Intensive Care. Jessica Andersen

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СКАЧАТЬ won’t catch cancer from shaking hands.” She didn’t say you jerk, but it was implied.

      “Those your wipe logs? Thanks.” Ignoring the dig, Cage grabbed the ledger and opened it on the nearest table, though he knew what he’d see. Nothing. He’d already figured he wasn’t going to find a single digit out of place in the R-ONC department. He’d bet that every sheet was filled in to the last MilliCurie of radioactive material and the last tenth of a rad of waste. He’d find every bottle of neutralizer filled to the brim and every employee’s training up to date.

      And he’d bet his job she was hiding something.

      He hefted the logbooks and ignored the twinge of protest from his shoulder. “I’ll get these back to you when I’ve gone over everything.”

      “Fine. Just don’t shut me down, okay? I have patients that depend on me.” She glanced over and tucked a strand of curly dark hair behind her ear. The gesture was strangely vulnerable. “We do good things here, Cage. We save lives.”

      Cage didn’t say anything, because his answer would have been you don’t save all of them, and that would never do. Instead, he repeated, “I’ll get these back to you when I’m done with them,” and escaped out into the hall beyond the R-ONC doors.

      Once he was outside her offices, he leaned against a decorative column and concentrated on breathing air that didn’t carry a faint hint of her scent. He had to clear his head. He didn’t have time to get tied up over a woman. Any woman. Especially a R-ONC.

      “You okay, boss?” As seemed to be his habit, Whistler appeared out of nowhere.

      “Fine.” Cage didn’t want to talk about R-ONC, or about the way Ripley Davis made him feel mad and guilty and horny all at once. Nor did he want to talk about the rumors of radioactivity gone astray. He wasn’t sure who he could trust in the Rad Safety department yet. If anyone. “Any calls this morning?”

      “Nothing exciting or I would’ve paged you.” The young man shrugged. “A few gray egg deliveries.” The radioactive material arrived in lead-lined capsules. It was delivered to Rad Safety, checked in and dispersed to the labs.

      Everything was checked and double-checked. There was no radioactivity in the hospital that couldn’t be accounted for each and every moment of the day. So where the hell had the nukes supposedly found in the broom closet come from? Cage had no idea, but the concept was unnerving. Since he was working on coffee-shop rumor and speculation, he had no evidence, either.

      When he’d brought it up with the Head Administrator, Gabney had stared at him, hard, and prattled on about the Hospital of the Year award. Cage had gotten the message.

      Don’t rock the boat.

      Too bad for Gabney it was Cage’s mission in life to do exactly that. Heather had died because a group of doctors hadn’t wanted to make waves. Cage had vowed it wouldn’t happen again.

      The doors to the R-ONC department swung open and there was Ripley Davis, marching across the foyer to the stairs. Cage’s head came up. “Here. Take these.” He shoved the R-ONC radiation logs at Whistler. “Check them against our databases, but don’t worry if you don’t find anything. I bet they’re up to date.”

      Whistler’s eyes cut from Ripley to Cage and back. “What’re you going to do?”

      “I’m going to have a little chat with Dr. Davis,” Cage said, feeling an unfamiliar tingle of anticipation. “I think she and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

      Whistler snorted. “Good luck. She can be a real hard case with people who’re trying to interfere with R-ONC. Her head tech used to say Dr. Davis treats that department like it’s her husband, and the patients like her children.”

      Cage’s eyes followed her figure down the stairs, admiring the long, no-nonsense stride and the gentle sway of hip and hair. He grimaced. Husband. Children.

      In his experience, doctors gave little value to family.

      TANSY WAS LATE for their midmorning coffee break, so Ripley sat alone at the rear of the hospital café with her back to the room and hoped everyone got the hint. She was in no mood for company.

      She scowled at her muffin and wished the new Radiation Safety Officer to the devil. It was his fault she felt out of synch today. She was tired because she’d dreamed about him and she was behind schedule because he’d insisted on testing each of the treatment machines separately, though there hadn’t been an accelerator-related death in four or five years.

      And she was worried because she couldn’t help feeling Zachary Cage had seen more than she wanted him to, both in the lab and in her. If he and the Head Administrator ganged up against R-ONC, she’d be out in a minute. Her patients would be farmed out and forgotten, and she’d wind up doing a hundred Pap smears a day in her father’s practice.

      Ripley bowed her head as tears threatened and the bruises left by Ida Mae’s husband throbbed.

      “There you are!” The dark, rough voice spoke close at her shoulder for the second time that day, but she didn’t give Cage the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Somehow, she’d known he was there. A hint of electricity in the air, a shadow of heat had warned her of his presence.

      “Go away,” she muttered as he slid onto the wall bench opposite her, “I’m waiting for someone.”

      She could meet rude with rude any day.

      “I saw Dr. Whitmore in the hall. She asked me to tell you she was on the way to an autopsy and she’d see you at lunch.” He grinned, but the motion of his face didn’t lighten the darkness of his eyes one bit. He knew very well she didn’t want him there. “So I’ll keep you company instead.”

      His legs were so long his knees bumped hers beneath the tiny table, sending a buzz of warmth through her thighs. Her chair was bolted to the floor. She couldn’t slide away, and Cage didn’t seem in any hurry to move.

      “Why should I want your company?” She remembered the look in his eyes when Livvy’s favorite wig fell off. Scowling, she tried to scoot away from the warm pressure of the knees bracketing hers.

      Cage took a hit of his coffee and grimaced as though it didn’t go down quite right. “We both know I won’t find anything when I look over those logs.”

      She slanted him a look as wariness sizzled through her. He was fishing. “Meaning?”

      “Meaning that your records are clean and your protocols are up to snuff, yet I think you’re hiding something. Care to let me in on it? You can start by telling me about those papers on your desk.”

      Ripley wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and wished it were his neck. She decided to meet rude with angry. Anger was better than the guilt of knowing she couldn’t explain Ida Mae’s death. She snapped, “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Cage, and I don’t like your implication. I—” Her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” She flipped open the slim phone. “Dr. Davis.”

      “Ripley! You’ve got to get down to autopsy right now.” Tansy’s voice was tight with tension and Ripley fought the quick panic as she remembered where her friend had gone.

      To oversee Ida Mae’s autopsy.

      Ripley kept her voice СКАЧАТЬ