“The deal is,” Pinstripes said, “NSA intercepted some very disturbing chatter regarding your old friend Jal—”
“Don’t wanna know.” Kick held up his hand like a stop sign. “Do. Not. Wanna. Know.”
Pinstripes sighed. “You’re not going to be . . . difficult again, are you, Kyle?”
Kick did a half turn on his stool to face him, and brought his fingertips to his chest in a gesture of Who, me? innocence.
Instantly the goons behind him went for their weapons, but before they could pull them out, Pinstripes patted the air, signaling them to stand down. “Listen, I don’t want to have to get rough, Jackson,” he said, dropping all pretense of friendliness. “But the situation out in the big, bad world is getting very serious and the boss wants you, simple as that. This time there’s three of us and one of you. No way are you getting the drop on us. I’ve got my orders, and you’re coming in.”
Just then, Doris walked up with her crisp apron and stooped gait, coffeepot in hand, and gave the others a gimlet eye. “You three eatin’ or just taking up airspace?” she demanded with a classic New Yorker scowl.
“They’ll have coffee,” Kick told her, eyeing his burger regretfully. He really was hungry.
Damn
Jimmy Tang for not showing up on time.
“
Hmph
,” Doris muttered, smacking a cup down on the counter in front of Pinstripes and filling it. She shoved it over to him. Too fast. He tried to catch it, missed, and scalding hot liquid flew all over his hands. He yowled in pain and jumped to his feet, shaking them furiously.
Thank you, Doris.
Kick vaulted over the counter, seized the coffeepot from her, and sprayed it at the goons with one hand and grabbed her wrist with the other. He flung the pot, pulled his SIG Navy automatic from the back of his waistband, and shoved it at her temple, grateful his hand only shook a little.
Doris screamed over the sound of the coffeepot shattering on the floor, her aged vocal cords cracking pitifully.
“Move and the old lady gets it in the head,” Kick growled at his would-be captors, shoving her unceremoniously toward the door to the kitchen. “I told you, I’m not coming in.”
She screamed again as he dragged her through the padded swinging door and kept screaming as it flapped closed and he lowered the SIG and let her go.
“Sorry about the mess,” he muttered, digging in his pocket for the roll of twenties he always kept there for emergencies. He pressed two into her hand as she crossed her arms and calmly continued to scream.
The grizzled short-order cook, Manny, glanced over with a frown, flicking a worried gaze between Kick and the door as he tossed strips of bacon onto the grill. He jerked his head toward the back exit that led to an alley behind the diner. “Better make tracks, son. We’ll hold ’em off.”
Kick could hear the goons yelling out front and dishes breaking as they scrabbled over the counter to give chase.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he told Doris, and gave her a parting peck on the cheek, wincing at the scream in his ear. “I owe ya.”
“What are you gonna do now?” Manny called after him.
“Disappear.”
Doris’s scratchy voice floated through the chaos. “Got to face them down someday, boy.”
“Running’s safer,” he yelled back, a twinge already starting in his leg. “And tell Jimmy Tang he’s fired!”
“MY
God. Cheer up! It’s not like we’re going to a funeral or something, Rain.”
Lorraine Martin’s best friend, Gina Cappozi, rolled her eyes and gave her a firm push through the doors of the venerable Park Avenue hotel located several blocks from Bellevue Hospital, where they both worked. They had arrived punctually at eight PM, thanks to Gina’s showing up at Rainie’s apartment two hours early to nag and prod her into the slinky blue strapless Versace cocktail dress Gina had made her buy—under vehement protest—at Filene’s on their day off. And give them time to walk to the hotel.
Rainie tugged at the hem, which ended a good bit above her knees, but had to tug it right back up by the bodice when the low décolletage threatened to expose her.
Great.
They joined a small herd of smiling and preening single medical professionals, and were swept along through the chic Art Deco-style lobby and up the escalator to the mezzanine check-in desk. Everyone was all dressed up and reeked of anticipation. Gina glowed excitedly. Rainie just felt nauseous.
Speed dating.
Good grief.
How had she
ever
let herself be talked into this?
Rainie had pretty much given up dating over the past couple of years. Who had the energy to get romantic after a long day or night in the emergency room dealing with blood, drugs, violence, and senseless death? Gina insisted that was exactly why she
should
get romantic at every possible opportunity. Sort of self-medication for the overwhelming stress of the job.
Easy for Gina to say. A medical doctor as well as a tenured professor, she headed a genetics research project at Columbia University, and did a stint in pediatrics at Bellevue once a week, dealing with cute little babies. Major stress there.
Well, at least Rainie wouldn’t have to worry about staving off an actual relationship with anyone she met here. One thing about medical professionals, most were as driven as she was, totally married to their work. That’s why these speed dating events were so popular with the staff of Bellevue. Just pick your flavor and head upstairs.
Yikes.
Which was also why Rainie had avoided them thus far. Just too embarrass ingly obvious what was going on. Sure, it had been a while since she’d felt that mindless flutter of physical attraction to a man, and even longer since she’d done anything about it, but had she really missed sex that much? Not really.
“Wow, look at the muscles on that guy,” Gina murmured, indicating a grinning blond surfer-dude type flexing his biceps for a bevy of female admirers as they waited in line at the registration table.
“Please. He can’t be a day over twenty-five,” Rainie muttered, semiappalled. She and Gina had both turned thirty several moons ago.
“Then he could use a nice pediatrician,” Gina said with a wink.
Camera flashes lit up the foyer as the kid showed off for one of several photographers recording the event. By morning, pages of pictures and video clips would be loaded onto the dating organization’s website. Yet another reason Rainie had refused Gina’s previous invitations to accompany her. Who needed their embarrassment recorded for posterity?
“He doesn’t look like he has a brain in his head,” she muttered, praying her friend was kidding. Gina was smart as a whip, but had an out-there sense of humor. “Probably empties bedpans all day,” she added for good measure.
“And your point is?” Gina said cheekily.
Apparently, hormones trumped intelligence.
Oh, brother.
“Okay, I get it,” Rainie responded with a dry smile. “You have to leave your standards and good sense at the door at these things.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
They smacked name tags to their chests, and Rainie reluctantly followed Gina into the overcrowded ballroom. Sets of tables with two chairs, each labeled with a number, were packed into half the room, while the attendees sipped drinks and chatted in the other half waiting for the proceedings to start. The noise was deafening.
Rainie’s pulse crept up. She hated chaos and disorder, situations she couldn’t control.
“So, who do you fancy?” Gina asked, leaning in close to her ear, visually sizing up the male prospects like she was scanning the sale racks at Macy’s.
Rainie sighed and nervously glanced over the crowd, trying to spot a man, any man, whose looks intrigued her enough to make her want to take a chance. But all she saw were the familiar doctors, residents, interns, and admin staff she saw every single day at the hospital. Oh, maybe not the exact same people, but they might as well be. The men circling around the room like well-dressed sharks had the same polished, professional appearance; the same polished, professional smiles; and undoubtedly the same polished, professional come-on lines that were eventually used on every nurse in the hospital under the age of forty.
Okay, fifty.
Seriously contemplating an escape strategy, she skimmed her gaze back to the entry door. Where a man was just walking in.
Whoa.
Rainie’s exit survey stopped dead in its tracks.
Well, maybe not
that
man. He didn’t look the least bit polished. And he was
well
over twenty-five. His rumpled navy suit and dark five-o’clock shadow looked more like they belonged to a burned-out police detective than a doctor—she knew the type well from dealing with cops daily in the ER. He looked hard. Jaded. No-nonsense.
Dangerous.
And intriguing as hell.
Her pulse started doing the Snoopy dance. Not a good thing. This was exactly the kind of man a control freak such as herself should avoid. But just like her high-risk job, the type also held a kind of fatal attraction.
What was a man like that doing at a medical professionals singles night? And yet he wore a name tag, and you had to have a hospital ID to get in. Police liaison maybe? Military field medic?
Towering over the rest of the crowd by a good six inches, the man had thick, sable brown hair that still bore evidence of a recent wet-combing, which hadn’t done much to tame its waves or unruly length. Not military, then. She couldn’t see much below his shoulders, but they were broad enough to fill out his bad suit to capacity and then some.
Interestingly, he seemed even more uncomfortable than she felt.
His hooded eyes roamed over the room like he was looking for something, or someone, specific. And caught her staring. Her pulse did a few more dance steps.
Oh, no.
She wanted to look away. Knew instinctively she
should
look away. But for the life of her, she couldn’t.
Instead of continuing his survey, he stared back until she felt her face flush.
That’s when he started walking. Toward her.
Oh, Lord.
All this time Gina had been chatting away, pointing out this man or that. Finally she noticed she was being ignored.
“You’re not being very—” Her friend’s words halted with a small gasp.
“Ho-boy. I think I’m in trouble,” Rainie muttered, watching with rising trepidation as the man came closer and closer. Or was that excitement she felt thrumming low in her belly?
What on earth was she dreaming of?
Unfortunately, she had a pretty good idea.
Gina read her illicit thoughts and her jaw dropped. “You have got to be kidding,” she hissed in her ear, scandalized. “
That
guy? He looks like a serial killer!”
“I think he’s sexy as hell,” Rainie murmured without thinking, then glanced at her friend in consternation. Had she really said that aloud?
“Do
not
take him home, Lorraine Martin.”
Apparently she had. “You know me better than that, Geen. But maybe a drink . . . here at the bar.”
“But,” Gina protested, “that wasn’t the idea, either, Rain. You need
more
than just a drink, girl. This is your chance to find someone safe and take him upstairs. Someone like a nice—”
“Boring doctor?” She shook her head. Not a chance. She might be a lonely chickenshit, but she wasn’t desperate. “No, thanks. Besides, so what if I have a drink with him? You know I can take care of myself,” Rainie reminded her. It was true. After dealing with the crazies who populated the experimental drug program she was in charge of in the ER and seven years of studying self-defense, she was more than capable of fending off unwanted advances of any variety. She did so frequently.
“I know, but—”
“I’ll be fine, Gina. Go. Before I change my mind again and run screaming for the exit.”
After a short hesitation her friend murmured, “Fine. Take your walk on the wild side, sweetie. But call me first thing in the morning or I’m sending the police.” Then she melted into the crowd.
By now the stranger had threaded his way through the crush, and he came to a stop directly in front of Rainie. Her heart was beating like a bass drum.
His gaze drifted slowly down her too short, too tight, and too revealing dress, then drifted back up again, pausing at her breasts. Her nipples zinged in response, tightening to hard points. Which of course he noticed. He didn’t smile, but his blue eyes darkened to a stormy grey as he watched them.
Her flush deepened, along with her consternation. “Look, I—”
“Would you like a drink?” he interrupted, the query amazingly calm and civilized, considering
she
felt like she was about to faint.
This was definitely not a good idea.
“Have we met?” she asked, playing for time, because she knew damned well they hadn’t. She glanced down at his navy blue lapel. His name tag read Dr. Nathan Daneby.
Her eyes popped—
Nathan Daneby?
—and rocketed back up to his face. Astonishment plowed through her. “
You’re
Dr. Nathan Daneby? From Doctors for Peace?”
A shadow of alarm skittered across his features. “You know me?”
“Yes! Well, no. I mean, not personally, but everyone knows your name. Okay, maybe not everyone, but I do.” All the nervousness
whooshed
out of her, replaced by excitement. “I’ve been an admirer for years. I’ve followed your career ever since the war, when you saved those villagers in Afghanistan. That was so amaz—” She halted in midsentence, wincing in embarrassment. “Sorry, Dr. Daneby. I’m babbling. I’m sure you didn’t come here to meet groupies.”
His alarm morphed into something else she couldn’t quite pin down. He made a choking noise. Putting a finger between the knot of his striped tie and the collar of his white shirt, he tugged like it was strangling him. “Actually, I’m seldom recognized in the States. In fact, never. This is a first.”
She cleared her throat. God, she was
so
blowing it. He was going to walk away any second. And amazingly, for the first time in living memory, she didn’t want the man to leave.