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“Oh.” Her flush deepened. “Sorry, of course.” She laughed—a weird, strangled sound—and motioned to Maggie. “Follow me, hon. Dr. Karkoff will be back in a minute.”
Maggie stood and grabbed hold of Michael’s hand. She looked up at him, and Cain felt something shift inside as their eyes met. His muscles tightened and his mouth went dry.
She looked so damn vulnerable that it tore at him. This woman he barely knew had managed to tie him up in all sorts of ways he couldn’t explain. He took a step forward, but stopped when her eyes darkened, a shadow of confusion reflected in their depths.
“Thanks for giving me a lift.” Her hand went to her temple, and the guilt inside him tripled as she rubbed the tender spot. “I’m sure everything is fine.” She looked at her son. “Right?”
“Yep.” Michael grinned at him. “Thanks, Cain.”
They turned to follow the nurse.
“I’ll be waiting to drive you home…it’s the least I can do.” He spoke in a rush, nervous as all hell and not liking the feeling one bit. What was it about this woman that turned him into a blubbering moron?
She paused, turned her head to the side. “You don’t have to. I might be here a while.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
She disappeared with the nurse, and Cain finally relaxed. Luke stared at him, his face screwed up into a frown.
“Something wrong?”
Luke shrugged. “Not my place to say anything really. I mean, Maggie barely knows I exist, but hell, she’s not the kind of girl to play with, and you…”
Cain’s tempered flared. Who the hell did this guy think he was? He cleared his throat. “And I…what?” Gone was the charm from moments earlier. He was pissed and had no qualms about letting Luke Jansen know it.
The paramedic glared at him, puffed up his chest, and stepped up to the plate. “It’s no secret you played the field big-time back in the day, and from what I’ve heard, you’re still that guy.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed dangerously as a muscle worked its way along his jaw. Here we go. Everyone assumed he lived the stereotype.
“But she’s not like that. Maggie’s special.”
“First off, Jansen…” Cain clenched his hands together and felt the interest of those gathered in the waiting room, but he didn’t care. He was used to attention—which didn’t mean he liked it—and the paramedic was not. Luke’s face was now mottled red, his cheeks ruddy patches of skin. “Don’t make assumptions about my life and how I live it. You don’t know me. You caught the pigskin I threw at you in high school. That’s the extent of our relationship, and it ended over ten years ago.”
Luke held his hands up as if to say okay, back off, and his mouth widened into a smile, though his eyes remained frosty. “Hey, I’m not saying anything that’s not already out there. Come on, until recently you were known more for the women you’ve dated than your music.”
Cain figured one shot and he could take the son of a bitch down.
“Shit, you dated that English chick, the one related to the queen, and you married Natasha Simmons.”
Cain’s jaw clenched painfully. He was dying to smash his fist into Jansen’s nose, but what could he say? There was some truth there. He was no fucking choirboy, that’s for sure, but he sure as hell owed nothing to Jansen.
“Jesus, Luke. You seem to know more about my life than my fucking publicist.”
Luke’s mouth tightened. “I’m not judging. Christ, you’re living most guys’ fantasy. I’m just saying that Maggie O’Rourke isn’t one of those women, and I’d hate to see her hurt by some slick rocker who’s come home for a few days, looking for a distraction.”
Luke’s mobile crackled to life as his partner’s voice slid between them. There was a call, and the paramedic needed to go. “No offense, but it’s not like you’re going to stick around Crystal Lake. I’m just looking out for her.”
He left without another word.
Cain’s jaw ached as he ground his teeth in anger. His fist tightened with the need to inflict pain or pulverize something. Anything. He glanced at the back of Jansen’s head. That would do just fine, except his ass would land in jail and his mother would kick it but good.
His cell phone vibrated and he grabbed it from his pocket. A quick glance told him there were a lot of missed calls, a couple from his buddy Mac and the rest from his manager. There were also more emails than he cared to count. Publicity. Marketing. Managers.
He sighed and stared at the information displayed on the screen. They were probably freaking out because he’d left right after the Glasgow show without telling anyone where he was going.
He scrolled down and clenched his mouth, pausing as a familiar name stared back at him. Taunting him. Filling him with anger. Blake Hartley, the drummer in BlackRock. He’d emailed over a dozen times.
Cain looked away. Let the bastard stew. What the hell did he expect? An apology?
