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He stepped back into the bedroom but pulled up short on the threshold of the French doors. The nightstand drawer was open. His lover was now reclining in bed clutching the satin sheet to her chin with one hand. With the other, she was aiming a pistol straight at him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Her piercing scream stunned him. A second later, a blast from her pistol shattered his eardrums. It was a few pounding heartbeats later before he realized that he’d been hit. He gazed down at the searing wound in his left side, then raised his incredulous eyes back to her.
The running footsteps had now reached the hallway. “Sugar pie!”
Again she screamed, a bloodcurdling sound. Again she aimed the gun.
Galvanized, Key spun around just as she fired. He thought she missed but couldn’t afford the time to check. He tossed his boots and shirt over the railing, threw his left leg over, then his right, and balanced on an inch of support before leaping through the darkness to the ground below.
He landed hard on his right ankle. Pain shimmied up through his shin, thigh, and groin before slamming into his gut. Blinking hard, he gasped for breath, prayed he wouldn’t vomit, and strove to remain conscious as he swept up his boots and shirt and ran like hell.
Lara jumped at the sound of hard knocking on her back door.
She’d been absorbed in a syrupy Bette Davis classic. Muting the television with the remote control, she listened. The knocking came again, harder and more urgent. Throwing off the afghan covering her legs, she left the comfort of her living room sofa and hurried down the hallway, switching on lights as she went.
When she reached the back room of the clinic, she saw the silhouette of a man against the partially open miniblinds on the door. Cautiously she crept forward and peered through a crack in the blinds.
Beneath the harsh glare of the porch light his face looked waxy and set. The lower half of it was shadowed by a day-old beard. Sweat had plastered several strands of unruly dark hair to his forehead. Beneath dense, dark eyebrows, he squinted through the blinds.
“Doc?” He raised his fist and pounded on the door again. “Hey, Doc, open up! I’m making a hell of a mess on your back steps.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and Lara saw blood.
Putting aside her caution, she disengaged the alarm system and unlocked the door. As soon as the latch gave way, he shouldered his way through and stumbled, barefoot, into the room.
“You took long enough,” he mumbled. “But all’s forgiven if you still keep a bottle of Jack Daniel’s stashed in here.” He moved straight to a white enamel cabinet and bent down to open the bottom drawer.
“There’s no Jack Daniel’s in there.”
At the sound of her voice, he spun around. He gaped at her for several seconds. Lara gaped back. He had an animalistic quality that both attracted and repelled her, and although she was inured to the smell of fresh blood, she could smell his.
Instinctively she wanted to recoil, but not from fear. Her impulse was a feminine one of self-defense. She held her ground, however, subjecting herself to his disbelieving and disapproving stare.
“Who the hell are you? Where’s Doc?” He was scowling darkly and holding the bloodied tail of his unbuttoned shirt against his side.
“You’d better sit down. You’re hurt.”
“No shit, lady. Where’s Doc?”
“Probably asleep in his bed at his fishing cabin on the lake. He retired and moved out there several months ago.”
He glared at her. Finally, in disgust, he said, “Great. That’s just fuckin’ great.” He muttered curses as he shoved his fingers through his hair. Then he took a few lurching steps toward the door and careened into the examination table.
Reflexively Lara reached for him. He staved her off but remained leaning against the padded table. Breathing heavily and wincing in pain, he said, “Can I have some whiskey?”
“What happened to you?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I didn’t just move into Dr. Patton’s house. I took over his medical practice.”
His sapphire eyes snapped up to meet hers. “You’re a doctor?”
She nodded and spread her arms to indicate the examination room.
“Well I’ll be damned.” His eyes moved over her. “You must be a real hit at the hospital wearing that getup,” he said, lifting his chin to indicate her attire. “Is that the latest thing in lady doctor outfits?”
She had on a long white shirt over a pair of leggings that ended at her knees. Despite her bare feet and legs, she assumed an authoritarian tone. “I don’t generally wear my lady doctor outfits past midnight. It’s after hours, but I’m still licensed to practice medicine, so why don’t you forget how I’m dressed and let me look at your wound. What happened?”
