In The Enemy's Arms. Pamela Toth

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      On more than one occasion, it had been his duty to break the bad news to family members about the victim of a fatal accident or a homicide. It was never easy.

      He’d always assumed that doctors, like cops, must develop an ability to insulate themselves in some way from the more tragic aspects of their jobs. Mari’s hide must be as thick as a concrete retaining wall if she could deal with people’s suffering with one hand and dump more Orchid on the streets with the other.

      He gritted his teeth and firmed his resolve. If she was guilty, he was going to do everything in his power to bring her down.

      Mari knew from sad experience that most of what she and Milla had just told the stunned parents fell on deaf ears. After Milla’s initial statement, they had stopped listening while they struggled to absorb the shock. Later on, they would no doubt have questions as they tried to deal with a deluge of guilt they probably didn’t deserve.

      Leaving Milla to console them as best she could, Mari slipped quietly out of the room. Bryce still lurked in the hall like her own personal black cloud, but she was far too vulnerable to deal with him just yet. Beneath her outward calm, she was raging at fate and circumstance, at whatever force that was so callous it could give parents a precious gift and then coldly, indifferently snatch it back again.

      If Bryce were to confront her now, smug and superior in his role of noble law enforcer, she might just jump on him like a crazed lunatic and vent her frustration. If he hadn’t hounded her for weeks, snapping at her heels and giving her nightmares, eroding her sleep with his suspicions, might she have come up with a miracle for Baby Jenkins today?

      In her doctor’s brain, Mari knew she had used every bit of medical expertise and equipment available to her. Deep within her woman’s heart, she wondered, as she always did, why every newborn couldn’t be saved.

      Bryce straightened away from the wall as she went in the other direction. “Dr. Bingham!”

      Mari ignored him, walking faster. She needed a moment alone.

      “Mari! Wait up.”

      Without slowing her pace, she waved him away. “Not now,” she called over her shoulder, half expecting him to stop her by force.

      To her surprise, he allowed her to escape.

      With her teeth tightly clenched, she made a beeline for her office. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it as the tears finally spilled over. For a few moments, she indulged her sorrow and frustration with her knuckles pressed to her mouth to stifle the sounds of her defeat.

      Gradually her weeping slowed and she regained control of her emotions. Blindly she grabbed the box of tissues on her desk and blotted her face. When she cried, her nose always got red and her skin turned blotchy. Her eyes probably looked as though she’d been on a three-day bender, so she would have to hide out here for a little while longer.

      Someone knocked on the door. Before she could speak, it opened and Bryce leaned in. “You okay?”

      “Get out,” she snapped.

      Instead of complying, he shocked her by coming in and shutting the door behind him. “We need to talk.”

      Was he blind or just indifferent?

      Mari reached for her phone. “I’m calling security,” she warned as she lifted the receiver.

      Dr. Bingham’s threat didn’t stop Bryce, who had faced down worse than an unarmed woman holding a wad of damp tissues. It was the sight of her hazel eyes, awash with tears, that froze him in his tracks like a gun trained on his heart.

      Were the tears a ruse by a lawbreaker desperate for time? Or was her devastated expression that of a compassionate healer? So many of the people he had interviewed insisted the latter was true.

      “Please, Mari.” He extended his hand. “Don’t call anyone, okay?”

      He wasn’t sure if it was his words or his tone that stopped her, but he had no intention of giving her time to reconsider. Nor did he intend to offer comfort, but an impulse he couldn’t control propelled him forward, arms open. Wrapping them around her, he pulled her close.

      Prepared for a struggle, he tucked her head under his chin. As he inhaled the scent of her lemon shampoo, a flood of images flashed through his mind. Caught off guard, he did his best to ignore the unwanted memories, as well as his own spontaneous reaction.

      Her slight body stiffened, palms braced against his chest. Barely breathing, he waited for her to jerk away, but instead she sighed, going limp. Before she could sink to the floor, he scooped her up into his arms.

      He was shocked at how little she weighed. Had the investigation and his pursuit done this to her?

      She slipped her arms around his neck, distracting him, and clung like a child as she cried softly against his chest. The feel of her softly rounded breasts sent awareness pumping through him like a drug. For a moment, he shut his eyes and cuddled her close, wanting to absorb everything about her like a giant sponge.

      He struggled to keep his head clear, to keep his lungs working. What the hell was he thinking? Where had his objectivity gone? She was a suspect and he was here to question her, not to hold her in his arms while he mooned over her like a teenager.

      His silent lecture wasn’t taking hold.

      “Shh, baby,” he murmured, ignoring his own tap-dancing pulse. “It’s okay.”

      The sound of his voice jerked her head up. Her dark lashes were clumped together. Her eyes were reddened and wet, the skin beneath them blotchy and waxen.

      When her lips parted on a tiny sound of protest, his mouth went dry and a giant fist squeezed the breath from his lungs. As they continued to stare at each other, his entire being hummed with awareness.

      Neither of them moved, neither blinked. He tried to reason out why kissing her would be a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.

      “I think you’d better put me down now.” Her voice cracked the silence. Heat of a different type filled his cheeks, but the rest of him went cold at the thought of what he’d nearly done.

      “Of course.” Gently, he stood her on her feet while he scrambled to regain control of the interview—and his own professionalism.

      Her chin went up as she circled the cluttered desk. After putting the unmistakable barrier between them, she sat down with her hands neatly folded.

      “What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked coolly, as though nothing earthshaking had nearly happened.

      Bryce was angry at his own weakness, as well as with Mari’s ability to manipulate him. Years of professional experience told him she was more likely to slip up and reveal the truth while she was tired and emotionally drained. He couldn’t give her the chance to lock her defenses back into place.

      “You’ll have to come down to the station with me,” he replied, deliberately hardening his heart against the sight of her tear-streaked face and dark, wounded eyes. “There are some questions I need to ask you about the drugs being stolen from your clinic.”

      Chapter Two

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