Guilty Secrets. Virginia Kantra

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      Sliding into the booth, Nell watched Reilly lever himself awkwardly onto the dark vinyl bench opposite. His legs bumped the center pedestal. His mouth tightened.

      Concern stirred. Purely professional concern. “Are you all right?”

      “Fine.” He glanced around. “Nice place.”

      So he didn’t want to talk about himself. That made a change from most of the men she knew.

      His sharp reporter’s gaze took in everything. Flynn’s was a neighborhood establishment, with a long polished bar, a wide-planked floor and a wall lined with bottles. Foil shamrocks and limp crepe-paper streamers hung from the TV, week-old relics of St. Patrick’s Day. Fiddles and drums played through the speakers. The air was wreathed in cigarette smoke, sharp with the scents of hops and malt, rich with frying potatoes and grilled onions.

      Nell’s mouth watered. She’d skipped lunch again today. She inhaled, closing her eyes in pure appreciation.

      Her pint clinked on the table.

      “What’ll you have?” the waitress asked Reilly.

      “Club soda,” he said. “Thanks.”

      Nell opened her eyes. He wasn’t drinking.

      Which meant, of course, that he was working.

      Which meant that she better pay close attention, or he was going to gobble her up like a side of home fries.

      “I’m sure you have questions,” she said.

      “A couple.”

      “I left the statistics in my office.” Except for the ones in her purse. Stuffed with papers, it burned against her thigh. “But I can give you general information on the demographics of our patient base.”

      A muscle moved at the corner of Reilly’s mouth. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to order now or later.”

      “Oh.” That kind of question. Flustered, she scanned the menu. “Fish and chips, please.”

      Reilly handed both menus to the waitress. “I’ll take the steak. Medium rare.”

      Red meat, Nell thought as the waitress’s white blouse disappeared into the darkness at the back of the bar. At least he didn’t eat it raw.

      “So, what are you doing at the Ark Street Clinic?” Reilly asked.

      Penance, Nell thought.

      “I see patients,” she said. “I also recruit doctors, hire staff, schedule the nurses, write grant proposals and—”

      “This isn’t a job interview, Dolan. I didn’t ask for your résumé. I want to know what you’re doing there.”

      Nell set down her pint. There was no way in the world she was confessing the demons that drove her to shark-mouth Reilly, the reporter. But she could certainly talk about the importance of her work.

      “Call me Nell,” she said. There. That sounded friendly and forthcoming. “The Ark Street clinic provides top-notch care for a segment of the city that would otherwise go untreated. We have a growing immigrant population in our area. More and more employees—especially in low-paying and part-time jobs—aren’t getting insurance through their employers. And with the recent budget cuts—”

      “Yeah,” said Reilly. “I read the flyer. Very nice. What did you do before?”

      “I was a trauma nurse.”

      “Where?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “I don’t know. Why did you leave? It can’t have been the money.”

      Nell was stung. Not just by his assumption, but by his attitude. “How would you know?”

      His gaze flicked over her. “No car. Cheap watch. Old shoes.”

      Even though he couldn’t possibly see them under the table, Nell curled her feet beneath the bench. He saw too much.

      And actually, her job paid pretty well. But she had debts. Some of them were monetary. And the rest…She picked up her pint and took a long swig.

      “Can’t you accept that some people are motivated by a simple desire to help?” she asked.

      He considered that, his long fingers laced on the table in front of him. He had a surgeon’s hands, tapered, the nails neatly trimmed. “Nope,” he said.

      Forget the hands. Nell frowned. “That’s a very cynical position to take.”

      “Realistic,” Reilly corrected. He moved his drink aside for the waitress, who set their plates on the table. “Most people are motivated by self-interest, fear or greed,” he continued after she left. “And the ones who tell you differently cause most of the world’s problems.”

      Nell stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, arrested by the discrepancy between his flippant tone and the bitter look in his eyes.

      “Spoken like a frustrated idealist,” she said.

      “Not an idealist. Just frustrated.” He flashed her a Big Bad Wolf grin loaded with innuendo.

      Nell felt a buzz. Not a beer buzz, either. This was more like sexual static. Cheap thrills. His attitude was completely unacceptable. Too pointed. Too personal. Too sexual. But his persistence was flattering.

      She straightened against the high-backed vinyl seat. She had too much at stake to let herself be diverted by the promise or the threat of sex. Even if it had been twenty-two months, five days and…but who was counting?

      She made an effort to drag the conversation back to a clinical, professional level.

      “You have to admit that there are caring, committed people in the world who do make a difference,” she said. “Our volunteers—”

      “Don’t you believe it,” Reilly said. “More harm is done by zealots, by people with a cause, people with good intentions, people who frigging care, than all the bad guys in the world.”

      She sat back. “Wow. Are you speaking from personal experience here?”

      Reilly met her eyes without apology. “Yes.”

      Nell dragged a French fry through the ketchup on her plate. She didn’t want to know, she reminded herself. She didn’t want to know him. But the caretaker in her recognized and responded to the flat echo of his pain.

      “Who hurt you?” she asked softly.

      Reilly raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to turn this interview around on me?”

      Her heartbeat quickened. “I thought the purpose of this dinner was to get to know one another better.”

      He watched her. “If that’s what it takes.”

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