him to tell her about the island. He’d described the way the light slanted down between the leaves high above, and how the bugs were bigger, the animals meaner, and the natives tougher than any she’d see in the States.

      As he’d talked, his eyes had glowed a molten silver, his shoulders had squared and his back had straightened until he looked like the man she’d expected to meet, not the sad, hollow figure who’d sat down by the beach and sketched nothing.

      The next morning he was gone. Inside her heavy book bag—she’d been in her third year of college by then—she’d found a sheet of paper folded inside the