In Graywolf's Hands. Marie Ferrarella

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      “I thought that was pretty clear.” There was a no-nonsense tone to his voice. “Take your jacket off,” he repeated.

      Even as a child, she had never liked being ordered to do anything. It raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Why?”

      The last thing he wanted right now was to go head-to-head with a stubborn woman. “Because I think that’s your blood, not his.”

      Lydia turned her head toward her shoulder. Very gingerly, she felt the area around the stain. Flickers of fire raced up and down her arm. Now that he said it, she had a sinking feeling he was right.

      Dropping her hand, she gave a dismissive shrug with her uninjured shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. I can take care of it.”

      Lukas glanced over her head. The operating room was free now. The orderly had wheeled his patient into the recovery room. Administration had sent in a security guard to watch him. That should please Ms. Law and Order, he thought.

      “So can I. Come with me.” It wasn’t a suggestion. He caught her hand and dragged her behind him.

      She had no choice but to accompany him. “You have a real attitude problem, you know that?”

      Lukas spared her a glance. “I was going to say the same thing about you.” He released her hand and gestured toward a gurney. “Sit there.”

      Lydia looked around the empty room, panic materializing. “Where’s the prisoner?”

      Opening a drawer in a side cabinet, he took out what he needed. “They took him to recovery.”

      Lydia turned on her heel, about to leave by the rear door, the way she assumed Conroy had. “Then I have to—”

      He caught her hand again. This woman took work, he thought.

      “Stay right here and let me have a look at that shoulder before it becomes infected,” he instructed. “Relax, your prisoner’s not about to regain consciousness for at least an hour.”

      She frowned, torn. Her shoulder was beginning to feel a great deal worse now than it had earlier. “You know that for a fact?”

      The surgical pack in place, Lukas slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “Pretty much.”

      Maybe she was overreacting, at that. “Is he still handcuffed to the railing?”

      In reply, Lukas nodded toward the metal bracelets lying on the countertop. “They’re right there.” He saw her look and watched her face cloud over. Like a storm capturing the prairie. “I figured you might be needing these for someone else.”

      She bit back a curse. Unconscious or not, she would have felt a great deal better if Conroy were still tethered to the railing on his bed. “This isn’t a game.”

      “No one said it was.” He nodded at her apparel. “Now take your jacket off. I’m not going to tell you again.”

      Tell, not ask. The man had a hell of a nerve. Setting her jaw, Lydia began to shrug out of the jacket, then abruptly stopped. The pain that flared through her left shoulder prevented any smooth motion. Acutely aware that the physician was watching her every move, she pulled her right arm out first, then slid the sleeve off the other arm. She tossed the jacket aside, then looked at her blouse. It was beyond saving.

      She sighed. The Wedgwood blue blouse had been her favorite. “What a mess.”

      “Bullets will do that.” Very carefully, he swabbed the area and then began to probe it. He saw her eyes water, but heard no sound. The woman was a great deal tougher than he’d assumed. He knew more than a couple who would have caused a greater fuss over a hangnail. “How is it you didn’t realize you were shot?”

      She measured out every word, afraid she was going to scream. “The excitement of the moment,” she guessed. “I hit the floor when he fired. I just thought I banged my shoulder.” Lydia sucked in a breath, telling herself it would be over soon. “It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

      “And not the first time you were shot, either,” he noted as he began to clean off the area. There was a scar just below her wound that looked to be about a year or so old.

      Lydia pressed her lips together as she watched him prepare a needle. “No, not the first. What’s that for?”

      “That’s to numb the area. I have to stitch you up.” He injected the serum. “How many times have you been shot?”

      She hated needles. It was a childhood aversion she’d never managed to get over. Lydia counted to ten before answering, afraid her voice would quiver if she said something immediately.

      “Not enough to make me resign, if that’s what you mean.”

      He couldn’t decide if she was doing a Clint Eastwood impression or a John Wayne. Tossing out the syringe, Lukas reached for a needle. “You have family?”

      Watching him sew made her stomach lurch. She concentrated on his cheekbones instead. They gave him a regal appearance, she grudgingly conceded. “There’s my mother and a stepfather.” She paused to take a breath. “And my grandfather.”

      That made her an only child, he thought, making another stitch. “What do they have to say about people playing target practice with your body?”

      Did he think she was a pin cushion? Just how many stitches was this going to take? “My mother doesn’t know.” She’d never told her mother about the times she’d gotten shot. “She thinks I live a charmed life. My father was killed in the line of duty. I don’t see any reason to make her worry any more than she already does.”

      Lukas glanced at her. She looked a little pale. Maybe she was human, after all. “What about your grandfather?”

      “He worries about me.” Lydia kept her eyes forward, wishing him done with it. “But he’s also proud. He walked a beat for thirty years.”

      “So that makes you what, third generation cop?”

      “Fourth,” she corrected. “My great-grandfather walked the same beat before him.” Lydia looked at him sharply. He was asking an awful lot of questions. “Why? Does this have to go on some form, or are you just being curious?”

      Lukas took another stitch before answering. “Just trying to distract you while I work on your shoulder, that’s all.”

      She didn’t want any pity from him. “You don’t have to bother. It doesn’t hurt.”

      He raised his eyes to her face. “I thought FBI agents weren’t supposed to lie.”

      His eyes held hers for a minute. She relented. “It doesn’t hurt much,” she amended.

      He knew it had to hurt a lot, but he allowed her the lie without contradiction. “That’s because the wound was clean.” He paused to dab on a little more antiseptic. It went deep. “The bullet cut a groove in your shoulder but didn’t go into it. That’s why you probably didn’t realize it. That and, as you said, the excitement of what was happening. They say that when Reagan was shot, he didn’t know it until someone told him.”

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